“You know, whenever you’re ready for it,” Candace adds.
“If you ever are.” Morgan elbows her friend, watching me like everyone else is.
I feel like someone’s dropped a beach ball into my chest and is blowing it up. My lungs are straining, my ribs are stretching—everything hurts. My vision blurs, and I know I need to get away.
Talking about Torrin and parties and set-ups with a couple of friends from my past who feel more to me like ghosts than real people has shoved me to the tipping point. I need to find a quiet place where I can be alone, or I’m going to go off. Right here on the second floor of Nordstrom.
From the way Mom’s looking at me, I think she knows. “Jade”—her hand rests on the outside of my arm—“do you want to leave?”
Morgan and Candace look from me to each other then stare at my neck now that I’m preoccupied. Candace swallows and steps back. Morgan blinks and looks like she might cry.
“I’ll . . .”—the word sputters out—“I’ll . . .” My head whips around, looking for an escape. “I’ll be . . . right back.”
I take off, rushing toward the end of the store where I can just make out the words Women’s Dressing Room. It’ll have to do because I can’t keep going. Not right now. Every day since returning has been a challenge. Every hour, minute, and second have tested me. I’ve been gripping an anvil hanging over the edge of a cliff and trying to keep it from falling, and that rope is slipping through my hands.
I can only hold on for so long before I give out.
This is the moment I give out.
I lunge into the dressing room.
A woman standing at the mirror whips her head around and gives me a concerned look. “Are you okay?”
I nod as I stumble down the row of rooms. “Yeah,” I get out before pushing through the empty room at the end.
After I get the door locked, I slide to the floor. It’s carpeted and clean, but when I curl my body onto it, a smell assaults me. Bleach. It’s pungent and vile and too much. The end of the rope slides through my hands, and the weight I’m holding falls. I fall with it.
Ten Years Ago
“SARA? ARE YOU feeling better yet?”
The voice cuts through my consciousness, rousing me. How long was I out this time? With the black I’m shrouded in, it’s impossible to know.
How long have I been here? Where is here?
“Sara?” The familiar trio of knocks sounds outside the door. It’s a thick door from the sounds of it. The knock doesn’t echo; it thuds like it’s being absorbed into the wood.
I’m on my side like always because I can’t sleep on my back anymore. I don’t feel safe enough to sleep so exposed—it’s better to stay curled up, huddled up. I let my legs stretch a little, my arms out in front. Everything aches—like I’m one giant pulsing bruise.
“Are you awake, Sara?” Another knock. Like his knock, his voice is strong. At least strong enough that when I hear it, I immediately feel weak.
“How long have I been in here?” My voice strains when I speak. It sounds like I’ve been stumbling through the desert for days without water.
There’s a case of bottled water shoved in here somewhere. There’s a box of energy bars too. I haven’t touched any of it though because I don’t want to live if this is going to be my life. A dark space that’s so small I can’t lie down sideways in it. A bucket stuffed in the back corner for me to use as a toilet. A small hard mattress that smells so strongly of bleach I gag when I forget to breathe through my mouth.
If this is my life now, separated from my family and friends and him forever, I don’t want it. I’d rather die now than live this for whatever is left of my life.
I know the numbers. Comes with being a cop’s kid. They aren’t good in my case. The first twenty-four hours after an abduction are critical, and if the person isn’t found in forty-eight, the family had better just accept they’ll be planning a funeral where a body may or may not be present.
I don’t know how long I’ve been gone exactly, but long enough my nails have grown enough to notice. Long enough I’ve dug at the four walls keeping me caged, searching for some weak spot, for something to give me hope that I might be able to escape. There’s nothing. This place feels like it was built for a wild animal instead of a seventeen-year-old girl.
There is no weak spot. I’m never going home.
“How long have I been in here?” I cry out again, but it’s so weak sounding I don’t think my words make it past the heavy door. It’s not cold in here, but I still shiver. I refuse to use the blankets and pillow. They’re still folded at the foot of the bed.
“Seven days.” It sounds like he’s right outside, pressed up against the door.
A week. I’d guessed half that. I’m never going to see any of them again. Ever.