“A bit,” I admitted, my anger melting away. Maybe if I told her what I’d done, she could help. Or her parents could. They weren’t lawyers, but they were the kind of people who were friends with lawyers. Her mom and dad had the responsible adult thing down. If Drew had started talking about psychic skills and missing girls, they wouldn’t have made business cards. In her house, there were chore charts and curfews. I tried to pull more air into my lungs and think of how to even start that conversation.
Drew jumped off the bed, shocking me into silence. “You know what makes me feel better? Ice cream. If my idiot brother didn’t eat it all, there’s some in the freezer.” She pulled me up and hugged me. “Don’t worry, it’ll all work out.”
I followed her downstairs and tried to work up some hunger for Breyers Cookies & Cream. The moment had passed. I floated with the anxiety, riding it instead of fighting, the way Lester had taught me. I just had to stay calm. I had to be smart.
Sixteen
Paige
I’ve never been so aware of how many hours, minutes, and seconds fill every day. I’ve taken to doing everything slowly. Staying focused keeps me from losing control, from letting the panic take over. I keep my fear locked up, but I can feel it straining to get out. Its thin fingers scratching at the door, breaking it down, like something from a zombie movie. You know it’s going to get out, and when it does, it’ll eat you alive.
I wash my hair, concentrating on making sure every strand is lathered from my scalp to the tip. I brush my teeth, counting to twenty for each tooth. I chew every bite thirty times, until it stops being food and becomes mush that I swallow, and then I make myself wait for sixty seconds before I take another bite. I’m even writing this slowly. I think about each sentence before I write it down. Because what I write down next matters. It’s the last barrier before my terror breaks completely free.
They told me what happened—?
I had to stop for a minute because I didn’t want to put that in writing. As if that somehow would make it more real. Then I realized that it doesn’t matter if I write it down or not—?it’s still true. So here it is: My dad refused to pay the ransom.
It’s not even much of a ransom. I could almost understand it if they were asking for millions of dollars, but all they wanted was $25,000. The kidnappers are pissed. They want to know what kind of game my dad is playing. The tall guy hit me. Not a smack, either, but a hard slam across my chin, rattling my teeth and making me bite my tongue. They want to hurt him, but they can’t.
They can hurt me, though.
At first I didn’t believe the kidnappers—?but they played a recording of him on the phone. He said he wouldn’t be “held hostage to someone’s demands.”
That’s a direct quote. I wrote it down as soon as they left, as if I’d ever forget. Last time I checked, I’m the one locked up, not him. He’s not stuck in some room counting out squares of toilet paper wondering what he’ll do if he runs out. He’s not making himself eat only tiny amounts in case the kidnappers don’t come back for days. He’s not left wondering what will happen if they become even angrier or if he’ll ever get out of this hellhole.
My dad hung up on the kidnappers. He hung up. Like he couldn’t even be bothered to talk about it anymore. As if the conversation were boring him. Perhaps he had more important things to do. Like run for office.
His official stance is that he isn’t sure he wants to run for the Senate seat. That he worries about the amount of commitment, the curse of having to spend more time away from his family. That’s a lie. I’ve heard him talk about it on the phone. Planning. Coming up with strategies. He wants that job so bad he can taste it. He’s already picturing himself hustling off to important meetings where the president awaits his sage advice. He’s planned his office, down to moving the giant desk that used to belong to my grandfather to Washington. The desk will give him the excuse to tell the story of how my grandfather came to this country with little more than a few dollars in his pocket and a determination to work hard. Nothing my dad likes better than making it sound like our family is basically a Hallmark movie of rough-and-tumble immigrants with hearts of gold.
He’s probably enjoying that I’m here. He’s in the spotlight. He can go on camera and sound sympathetic. No wonder he doesn’t pay the ransom—?the longer I’m gone, the more free TV coverage he gets for his campaign. He doesn’t care if I’m scared, or cold, or hungry, or if these guys will break an arm or leg to make their point. He’s not dissecting each second into a manageable piece because he knows he might not be able to stop if he starts to cry and scream.
Everyone thinks my dad is the best guy ever. There’s a lot they don’t know.
The kidnappers haven’t told me what they’re going to do since he didn’t pay. They could send him something like my ear or a finger to show him they mean business. They didn’t go to this much trouble to just walk away. If he won’t come up with the cash, they’ll make him pay up another way. They’ll take it out on me.
I’m so scared.
Seventeen
I got off the bus. I was running late. This was the last stop on the very edge of town. The movie megaplex had been built out here so it could have a parking lot the size of Maine with the idea that people from the smaller towns all around would flock here to go to the movies. Sometimes it worked, but most of the time the place was empty because people stayed home to watch Netflix.
I paid for my ticket, resenting what this escapade was costing me. Pluto was either paranoid or way too fond of thriller stories. The insistence on the alter egos, fake names and bios, the burner phones. All the subterfuge. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate being cautious, but at the same time, I couldn’t help feeling that this was all because Pluto loved the game. Well, I wasn’t going to sit back passively any longer. I made sure to fold the receipt up and tuck it into the zippered pocket of my bag. The whole point was to make sure I had proof of where I was.
Pluto had suggested that I buy something, a drink or some Twizzlers, to “look the part.” My mom had brainwashed me for years that only idiots pay what theaters charge when all you have to do is smuggle in your own candy. I couldn’t eat anything anyway. The acid levels in my stomach had been so high since Paige disappeared that I was pretty certain I was developing an ulcer.