“You did come here to work, remember?”
He plants a kiss on the top of my head. “True, but I didn’t come here to work on this. I came here to deal with a problem at Funda and . . . some other business here.”
“So you’re kind of caught off guard by this?”
He shrugs and pulls away, running his hands through his already wild locks. “Kind of. This has been a predicament for a while, but . . . let’s just say it just got a whole lot worse.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too, rudo. Me too.”
He sort of drifts through the room, aimless in purpose. Every now and then, he sighs or tugs at his hair. But he’s mentally someplace else, and I’m not sure whether to let him be or to try to cheer him up. My decision is made for me when his phone rings in the bedroom. He stalks towards it and disappears though the doorway. I hear him answer. A few seconds later, the door shuts.
“Ugh,” I groan, plopping down on the sofa. I don’t know what to do with myself. Dragging my bag to my feet, I search for my phone. When we got on the Ajax, I turned it off, and now I wonder how many times Presley has texted me. I smile thinking about the possible messages I’ll see when the phone turns on.
I flinch. Not only do I have a ton of texts from Pres, I also have a boatload of missed calls from her and my mom.
My stomach sinks. With trembling hands, I call my mother. Each ring takes an eternity. It rings once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth, right before I disconnect the call and dial Presley, it picks up.
“Brynne,” my mother chokes out. Her voice is barely audible, a whisper through the line.
I spring to my feet. I feel the adrenaline kick in without knowing why. It’s an automatic response because my mother doesn’t call a million times. She doesn’t answer like this. The only time she’s done that is to tell me about Brady . . .
Oh. My. God.
“Mom? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, Brynne.” She sobs again, each hiccup gashing me. I start to cry too—scalding, blinding tears streaking down my face. I realize the senselessness of it, but it’s unintentional. Just a reaction to hearing my mother break apart and knowing that soon, I will be too.
“It’s Brady . . .” I guess, holding my breath.
“He . . . we . . .”
My hand covers my mouth, choking back the wails that threaten to break free. I can’t see for the tears, I can’t talk because panic has squeezed my throat shut.
I feel the sofa at the back of my legs, but I can’t sit. I’m frozen, immoveable—a girl standing alone with a wound splitting her into tiny little pieces.
“We got a call today,” she says, “A video of Brady has shown up on a website. We were hopeful, you know, because they told us early on that any contact or proof of life was a good sign.”
“What was it?”
Her fear is palpable. The misery I felt when I got the news he’d been taken pierces me again. My hands shake, my legs go limp. I nearly fall, but lean against the armrest and catch myself.
“It was grainy,” she says, “And from a week or so ago they think. Of course they didn’t tell us until they tried to verify it and garner any useful information. But it was him.” Her voice breaks when she says the last word and tumbles in an unbearable sob.
The howl I’ve been choking back is too powerful, my mother’s agony the straw that broke the camel’s back, and it breaks free.
“He looked so thin, Brynne. He had a full beard and his hair was covering his ears. He was on his knees, his hands behind his back. And these men stood behind him with guns pointed at him like before,” she breaks off, struggling to stay composed for me. “His eyes . . . My baby’s eyes are just so empty. Your father has watched it a few times, but I just can’t,” she cries. “They demanded a ransom. There was no time frame to pay it, but the number was astronomical. We know the government won’t pay it and I just don’t know how we could ever possibly come up with that amount!”
Her lament barrels through the phone and all I can do is add to it. I don’t have answers. I don’t understand any of this.
I feel along the sofa and fall into it, covering my eyes with one hand.
My body wrenches, ready to expel my dinner.
I hear a rustle on the line and my father’s voice comforting my mother. “Brynne Girl,” he says, calling me the nickname he gave me as a child.
“Oh, Daddy!” I cry, the tears rolling again in full force.
“Hey, now,” he rasps. “It’s going to be okay. We will find a way.”