My hands become fists. Some boys were bullying Sarah again? I should have walked with her, even if she didn’t want me to. It takes everything I have to keep quiet and listen.
Charlene nods her head, her eyes big in her face.
The officer flips open his notebook and slowly, maddeningly, licks his fingers and turns the pages, reading silently. “Kirk, that right? The ringleader?” he asks Charlene.
“Yes,” Charlene says faintly.
Mr. and Mrs. Meadows watch Charlene with such pained expressions that she must wish she were anywhere else.
“Last name?” the officer says.
“I told you, I don’t know,” Charlene says plaintively, her voice almost a whine. “He was new today.”
The new guy, the one Charlene was hanging all over? He had something to do with this? No wonder Charlene looks scared. I’ll kill her myself. She’s supposed to be Sarah’s best friend!
“Description?” The officer holds his pen in midair.
“Detective, you already went over this,” Mrs. Meadows says, wringing her hands. “Don’t you think you should be out there looking for Sarah?”
Yeah! Go find her! What if she’s hurt and you’re just wasting time standing around here talking to us?
“This is important, ma’am,” the detective says. He turns to Charlene, whose legs are shaking. “Description?”
I close my eyes and pull up the times I saw the new guy today. “Short, dark brown hair, sideburns, bangs that fall into his eyes. Dark, intense eyes, I think brown with some specks of yellow. High cheekbones, thin lips that tend to go into a sneer, narrow shoulders. Walks with a swagger. Black leather jacket, white T-shirt, blue jeans with a hole in the knee, black boots, like cowboy boots, that aren’t meant for winter. Had an expensive-looking watch on his wrist. Oh, and his right eyebrow is pierced.”
I open my eyes to see everyone staring at me. “I’m sorry, that’s all I can remember,” I say. “But I can draw him for you, if you like.”
Wordlessly, the cop holds out his notebook and pen. I do a quick line drawing, then fill in more detail and add some shading. I draw the new boy smirking, his arm around a girl’s shoulders. Her face doesn’t fit in the space, and it’s not important, anyway.
I hand the pad back to the cop, who whistles. “We sure could use you on our team when you get a bit older. You’d make a great sketch artist.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say. What I want to say is, “Why aren’t you out there looking for Sarah?” But I know that he’s just doing his job. Still, I feel a small glow of pride that my work might actually help find her.
The detective turns the pad around to Charlene. “This look right?”
She nods. “Nick got him perfectly.” She glances at me. “You’re as amazing as Sarah said you are.”
Mr. and Mrs. Meadows crane their necks to see.
Sarah said I’m amazing? A smile almost breaks through my fear.
“Fine,” the detective says. “After the boys left, I understand there was a man who offered Sarah a ride.”
A man offered Sarah a ride? That is so classic! Why aren’t they running this guy down right now?
“Yeah,” Charlene says. “After he scared the boys away. But Sarah refused. And then it started sleeting, and I went home . . .” Charlene finishes miserably.
The cop clears his throat. “Can you describe the man again? Anything you can think of might help.”
“Do you think he . . . did something to her?” Charlene asks, looking sick.
“It’s important that we follow every lead.”
What kind of half-assed answer is that? Has this guy ever looked for a missing girl before? My stomach churns as I realize that this is what Sarah is. Missing.
“I didn’t see him very long,” Charlene says. “And it was sleeting. But I think he had dark hair, and he looked like he worked out. He wore a suit.”
“How old do you think he was?” the cop asks.
“Uh, not old, like you guys . . . I mean”—Charlene’s rosy face grows sweaty—“he was maybe in his twenties.”
That’s her description? I stare at Charlene. No wonder the cop was impressed with my answer. You can do better! I urge her silently, but she doesn’t add anything.
“I don’t suppose you saw this guy?” the detective asks me hopefully.
I shake my head. “Sorry.”
The detective sighs gustily. “Sound like anyone you know?” he asks Sarah’s parents. Her mom shakes her head. Her dad scratches his cheek, looking unsure. I feel for them. With that description, it could be anyone.
“Do you know what make the car was?” the detective asks Charlene.
Charlene hesitates. “It was little. Not big like a station wagon or a van. And it was red. Or maybe orange or brown.”
God. I know most girls aren’t into cars, but you’d think she could describe it a little better. I grit my teeth, forcing myself to stay calm.
The cop reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out some business cards. He hands one to Charlene, one to me, and one to each of Sarah’s parents. “You think of anything else, you call this number.”
I slip the card into my back pocket.
Mr. Meadows touches Charlene’s arm. “Thank you for telling us everything,” he says hoarsely. “We appreciate your honesty.”
Charlene looks up at him. “I should have said something. I should have stopped them—”
“Sarah’s faced worse,” Mr. Meadows says, then turns to the officer. “She’d never run away. She’s put up with people being cruel about her face her entire life.” His voice chokes off.
“You said she was upset this morning after your news,” the detective says. “And she already had issues with her birthmark. Then those hoodlums followed her. That’s a lot for anyone to deal with. I know you think it’s not something she would do, but most parents don’t until it happens.”
Mr. Meadows looks like he wants to strangle the cop, but the cop continues, as if he doesn’t notice. “At Sarah’s age, with her hormones running wild, we have to rule out running away before we do anything else—unless we find information that tells us otherwise.”
I raise my voice. “Sarah wouldn’t run away.”
Mr. Meadows smiles at me wanly.
“Yeah, she wouldn’t,” Charlene says. “It’s not Sarah.”
The detective frowns at Charlene and me. “Thank you for your cooperation today,” he says, and I know he’s telling us to leave.
“Let me know if you hear anything,” I say to Mrs. Meadows, who nods. I turn and walk down the hall toward the door.
“Nick, wait!” Charlene calls, and runs after me.
We step out together into the cold night air. The door closes behind us, sounding final, somehow.
“You think they’ll find her?” Charlene asks, her voice heavy.
“They’d better.”
“You were right—she’d never run away.”
“I know.” I kick at the slush. “That cop doesn’t know her.”
Why did I wait to tell Sarah how I feel about her? If I never see her again, I’ll regret that for the rest of my life. But it can’t happen like that. It can’t. I love her.
I run my hands through my hair and turn to Charlene. “Will you show me where you saw her last?”
“Why?” she asks, sounding suspicious, guilty, and sad, all at once.
I shrug. “I know it’s stupid, but I can’t just go home. I’m going to look for her.”
Charlene straightens her shoulders. “Then I’m going, too. Come on. Maybe someone saw something.”
My thoughts exactly.
“But Nick—if Kirk had anything to do with this, I’ll never forgive myself.”
I don’t have anything to say to that.
Charlene starts down the street, hugging her coat to her, her head down, the wind whipping her hair into her face. I never thought we’d walk down the street together. We don’t have anything in common, except that we both like Sarah. But
now, at least, we’ve got the same goal in mind. Find Sarah, wherever she is.
SARAH
I TRY TO YANK the blindfold off, but it’s as tight as if he nailed it into my skull. I reach up and explore the buckle at the back of my head—and touch a cold, hard lump of metal. It’s a narrow rectangle with a U looped through a tiny hoop, where the finger of the buckle should be.
My breath falters. A padlock. He’s locked the blindfold onto me. I feel for the chin buckle, but it’s the same.
Holy shit! I yank the blindfold strap as hard as I can, over and over again, each yank jerking at my head until my neck aches and my arms get pins and needles from being raised above my head for so long. The lock is so little, it seems like I should be able to break it, but I can’t.
I want to collapse on the floor and cry, but that won’t get me out of here. I pound my thighs. How am I supposed to escape if I can’t even see?
I grit my teeth. Blind people cope without sight every day. If they can do it, so can I.
I push myself off the wall and take one step, then another into the darkness, my hands shaking. It’s scary to walk blind; I feel like I’m going to fall into some gaping pit.
I frown at myself. I’m being silly. I take another slow step forward, and cobwebs attach to my face—sticky, delicate tendrils. I shudder and swipe them off, then shuffle forward again.
My feet want to cling to the floor, drive my toes through the wood, while my legs want to run. I’ve got to hurry; he could come back anytime.
I take bigger, faster steps, my breath squeezing inside my chest. My hands slap against the cold wall. I feel lumpy plaster joining drywall, touch the bumpy hard ridges of nail heads.
I thrust my hands farther along the wall, and my fingers slam into raised, rough wood, splinters piercing my skin.
A door? But as fast as I hope, it’s gone. The wood goes sideways, like a window frame. I move my hand up, but I touch only the roughness of boards, not the smooth coolness of glass. I feel for a gap, but there isn’t one. He’s blocked it off. I want to pound the boards, but instead I shove myself forward—and there it is. A door frame, then a door. Thank you, god.
I brush my hands over the grainy surface, searching for the doorknob, but there’s no knob, no handle, nothing sticking out at all. Just a hole where the doorknob should be, cold wind whistling in. Not a neat, smooth hole, but a jagged hole, like it was hacked at with a knife. I thrust my fingers through and yank. The door doesn’t move.
The crisp air streaming through the hole taunts me. I yank at the door harder, kick at it, pain stabbing my toes, tears soaking the blindfold. There has to be another way to open the door.
I feel the hinges, hoping there’s something I can unscrew, but my fingers slide over unmoving metal. Screams tremble in my throat.
I whirl around and start along the next wall, feeling my way around the room. I count the walls as I go, but even so I have to go around three times before I can convince myself there’s only the one door.
He plans to keep me here. Something snaps in my mind, and I go at the door like I’m crazed, slamming into it with my body, not caring about the way it jars my teeth, my bones, hurts my shoulder. I batter the door, clawing and kicking and screaming until I am sobbing with exhaustion.
I sink to the floor, trembling and feeling sick. I hurt all over, I have to pee, and I am intensely thirsty.
Don’t let me die here. Please. I never got to say goodbye. Never got to tell Mom I’m sorry, tell Dad how lucky I am to have him for a father. A whimper wrenches its way out of my throat. I want to be with them so badly, I can almost feel Dad’s strong hand on my shoulder, can almost smell Mom’s orange-blossom perfume, the one Dad gave her when I was born.
I wonder if they’re thinking of me right now, if they even know I’m missing; wonder if my fear and pain has somehow reached them. I know it’s crazy thinking, but I want it to be true.
I want to be saved—need to be saved—the way people are in movies. The hero never giving up, breaking down the door or bursting through the wall to save the victim, sometimes at the last minute, but always, always succeeding.
Even more than that, I wish I were Superman or She-Hulk, so I could rip off my blindfold and smash my way out of here, bricks and bits of wood flying. But I’m just an ordinary girl locked up by some sicko.
I chew on my lip. If Brian is anything like the villains in comic books, he could be out there right now, watching me trying to escape, gloating at my defeat.
I leap to my feet and feel my way back to the door, then press my mouth to the hole. “Are you out there, you sick jerk? Are you listening? You haven’t won, you hear me?” My voice is hoarse. “I’m going to get out of here! And when my dad finds out you did this—and he will—he’s going to make sure you go to jail for a long time!”
I stop shouting and listen.
There’s nothing, just silence. It was stupid to think he’d be watching. He probably left me here to die.
And then shoes crunch along the gravel and ice, pebbles jarring against one another.
SARAH
AT FIRST I THINK the footsteps are heading away from me, but then they get louder. I feel like I’m choking on my own heart.
The crunch of gravel stops. I strain to hear, my breath rasping in my throat.
“I won’t be threatened,” Brian says, his voice surprisingly close. “You’d better learn that fast. You’ve just guaranteed that your parents will suffer.”
“What? No, please—”
But his footsteps retreat, leaving me alone.
I lean back against the door. He could be lying to get me to behave. But if he isn’t . . .
I take a shuddering breath. If he isn’t, I just put them in danger. God, I hope he’s lying. Please let him be lying.
I leap up and pound the door again, pound it as hard as I can, kicking and punching and tearing at it, but it is just as unmovable as before.
I need to warn my parents—and I can’t. I don’t know what to do, except I have to stop thinking about it or I’ll break. I really think I’ll break, just start screaming and never stop.
I sink to my knees, my bladder aching. I can’t believe I’m locked up here, all alone, waiting for a psycho to come back. If Brian fooled me—me with my great sense of people—then how will Dad and Mom ever figure out who kidnapped me? He’s probably heading back there now to console them.
I slam my head against the door. If they can’t see through him, then no one will know where I am. No one will know what happened to me.
SARAH
A BIRD BEGINS TO chirp like nothing’s happened, an inane chirp that makes me want to scream.
I wrap my arms around myself and try to keep from losing it. The need to pee is getting worse. I can’t believe I have to; not right now. I’ve got to escape! But how can I, when I can’t even open the door? And there’s no one around to find me even if I did. I know that now. Brian wouldn’t have taken the chance of removing my gag if he thought someone could hear me scream. I must be far away from people. Very far.
I wonder if they’ve found my backpack yet. If Mom is crying over it, if Dad is pacing up and down the hall. I wonder if Charlene’s instant messaged me, or if she even knows I’m missing.
I sniff back tears. There’s no one in the world who knows where I am except Brian—and he’s not going to tell. There’s just him—and me. And no one will ever think to look at him. If they look at anyone, it will be Bad Boy. After what he did today, he’s the most obvious suspect. All anyone will remember about Brian, if they think about him at all, is how he saved me. No one will ever find me.
No. I can’t die in this shack. There’s got to be something I can use to help me. Something he overlooked.
I get down on my hands and knees and slowly move forward, sweeping the floor with my hands. My fingers touch the stiff cotton, and I jerk my hand away and keep going in as straight a line as I can without being able to see—all the way to the wall. I repeat this until I’ve
covered the entire room.
I lean my head back. There is nothing here except the down comforter. This is a holding tank, a prison. Nothing more.
I have to pee so badly now that it hurts. I shift uncomfortably. My abdomen, my crotch, even the muscles at the top of my thighs all hurt. There’s nowhere to go, no toilet—and I am not taking my jeans off when he could be standing outside watching, waiting for me to make myself vulnerable. I’ve been trying to ignore the pressure, but the pain is getting bad.
I clench my fists. “I can control this. Mind over matter.”
But the pressure builds, and I have to let go. I feel relief as warmth spreads across my jeans and down my legs, and the pain subsides.
And then I feel the cold, wet fabric against my legs. It’s all I feel.
I haven’t peed myself since I was little and got scared watching Star Wars. Mom cleaned me up and didn’t even get mad. I want to hear her and Dad’s voices so badly, want them to tell me it’s okay, that I will get out of here.
I slide down to the floor. I need to cry, but I won’t let myself give in. I think of Mom, of the way she’s always so positive no matter how bad things get, and I draw that strength to me.
I will get out of here.
I’m starting to feel the cold in my toes and fingers, and deep in my core. I shudder. What’s positive about my situation? There has to be something.
I guess I’m lucky I have shelter, that he didn’t tie me up outside, and that he left me my down coat and the comforter. There. I can do this positive-thinking thing when I have to. I draw my knees up to my chest and hug myself, trying to keep warm.
But I’m not just cold. I’m fiercely thirsty. My mouth is so dry I can hardly swallow. I wish I had something, anything, to drink. Orange juice, root beer, chocolate milk—I want them all. Hot chocolate, tea—I’d even take coffee, though I hate its bitter taste. I can’t believe I actually stood in the grocery store last week and argued with Mom over which brand of juice to buy. Right now I’d take anything, even the store brands that never taste as good. I try not to swallow.
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