I read once that a person can go for forty days without food, but only seven days without water. I can’t have been here for more than a few hours, but I’m so thirsty my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth. I shouldn’t be this thirsty; it must be the drug he gave me. But telling myself that doesn’t help.
Anything’s better, though, than him being here. Unless he’s left me here to die. But what’s the point of kidnapping me just to let me die?
I shiver. He had to kidnap me for a reason. Ransom? But my parents aren’t rich, and Brian knows Dad’s company is in trouble. So why? To rape me? To kill me?
I gag. Those are the most likely answers. But then why didn’t he do it already?
I hate not knowing why Brian did this. But I don’t really want to know, either. I just want to escape.
It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense. I trusted Brian. So did my parents. But here I am, Brian’s prisoner. And Dad and Mom? They must be crazy with worry.
I miss them so badly. And I’m scared for them. Scared for me, too. But I can’t do anything until Brian gets back. That’s when things will change. I’ll make them change. Because he’ll have to open the door to come inside. And when he does, I will burst out of this prison.
I rest my head on my knees and wait.
NICK
7:50 P.M.
I CAN’T BELIEVE WHAT a prick Charlene’s dad is. I could hear him swearing at her right through the phone, telling her to get her fat ass home. I felt sorry for her, though I tried not to show I’d heard.
I wish she’d stayed. It’s cold, lonely work stopping passersby to ask them if they’ve seen Sarah, going into stores and asking shopkeepers who don’t want to talk to me once they see I’m not buying anything. I worry that I’m wasting my time, that there’s something else I should be doing to find her, but I don’t know what.
I trip. I look to see what snared me—and stop breathing. I recognize that She-Hulk badge. I take a step back and nudge the backpack with my foot, turning it over and scooting it closer to a streetlight to be sure.
It’s Sarah’s, all right. The little Superman figure dangling from the zipper pull, the Wonder Woman button I gave her, the Batgirl badge she made herself so that it would be her favorite Batgirl, Cassandra Cain . . .
I think I’m going to be sick. Sarah would never leave her bag. I know for sure now—something bad has happened. If only I’d walked her home, or convinced her to go to the comic store with me. If only I’d been with her.
God. I close my eyes. I don’t want it to be true.
I look again. It’s still lying there in a dark, sodden lump.
I feel surreal staring at her bag, like it’s not really there or I’m not really here, but I know it is and I know I am. I wake my cell and call the detective, telling him what I found. I hang up and can’t remember a thing he said. I just know he’s coming.
I pray that Sarah isn’t lying in a ditch somewhere. Pray that she’s still alive.
I lean over, trying not to puke. I have to let Sarah’s parents know. I swipe open the keypad on my cell and call directory assistance.
Mrs. Meadows stands shaking over Sarah’s backpack. Mr. Meadows curses and turns away. The detective’s already taped off the area, and two more cop cars have pulled up, their lights flashing silently.
I hover in the background. I feel like a dirty voyeur watching their pain and grief, but I can’t look away. I need to know what happens.
A cop leaning over the gutter cries out, bags something, and holds it up. I move closer. A cell phone in a Wonder Woman skin. Sarah’s cell phone. Mrs. Meadows runs over.
“Now, Mrs. Meadows, you know you can’t touch it,” the detective says. “We need it for evidence.”
Mrs. Meadows whirls around, her fists clenched, and for a second I think she’s going to punch him. “What are you doing to find her? Tell me what you’re doing!”
I take a cautious step forward. I want to know, too.
“We’ve questioned that boy who bullied Sarah; he alibis out. So we’re tracking down new leads. We’ve put out an AMBER alert for Sarah. We’re getting roadblocks in place as we speak. Sarah’s description and photo have been sent to police stations around the country, and we’ve got people patrolling the roads. We’re doing everything we can to find her.”
“Too little, too late,” Mr. Meadows says, rounding on the detective, his face haggard. “You should have been out looking for her hours ago! Who knows how much time has been wasted.”
“And it’s not enough,” Mrs. Meadows says. She draws herself up taller, her face as pale as the snow. “I want us on every TV station, radio station, and newspaper that will have us. Websites, too. We’ve got to get the word out, appeal to whoever did this to Sarah.” She glares up at the detective. “Can you arrange that?”
The detective looks humbled. “Yes, ma’am, I can.”
“Good,” Mrs. Meadows says, nodding sharply. “Then do it.”
I see where Sarah gets her brassiness from.
The cop walks a few steps away, signaling to another officer talking on a radio.
I edge closer, my throat dry. “Mrs. Meadows, Mr. Meadows—I want to help find Sarah. I’m good with computers. If you let me, I can set up a website with her photo, and ask people to send in tips. And I can put posters up in the neighborhood and at school. Maybe someone saw something that will help us get her back.”
Mr. Meadows rubs a shaking hand across his eyes. “I design for a living. I can do the poster and get one of my team to do the website, but I’d sure appreciate your help—especially if you can get the bare bones up tonight. And you probably know more social networks to reach out to than we do.”
“I’ll get on it right away.”
Mrs. Meadows squeezes my hand. “Thank you, Nick. Come by anytime tonight, no matter what the hour. We’ll be up.” She smiles painfully.
I’m surprised she remembers my name.
“Why don’t you just come work at our house?” Mr. Meadows says. “That is, if it’s all right with your parents.”
“It’ll be okay with my dad,” I say, my voice hoarse.
Mr. Meadows nods, then walks to their car and opens the back door. “Then hop in.”
Hang on, Sarah. We’re going to find you.
SARAH
I CAN’T STAND THE stink of my own urine, the roughness of my jeans where I peed. I find my way to the door and shake it as hard as I can, but it is as firm and as unyielding as a wall. I don’t think I’m going to get out of here alive. I wish I hadn’t brushed Nick off this morning. Wish I hadn’t fought with Mom. Wish I’d told Dad how much I loved him, how nothing mattered as long as we were all together. There are so many things I would have done differently if I’d known today would be my last day.
No.
I can’t think like that. I’m going to get out of here. And when I get back home, I will do the things I wish I’d done.
I shiver, my teeth chattering. I don’t want everything to end like this. I don’t want to die. I slide to the floor and crawl across, patting in front of me until I find the comforter. I wrap it around me, up to my nose, trying to get warm.
A sound jolts me awake. I sit up stiffly, clutching the comforter around me tighter. There’s a scrape of metal on metal, the thud of something moving aside.
I leap to my feet and turn to face the sound, my legs trembling.
The door opens, bringing a rush of cold air. The stench of Brian’s pine cologne assaults my nostrils.
I charge toward the breeze, the sounds—and slam into a hard, lumpy protrusion, and then a warm body.
Brian grunts. Something heavy thuds to my feet, the floor reverberating. Brian grips my shoulders. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Let me go!” I wrench away and try to get past him.
Brian jerks me back. “This is your new home, Sarah. Get used to it. And let me tell you, you’ve got it better than the others did, so quit your victim act. I know you’re stronger
than they were.”
Others. Bile rises in my throat. I swallow it back. There was more than one. “What happened to them?” I ask, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
Brian shoves me back farther, one foot nudging something along the floor, making a scraping noise. The door slams shut. “I gave them freedom from the pain in their lives—the same way I’ll give it to you.”
“I don’t need that! I’m happy. Just let me go home.”
“You didn’t look happy yesterday when those boys were taunting you. I’ll bet you would have gone straight to your mommy, crying your eyes out, wanting her to make it all better. And your poor mother would have been crying along with you.” His voice cracks. “That’s not happy, Sarah. Not for you, and not for anyone around you. But I can give you happiness. I can give you freedom from your pain.”
“I don’t need freedom. Mom says that pain makes us stronger.”
“She would say that. She has to reassure you, and herself, too. It’s how she gets through the pain you cause her.”
“Just let me go home. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Sorry, no can do,” Brian says cheerfully.
It almost sounds like he cares about my mom. I bite my lip. “If you keep me here, you’re not just hurting me; you’re hurting my mom and dad, too.”
“You’re the one who’s hurting them.” He takes hold of my hands, his skin soft, like he uses hand cream. I try to yank away, and he squeezes my hands tighter, my bones grinding together. “Your parents can’t look at you without suffering.”
“And that’s my fault?” God, he’s already got me believing him. I’ve got to stay with my own reality. “They love me. Not knowing where I am is what will make them suffer.”
“That will fade. And then they will feel better—a whole lot better. They will know freedom, too.” He lets go of my hands. “I brought you some food.”
My stomach growls loudly. I want to punch it into silence.
Brian laughs.
I clench my teeth, hating that he knows I’m hungry. Hating that he is here. I back up into a wall. The room feels too small with him in it.
“You see? I tend to your needs. I am merciful—more than your parents have ever been.”
I turn my stained cheek away from his voice and lick my dry, rough lips. He’s crazy. He’s crazy, and I never saw it.
“You thirsty? You must be. Do you want something to drink?”
I want to refuse him, but my throat aches too much. “Please.”
“Good. You can have something, then. I’m not unreasonable.”
“Then let me go.”
Brian doesn’t answer. There’s the sound of a zipper, then a cap unscrewing and liquid being poured into a cup. He holds the cup to my lips, and it shakes, or maybe I’m the one shaking.
I gulp at the water, trying to drink it all before he takes it away. The strap pinches my throat and water dribbles over my chin and down my neck, but I don’t care; it tastes so sweet and good.
He takes the cup away.
“No! Please. Not yet.”
“You’ll give yourself cramps if you drink too fast,” Brian says. “Just wait a minute.”
His voice is almost tender. I don’t understand how he can sound like that. He’s a monster.
“Are you hungry?” Brian asks. “Think you could eat something?”
Saliva fills my mouth. I want to gobble down whatever he offers me, but I know I can survive without it. And the gentleness in his voice feels wrong now, put on, like he’s trying to make me trust him.
“Are you hungry or aren’t you?” he asks, anger creeping into his voice.
Anger is good. That means he isn’t getting what he wants. “Thirsty.”
Brian grunts. I hear water splash into the cup, and then he holds the cup to my lips again.
I drink until I can’t drink any more, and then I take a few more swallows. When he fills the cup for the fourth time and puts it to my lips, I turn my head away.
“Fine,” Brian says. He doesn’t sound angry this time.
I feel him move closer, the heat from his body pushing against me. I wish I could see him. Wish I knew what he was doing.
“You peed yourself. I’d better clean you up.”
“That’s okay! Don’t bother.”
Brian snorts. “Don’t be a prude.” He unbuttons my jeans.
I hit out wildly. “Don’t touch me!”
He grips my wrists. “Don’t be like that. I want to help you. Can’t let you sit around smelling like that.”
Down goes the zipper of my jeans. He pushes my T-shirt up, then rests his hands on my hips.
My skin ripples. Don’t let this be happening.
He yanks at my stiff jeans.
“Get off me!” I claw at him, but he doesn’t stop, just keeps tugging my jeans down. I wish I’d never bought my new, cutesy undies, bright blue low-rises with red trim and SUPERGIRL printed on them in sparkly silver. I wanted to feel strong after the pain of my first treatment. Like I was wearing armor no one could see.
Brian yanks at my undies.
I kick and punch him, but it’s like I’m not doing anything.
“I’ve waited longer for you than the other girls—but I can wait only so long. You have to know what love is.”
“This isn’t love! This is rape.” I punch him again.
“No, Sarah—this is love. Now, will you let me teach you?”
I scream from the pit of my stomach, as loud as I can.
He catches my wrists again, pressing so hard it hurts. “I’m not going to hurt you. But quit screaming, or I’ll have to put the gag back in.”
I can already feel it choking me. I strangle my voice into silence, his overpowering cologne tasting bitter in my mouth.
“You didn’t give me your answer, you know,” he says, his voice gentle.
No! I almost scream. Get off me! But I don’t scream anything. I’m afraid he’ll put the gag back in.
“Silence is understood to mean yes,” he says.
Not with me, it isn’t.
I hear water dripping, and then a wet cloth rubs over my leg, smelling like Ivory soap. Clean and pure.
I tremble as he works on my left leg, then my right. I can almost imagine I’m little again, Mom cleaning me up in the bathroom. I want it to be her.
And then he puts the cloth between my legs.
I jerk away, but he yanks me back, then pulls me to the duvet, the floor hard beneath it.
“No, no, stop!”
He straddles me, using his weight to keep me still. “Just relax.”
I try to heave him off, and he sits on me harder.
There is the crinkle of a wrapper, and I can feel him fumbling beside me.
My teeth chatter. I know what he’s doing.
At least I won’t have to worry about him getting me pregnant an inane part of my brain thinks.
I claw at him, my nails scraping against his warm flesh, catching on his shirt, popping a button.
He slaps my face. “Stop that.”
“No!” I shout, my voice breaking.
He pins my arms down and thrusts his way in. I can feel my flesh tearing.
Let it be over. Please, god, let it be over.
I bite him, getting hold of his cheek, then his ear, but he just moves faster, as if he likes my reaction.
Hot tears and snot burn against my skin.
All I can smell is him, his musky body odor and stinging cologne. His salty taste is in my mouth, sweat mixed with my tears. And it hurts. God, it hurts. “Get off me!”
His hands squeeze my throat, gripping tightly.
I can’t breathe.
This is it. This is how I’m going to die. I love you, Daddy. My chest burns.
Brian shudders on top of me, then lies there, gasping, his hands leaving my throat.
I suck in air, his weight flattening my chest, making it hard to breathe. I am crying, choking and shaking and crying.
He heaves himself off me a
nd strokes my cheek with his hand, his fingers catching on the blindfold. “You’ll come to like it, Sarah; you’ll see.”
Go to hell. But I don’t say that. I know he’d only enjoy it.
I lie there, rigid, tears leaking from my blindfolded eyes, until his hand leaves my face and he pulls away.
I hear him stand, brush off his suit, zip up his pants, his breath heavy.
I try to make my body part of the floor, stiff and unfeeling, as he crouches over me and kisses my forehead.
“I’ll see you soon,” he whispers.
No!
He walks away, footsteps creaking. The door squeaks open, then thuds closed. There’s a grating sound, then silence.
I pull my knees up to my chest, tuck my face against them, and try to rock the pain away.
SARAH
I ROCK MYSELF BACK and forth, back and forth. I can almost feel the way my dad used to rock me when I was little. I wish he were here now, holding me. I want to press my head against his shoulder and make this all go away.
Pain drones between my legs. I touch my fingers to my sore skin and feel hot, sticky wetness. Blood.
I shudder, my stomach heaving.
I feel so dirty, like his smell is clinging to me still, sweat and cologne and sex. Like he’s stained me deeper than my birthmark ever could. Stained my soul, stained everything that makes me who I am.
I scrub at my skin, trying to get rid of the feeling of his body against mine, but it stays like an imprint in my flesh. I hate my body, hate what it remembers, what it let him do.
No. It’s him I should hate.
I reach for my clothes, patting the floor until I find them. Undies first. I ease them up over me, breathing out at the pain. Then my damp jeans, one leg at a time, biting down on my lip. It doesn’t matter if it hurts. I won’t let him find me without my jeans on.
I pull them all the way on, do up the zipper, fumble with the button. I feel safer already, as if wearing my jeans will somehow keep him from raping me again. As if they did anything to stop him just minutes ago.
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