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Anne’s face was white. “Yes, we understand,” she said.
Mr. Smith motioned with the gun, indicating that they should move out of the classroom.
Silas prayed that someone, anyone, would see them and do something. But the hallway was quiet. Everyone had gone home. Mr. Smith opened the door to the parking lot.
“Where are we going?” Anne asked.
“Shut up! Just keep walking until you get to that white truck.”
Anne held Silas’s hand. When they got to the truck, Mr. Smith opened the door and pointed the gun at Silas. “Get in.”
“There’s no car seat,” Silas replied. It was dangerous for him not to have one.
“Get the fuck in.”
“Silas, sweetie, it’s okay,” said Anne. She helped him into the truck and got in herself. There were only two seat belts, one on each side. Anne pulled him in as close as she could and buckled them in.
Mr. Smith got into the truck and slammed the door. “Here’s how it’s going down. If you want to live, don’t say a word. Don’t call for help. Just shut up.”
“We won’t say anything, will we, Silas?” Anne squeezed his hand and gave him a small smile.
Silas snuggled into Anne. Sure, he was just a kid, but even he knew that when the bad guy kidnapped you, you weren’t getting out of it alive. He felt a tear drop down his cheek. Where was Mr. Killian? He promised to keep them safe. Would he find them in time?
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Anne clutched Silas’s hand as Martin barreled through the streets. So many questions raced through her mind. What did he want? Why them? How could she and Silas get out of this mess alive? Was he the man who broke into her house? For sure, now that they’d seen Martin’s face, he wasn’t letting them go free.
Her heart was pounding. Bile was slithering through her gut, threatening to erupt.
She wanted to vomit, scream, attack Martin, and kill him with her bare hands for scaring Silas. The little boy had his share of frightening events, mostly with her. What did that say about her?
Anne prayed social services didn’t hear about this. They’d take Silas away. But then again, maybe he’d be better off with someone else. Someone who led an everyday, boring life.
Although, until recently, that’s what Anne thought she had.
“Anne, I’m scared,” whispered Silas.
“Shut up!” yelled Martin.
Anne squeezed his hand and tenderly kissed Silas’s head.
The only good news was that Martin hadn’t taken her phone. They still had a chance to be rescued or call for help. Hopefully, he didn’t think she had it on her. Killian should be able to track it and hopefully rescue them.
She paid close attention to where they were heading. If there was a chance of running, they would. The scenery morphed from strip malls and tiny houses to larger houses. Then they passed through the outskirts of downtown. Anne could see the large buildings, the marina, and the Tiki Bar, where she and her friends laughed and ate, and then the scenery changed to a seedier part of town. Finally, they stopped at a rundown, three-story wooden building.
“Out.” Martin gripped Silas’s arm while Anne got out. Then he pulled the boy out through the driver’s side and guided him around the truck, holding the gun. He put out his hand. “Purse.”
No. No. Her phone was in her purse. She hesitated, and Martin struck her face. Silas screamed, and Martin squeezed his arm. “Both of you, shut up. Give me the damn purse.”
Reluctantly, Anne handed him the purse. He pulled the phone out, threw it on the ground, and crushed it with his foot. Then he tossed the purse into the dumpster.
“We’re going to walk inside looking like a happy little family,” he declared. “One tear, one word, and the kid dies on the stairs.”
He glared at Anne. “Understand?” Martin reached behind his back and tucked the gun into his pants.
She nodded. “Happy family. I get it.” Anne couldn’t understand why Martin would want to go into the dump, but she’d follow along until she could plan to get Silas safely out of this situation.
They walked up three flights of stairs. The stench of drugs permeated the air. The walls were covered in graffiti, and she didn’t dare touch the railing with its unidentifiable stains.
