My heart slams against my ribs. I can’t breathe. Can’t think.
And then I remember.
The backpack! She put them in the backpack!
I spot it through the windshield, the lime-green Osprey day pack lying on the ground right where the man knocked me down.
Go! Go! Go!
I push back through the door, race toward it, and tear it open with shaking hands. My fingertips are numb as I rip the zippers down and peel the compartments wide. I yank out the bags of trail mix and bottles of water, pull free a bunch of electrolyte pouches and granola bars, searching for the only thing that counts. The one thing that isn’t there.
The keys. Where are the keys?
Behind me, the thrum of the van’s engine fades in a series of burps and gurgles. When it snuffs out entirely, I’m overcome by a wave of panic that threatens to blow every fuse in my brain and send me spiraling into a full-on mental breakdown.
Find them!
I grab the bag and turn it over, shaking it until the key fob falls from a side pocket and hits the ground, I cry out in relief and take it. Then I’m sprinting back to the Jeep as fast as my legs will carry me. I leap into the driver’s seat, slam the door, and stab the ignition button. The engine roars to life. My hands hit the steering wheel, my foot the gas pedal—and I smash it down.
The Jeep surges forward with a violent shudder. The hood lurches right. I fight for control and ease off the gas.
The tire!Shit!
I punch the dash so hard it bloodies my knuckles. If I still had my phone, I might be able to find a signal and call for help, tell someone what happened to Avery. But even if I could make a call, I wouldn’t. The man with the ice for eyes was no liar. That muchwas blindingly clear. He was telling the truth. He’ll kill my wife if I contact anyone else—especially the police. Of that, I have no doubt.
And I have an hour. That’s it. One single hour to make it back to the Airbnb on three tires instead of four. An hour is what it took for us to reach this place. So how the fuck am I supposed to make it back to the rental in that amount of time with a flat? Sure, I could change it if I had a spare, but I don’t. I used it to repair a flat last year and, like an idiot, never put the spare back in the trunk. It’s lying on a storage rack in my garage, covered in boxes, completely useless.
Which leaves the option of running—tearing through the meadow and sprinting down the mountain like a madman. I want to. I nearly do. But even in my heightened state of anxiety, I know it would be a foolish choice. I’ll never make it, not without stopping for breaks. No, the Jeep is still my best, and fastest, bet to reach the highway. I need to drive.
So I do, and it’s maddening how slow I have to go as I roll through the meadow and back into the forest. How carefully. Every time I press the gas too hard, the steering wheel jerks to the right and jars my hands. Every time I hit a bump or a rut, the Cherokee vibrates and rattles like a bomb exploded beneath the chassis. It’s all I can do to keep the car from plowing straight into a tree.
It can’t happen. If it does, I’ll never reach the highway. My heart claws at my ribs in panic. There’s no way I’ll get back to the Airbnb in time, but it’s not like I have another choice. All I can do is drive.
And drive. And drive. And drive.
The world outside passes by in a perpetual loop of branches, road, trees, and sky. The mountains leer through the leaves, no longer looking majestic but sinister. A jagged row of hulking giants watching as I crawl ever down. I barely see them. All I can think about is my wife.
Images fill my mind. Avery, lying bound on the floor of the van with her ankles and wrists knotted in thick coils of rope. Avery, cryingthrough a grease-soaked gag for help as the man in the mask crouches above her and tells her to shut her mouth. The harsh smack of his palm against her cheek when she doesn’t. Avery shaking her head as he tears off her shirt, her pants …
An avalanche of goosebumps pours down my arms.Jesus.Avery doesn’t possess a mean bone in her body. She doesn’t deserve this. She’s the best person I know. A kind person.Myperson. And someone else has her now. Why?
I drive faster, my anxiety hitting DEFCON 1 levels. Blood hammers my ears. The axles squeal and grind. Every bump in the road feels like a mountain, every rut a canyon. I don’t know how much longer the bare metal rim beneath the flat tire will stay in a circle, but I pray it lasts long enough for me to reach the highway.
Because I’m coming, Avery. I’m coming.
The road splits and then splits again. At this point, I have no idea which way the van went, much less know which way I should go. I scrub my memory for landmarks, for any detail I recognize. A broken branch or a stray pile of rocks. Something that will tell me I’m going the right way.
There’s nothing. The only thing I remember from the trip up is the burned-out cabin. That’s it, and I already passed it miles ago. Now everything is an endless parade of trees, dirt, rocks, and sky. Like on the way up here, there’s no one around, no cars, no one to flag down and beg for a ride. Only the forest thick with pine trees and the never-ending dirt road in front of me that’s barely a road at all. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except getting down.
The corners are the worst. Each one is a monumental effort spent white-knuckling the steering wheel and jamming the brakes—which are getting spongier by the second. I ignore them and coax the Jeep lower foot by miserable foot. I practically coo at it, telling the car it can do this, whispering that it’s strong enough, fast enough. I need the distraction, need to focus on anything other than the scent of burningrubber and metal. It’s the smell of death.Avery’sdeath if I can’t get back to the Airbnb in time.
One hour. That’s all I have.
And it’s already been twenty minutes.
My temple throbs. Blood drips down my neck and warms the collar of my shirt. A headache thunders at the base of my skull. I probably have a concussion, but I’ll live. And my injury is the least of my concerns right now. My mind is locked on one thing and one thing only: what will happen to Avery if I can’t reach the house in time? I don’t know the answer. But I do know this: it won’t be good. And it will be my fault.
Stop it,I tell myself.Focus.
