I want to say no, that I can listen so long as I guzzle more coffee, but the words get stuck somewhere behind my teeth. I’m pretty sure if I tried to form a complete sentence right now, it would come out as something like, ‘Yes sleep good much thanks.’
Bob doesn’t protest when I carry him upstairs, following Donny into a long hallway with identical wood doors on both sides.
Donnygestures to the second door on the right. “This one’s yours.”
I push it open to reveal a bedroom with a full-sized bed, a dresser, and a desk under a window that looks out over the woods.
Donny reaches around the door, tapping on a deadbolt. “I found installing locks helps put you youngsters at ease when you join us.”
“Thank you,” I rasp.
“There’s a key to the house on the desk,” Donny says. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”
He leaves. I engage the deadbolt, then jam a chair under the knob for good measure. I should shower. Should change into something that doesn’t smell like three days of fear sweat and my car. But the second my head touches the pillow, my body gives up, and I’m gone.
CHAPTER 8
I’m back at my house. Standing in my kitchen with the yellow curtains Mom made, and crayon pictures Rosie drew stuck on the fridge with magnets. I’m thirteen, wearing Dad’s old police academy shirt that hangs down to my knees and baby blue pajama pants with snowflakes on them. Dad hasn’t started breakfast yet, which means I still have time before I have to get ready for school.
It’s January fifteenth. There’s no calendar open, but I know it in my bones. It’s January fifteenth every time I close my eyes.
I let Rusty out the back door like I do every morning. Dad’s twelve-year-old Malinois moves slowly on his arthritic knees. The morning air bites through my thin pajamas as Rusty wanders around the yard, his tail doing a slow, satisfied wag.
I don’t see the man watching me from across the street. I never see him in time.
“Rusty, come on, boy,” I call, my breath making little clouds in the freezing air.
He trots back toward me with that lopsided gait of his.
I’m closing the door when a hand catches it, forcing it back open.
Stanley Daniels steps inside the house. He’s of average height, with receding brown hair and the kind of face that you’d pass on the street and forget two seconds later. Except I’ll never forget it. Not as long as I live. He’s pointing a gun at me.
“Don’t scream,” he says, his voice so calm it makes my skin crawl. “Put the dog back outside.”
My hands shake as I open the door again. “Rusty, out. Go on.”
Rusty looks up at me with those confused brown eyes, like he knows something’s wrong but doesn’t understand what. I push him back outside, and he makes a small whine.
“Good girl,” Stanley Daniels says. “Now. Call your family into the room.”
My voice cracks when I yell for them. Dad walks in first. Mom follows in her scrubs from the night shift. Her hand flies out to push Rosie back behind the door frame, but it’s too late.
Dad steps in front of Mom, and I can see him doing the calculations—where the exits are, how fast he could get to the gun, whether he could get us out if he charged. “Take whatever you want. Just leave my girls.”
The cold barrel of the gun presses against my temple, and I whimper.
“Let’s all take a walk to the bedroom,” Stanley Daniels says. “Nice and slow. Can you do that for me, James?”
I want to scream at Dad to run. To grab Mom and Rosie and sprint to the front door without me, but I’m trapped inside my thirteen-year-old body, watching it play out the way it did in real life. I follow them down the hallway and into my parents’ room. Stanley Daniels tells us all to lie on the ground face down. The carpet scratches against my cheek. Rosie cries next to me, while Mom whispers that it’s going to be okay. Rope loops around my wrists. I scream as the plastic bag comes down over Dad’s head, and I’m barely able to see him through the tears blurring my vision, but then his eyes find mine through the clear film, and he?—
I wake up gasping. My T-shirt is glued to my skin, and the unfamiliar room is dark except for strips of light cutting in through the blinds.
Where am I?
My first thought is that I’m dead, which would be a real plot twist considering how much effort I’ve put into not dying in thepast couple of days, but that can’t be right because the last thing I remember is…
Oh.
