‘You’ll need to tell the hospital she’s unwell,’ Donald continues. ‘Buy some time. We don’t want anyone else knowing.’
I nod.
‘When the kidnapper calls again, tell him the money’s coming, but that you need proof Jo’s alive. No proof means no deal.’
‘Got it.’
‘Keep acting normal. We stay calm and play along. When she’s back,thenwe go to the police.’
Julia stares at the floor. Her hands are shaking. ‘How the hell do we pretend everything’s normal?’ she says.
‘Because we have no choice,’ Donald replies.
He’s right. We’re in their hands now. I take the notepad. It feels heavier than it should.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ I say, heading for the door.
Chapter Nine
Joanna
An acrid, oily stench is coming from the bag that’s been pulled over my head. It makes me gag. My skull throbs with every heartbeat, my stomach heaves. I choke it down. I’ve had a pathological fear of vomiting since I was a child.
I’m lying on some thin foam padding, but it does little to soften the jolt each time he hits a bump. He’s grinding the gears and cursing under his breath. It sounds like he isn’t used to driving the van.
My teeth chatter uncontrollably, and my scalp itches, as if it’s alive with insects. I try to ground myself in something – anything – but the fear is all-consuming. And yet, he slows down at every bump, like he’s trying not to jostle me too much. Does that mean he doesn’t want to hurt me?
Please, God, don’t let him rape me.
I force the thought away and cling to the image of Danny and Joel. I have to stay strong. This must be a mistake. A mix-up. When he realises he’s got the wrong person, he’ll surely let me go. But right now, I only feel blind terror.
I should have taken the offer of Gil’s lift.
The van turns abruptly. Gravel crunches under the tyres. My pulse skyrockets. I tense, bracing for what comes next.
The van stops. The engine dies. A door slams. Then comes the groan of what I imagine is a garage door creaking open. The van starts again and moves a little… Then there’s another bang, probably the door closing behind us.
Cool air rushes in as the back doors open. I catch the faint sweetness of wet grass.
A strong arm grabs mine.
‘Mind the step,’ he says, his voice calm but hard. ‘If you want to live, don’t even think about calling for help.’
I stumble when getting down from the van, and he catches me.
‘This way,’ he says.
We walk a few short steps. I hear a key turn in a lock. It must be dark now; it was already dusk when we left the gym. Maybe someone saw something. Maybe they called the police.
‘Wait,’ he tells me.
I freeze, afraid to move, unsure of what lies ahead.
His hand brushes mine, and I recoil. He leads me forward, and the air shifts. Wherever we are now, it smells of furniture polish and paint.
We stop again. I hear him shifting something.
‘There are six steps,’ he says. ‘You’ll need to go down backwards. Hold my hand, and I’ll guide you.’
