Page 7 of Plain Sight

I slip the paper back in the envelope and tuck it into a hidden pocket on my wedding dress.

“Well,” I say with a sigh, folding my hands on my lap. “That’s a pretty morbid wedding gift. He must be very upset.”

“I can’t speak to that. I can’t read the man’s mind.”

“You just take his money.”

The kidnapper doesn’t answer.

This time around, I’m not going to have my world upended in a way that turns out to be exactly what I needed. The woman who was in a position for that to happen—the woman who made up fake study groups and snuck out of her house so she could dance at a club without ruining her pre-law reputation—is long gone. There isn’t going to be any witty banter or surprising emotion or a gradual softening. I’m never going to rescue this man from jail.

The only ending to the story of me with this man in this car is a bad one.

Unless I find a way to change it, and find it soon.

We keep driving.

Unfortunately, there’s no turning into a winged creature of darkness when the sun is shining like this. I don’t have the advantage of night on my side. I’m not sure if it would be an advantage at all.

The advantages of daylight, however, include that I can see out the windows. My professional kidnapper didn’t bother to blindfold me or tie me down, so I can follow the route.

We’re not going anywhere familiar. Not toward Cobble Hill. We’re going north at a frustratingly slow pace. If we were going just a little slower, I might take a chance on escaping.

Or maybe not.

The other thing I don’t know is how my pregnant body will react to jumping out of a moving car.

Pressure builds at my temples. The car’s air conditioning isn’t great, and I’m in an elaborate gown. My tongue is weirdly dry. The rest of my body doesn’t know what to do. The kidnapper is driving so calmly that he seems bored. He hasn’t pointed the gun at me since we’ve been driving. The parts of my brain that are supposed to alert me to threats keep deciding that he isn’t a threat. Then I remember that he kidnapped me and he’s taking me to a second location. It won’t be a cottage by a pretty lake. It’ll be an abandoned warehouse. Someplace out of the way where he can⁠—

Do whatever he’s going to do.

When we pull up in front of a combination parking garage and warehouse ten minutes later, I’m almost disappointed. It’s a rundown two-story building with a FOR SALE sign in the front. The car bumps over a crack in the sidewalk on the way to the entrance ramp.

Really? A run-down warehouse with a FOR SALE sign? What’s next, tarps on the floor?

No. What’s next is that the kidnapper drives at parking-garage speed up to the second floor, which is empty. He gets out, stretches, and motions at me with the gun.

I get out, gathering the skirts of my gown in one arm. Maybe it’s too optimistic to be concerned about parking garage filth getting on my dress, but I don’t care.

“This way.” The kidnapper points with his gun.

We climb up a short flight of concrete stairs, then go through a creaking metal door and down a dusty hallway. One more turn, and we’re in the main room.

It smells like antique wood and stale garbage from a nearby dumpster. Windows along the front of the building are opened to different heights, and the kidnapper moves down to the opposite end and starts shutting them. The wooden frames don’t come easily, squeaking on the way down.

Oh.

There are the tarps.

Holy shit, I hate this.

The force of my hatred takes me aback. I’ve never felt it quite like this before, all up in my throat and down in my fingertips and squeezing at my spine. Is that a pregnancy thing, or a kidnapping thing? I don’t know.

“Why are you doing this?” My voice echoes in the empty room.

“It’s my job.” The kidnapper stops closing the windows, takes out his phone, and glances at the screen. His dull gray eyes land on me. Then he’s back to the windows. “You’re not the prettiest person I’ve ever kidnapped.”

“You’re the ugliest person who’s ever kidnapped me.”