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Chapter Two
Comfort is no test of truth.
Truth is often far from being comfortable.
Swami Vivekananda
Melinda’s tears were long gone, voided like a physiological need. Before tonight she’d been proud of how she resisted emotion, but now no form of release remained. Now she was numb with tension, with exhaustion and stone-cold fear. She wished she could cry again. Or scream. Or vomit. Anything to break this oppressive confinement.
She’d thought they’d reached the cabin when Gerald had suddenly slowed the car near to stopping. Then the car slid at a sickening angle, and she understood that he was saving their necks. They swerved, fishtailed, and gently slid across four lanes of traffic a dozen times before Melinda decided it was better not to count. Why did she have to get kidnapped during a blizzard? Because this is a nightmare. And in nightmares even nature pits herself against you.
It had been a while since they had slid and Melinda stared at the partition with eyes hot and dry. The cruel humor of being an Indian American woman separated by a literal partition was not lost on her, but she’d already indulged in one ironic laugh. She hooked two fingers through the chain of her necklace. Where the bloody hell was Chandi? This officially constituted an evil act, which the goddess loathed.
Et tu, Chandi?
Melinda’s shoulders heaved and trembled, but no tears came. Why hadn’t she called her mother on her birthday this year? Even if she had hoped to reach voicemail, Melinda still should have tried. She wished she called her brother more, or at all. She wished she responded to her father’s endless forwarded emails. She was online enough. There was no excuse. Instead, the blog got all of her attention, and all of her heart, empty vessel that it was.
Melinda clutched her knees to her chest and stared into the dark night.
Slowly, then more strongly, the colored lights of restaurants and storefronts flashed across her window, and Melinda realized they’d left the highway. No. No, not yet, not yet. She wrapped her arms around herself, scoring her arms with her fingernails. She whimpered, the sound hoarse and keening as the car plodded on.
Then the car slowed, turned, and crunched the gravel of what was obviously a driveway. Oh God oh God oh God oh God. Her mind chanted its funeral dirge, her body nearly vibrating with fear. They had to be there. But where exactly was “there”? A broken-down kill shack in the woods, her ever-helpful mind supplied.
The car stopped.
The engine died.
Melinda whimpered again and searched the soulless windows for any sign of hope.
The car heaved as Gerald’s weight left the vehicle. His door slammed shut.
Melinda pressed her body hard against the door and clutched her duffel bag like a shield. Frigid wind struck her like a blow as the door across from her jerked open, and she immediately began to shiver.
The car’s dome light splashed across Gerald’s hulking form as he leaned down to glower at her. Low lighting hollowed out his eyes and sculpted shadows beneath his cheekbones.
“Who the hell are you?” he yelled.
Melinda didn’t answer, didn’t dare move from where she was trying to disappear into the car, didn’t peel her eyes from his. Already, snow blanketed Gerald’s hair and shoulders.
“Hell!” He shouted to be heard above the shrieking wind. “This is a disaster. I know you’re the wrong person. I’m sorry. Dammit.” He hammered the roof with a fist and she flinched. “Dammit. I know sorry’s not good enough.” He squatted on his haunches and balanced a hand on the seat where her bag had lain for the last three hours. He raked snow-covered hair from his forehead only for it to blow forward again.
“Look, I don’t know who you are, but I believe you that your name is Melinda,” Gerald enunciated. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “How the hell did this happen? What the hell are we going to do?”
Melinda blinked. Seriously? What sort of short-straw irony was this? To get kidnapped by the village idiot? Was he not going to kill her? Or would he simply know her real name as he did? Comforting.
“What are we going to do?” she repeated, cold and biting and livid. “I’m going to call the police and drive right back to civilization. You’re going to give me the keys, get the hell away from the car, and wait for the cops to come.”
Gerald made no move to stand, but his eyebrows slanted in apology.
“Melis—inda ...” He grimaced. “This storm is way too strong. Didn’t you feel us skidding on the way here? It took me an hour longer to get here than it should’ve. We can’t leave. We barely made it. And if you want to make it through the night, you need to come inside with me.” Melinda started and Gerald rubbed his hand roughly across his face. Looked like it was Option B: he would know her real name as she died.
“Dammit, that came out wrong. But the cops aren’t coming. A hundred to one says they’re completely occupied with pulling grandmas out of snowdrifts. As much as I know you want to be away from me, you can’t stay out here. You’ll get hypothermia. Can’t you feel how cold it is? My shoes are freezing to the ground as we speak. Put on your coat. You’re shaking.”
Melinda’s eyes bulged. “What are you talking about?” Her voice rose, thick with the strain of being heard above the storm. “You think I’m going into some stranger’s lair with you? Are you insane? You think I don’t watch the news? ‘Never let someone take you to an alternate location.’ That’s the moral of every kidnapping story. Well, this bloody well counts as an alternate location!”
She yanked her coat over herself like a blanket. Fear was transmuting into fury, and it felt good, felt something close to powerful. A spark of hope scraped to flame inside her. If she could get angry, she could get her power back. Get free. Or die fighting.
“Now give me the keys and get the hell away from me!” Melinda yelled. With one fist, she pounded the evil wall he’d erected between them. With the other, she smacked her own seat.
