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There’s a small window in a far corner that’s been hastily covered by a thin red handkerchief and some duct tape. One side of the fabric is fluttering slightly, suggesting the window is opened. Or maybe there’s no glass in the opening at all? Either way, the quality of light behind the fluttering red swatch of fabric tells me it’s still daylight outside, although there’s no way of knowing if it’s still the same day as when I was taken or if night has come and gone who-knows-how-many times. Is that weak light a sign that it’s dawn or dusk? I guess I’ll find out soon enough, when the light brightens or turns to black.
My eyes drift to the small card table. There’s a small, flat-ish object on it that I can’t make out from here. Also, an opened laptop, a large, plastic bottle of water, and a small black duffel bag on the floor next to the chair.
Fuck.
I’m going to die today.
My favorite true crime podcaster always warns, “Don’t let your abductor take you to a secondary location, or else your odds of survival plummet.” And yet, here I am, bound and gagged in a secondary location. Fuck.
All of a sudden, a loud thwapping noise behind me splits the silence, making me jolt and shriek behind my gag. Heavy footsteps draw closer behind me, sending shivers of terror across my skin.
“You’re awake,” a deep male voice says behind me. “For a minute there, I thought maybe I overdid the chloroform and turned you into a vegetable forever.” The footsteps stop. My captor is standing above me. It’s Angus. Or Greg Smith. Whatever the hell this man’s name is. Holy fuck, I feel like I’m seeing a ghost. Why? And why now? I would have bet he’d forgotten all about me by now. In fact, with all his presumed victims, I would have bet anything he wouldn’t even recognize me if he passed me on the street. And yet, two years later, after zero contact, he’s kidnapped me out of nowhere? Has he been stalking me this entire time?
Standing before me now, Angus looks nothing like the charming, handsome, smooth operator from two years ago—the personal trainer who so deftly wielded his traditional good looks and perfect physique to maximum advantage. No, the present iteration of this man looks manic, unkempt, unhinged, and wild-eyed. Plus, he’s even more muscular than when I knew him, which only makes him seem even more menacing to me.
Angus bends down until his nose practically touches mine. “Are you in the mood to die today, Hannah? Because today will be your last, if you don’t help me get every fucking thing I want.”
Warmth spreads between my legs and across the denim on my inner thighs. The scent of urine fills the air and mingles with the scent of Angus’ sweat.
Angus looks down at the pee spreading between my thighs and chuckles. “Glad to see you’re taking this so seriously.”
I nod, letting him know I’m taking this as seriously as a human being can take anything.
“I’ve figured everything out,” Angus says. “There’s no point in denying anything. Do you understand me?”
I nod again, even though, obviously, I don’t know what he could possibly be talking about.
Satisfied with my compliance, Angus marches across the small space to the card table. He digs around in the duffel bag on the floor and pulls out a black knit something. A cap? He then picks up the unidentified object off the table. Oh, God. It’s a knife. A big, scary, serrated one that could end my life in point-two seconds flat, if Angus were to drag its blade across my neck with any kind of force. If I hadn’t already pissed myself, I’d surely be doing it now.
Angus grabs the metal chair with his free hand and strides toward me. As he approaches, I notice a phone peeking out of his pocket. Unless he’s got his own phone with the same hot pink case as mine, then that’s my phone. Hallelujah! Surely, it’s been sending pings to nearby cell towers this whole time, which means the police can use my phone to triangulate my location. That’s what happens in so many of my true crime podcasts.
Although . . . come to think of it, the police would only be triangulating my location if my family has reported me missing by now. What time is it? Has the time come for me to pick up my mother at work?
Aw, fuck. As Angus comes to a stop in front of me, I can plainly see my phone screen in his pocket is pure black, which means the device is turned off, or, worse, its battery dead. Fuckity. Thanks to my true crime obsession, I know phones have to be turned on to be trackable. So much for the police triangulating my location.
