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I shiver once again, my body having experienced what feels like hours of trembling. The car slows down, and I pray this is like the last time we slowed. It was only a stop sign because the pause didn’t even have the tires halting fully.
My luck runs out when the car doesn’t fully accelerate again.
“What’s the fucking plan?” the guy asks from the passenger side of the car. “It’s not like we can just go knock on the fucking door.”
There’s no return answer, and I pray it takes them a long time to figure it out. The longer they fight and argue about what to do next, the longer I stay alive.
“We’ll take her back to the house and figure out what to do then,” the guy from the passenger seat finally answers.
I can tell that although morning is coming soon, the sun hasn’t started to rise yet. There would be no point in trying to kick out a window and scream for help. The car would be long gone before someone realized what was happening. Besides, how often do people call the cops because they might’ve heard something but have no information to relay?
I wish I would’ve at least attempted to make myself known to anyone who might’ve been around when the car came to a stop what seems a little too quick after their conversation about how to get to Brielle.
It tells me that they have taken me back to Farmington. As much as I want to feel comfort in knowing I might only be miles from Derrick, I know that to be false hope. Past making sure I had a ride to the shelter, he hasn’t bothered to reach out to me.
As angry as I was, even before I got on that damn bus, I would’ve gone right back to him if he’d only told me that my feelings were valid and that we could work something out that wouldn’t leave me feeling supervised like a toddler.
I’m yearning for that level of scrutiny now. Had I only just listened to him, I’d be in his arms at best, or at worst, alone in a hotel room with a guard on the door.
The man who pulls me from the car is even less concerned with hurting me than they were when they shoved me back here in the first place. With my hands tied behind my back, it’s impossible for me to grab ahold of anything, but it doesn’t stop me from trying.
“Let me go!” I scream. “HELP ME! SOMEONE HEL—”
The air is knocked from my lungs when I’m struck on the back of the head.
My body is jostled, rough terrain hurting my knees and shins when I’m dragged across the ground.
I feel numerous injuries to my body as they climb a short set of stairs in a rush.
A door slams and silence ensues.
Both men work in tandem as they drag me further into what I can only assume is the house they spoke of earlier.
“Pl-please,” I stammer.
“Begging won’t fucking help you,” one guy says from right beside me.
“Do what the fuck we say, and we’ll make your death as painless as possible.”
“Keep causing fucking problems and you’ll beg us for it,” the other one threatens. “Get her up and tied to that fucking chair.”
I can tell just from their voices that the driver, the one who was waiting for us at the bus stop, is in control. The one who was along for the ride from Farmington is only his puppet. I consider possibly being able to turn one on the other, but I bet that’s only possible in movies. Bad men don’t have a conscience, so I shouldn’t have any level of hope that these guys will just magically get one.
“This is what you’re going to do,” the passenger says as he yanks the hood from my head. “You’re going to call Brielle and tell her to meet you for coffee.”
I shake my head, knowing without having to think about it, that won’t work.
“Now isn’t the time to be brave,” the one in control growls.
I can’t stop myself from looking around the room. I take in the sparsely filled area, realizing it’s a tiny living room in an equally tiny house. I presumed we were back in Farmington, but honestly, I don’t have a damn clue where we are.
I want to be brave. I want to hold my chin up high and take whatever they have to give me. I know there’s no hope for me. They told me they were going to kill me when this is over more than once. Why would I risk another woman’s life when saving my own isn’t an option?
I feel like a coward, like a spineless weakling when I open my mouth, and telling them to go to hell isn’t what comes out.
