The question would be so easy to ask. So easy, and yet, the second he even thought about speaking it, his stomach lurched, and he scrunched his eyes shut.
He couldn’t. He couldn’t. Could he?
If not, what was he doing? Just ... waiting? Waiting here, eating this man’s food, staying at his house, letting this man take care of him?
He wanted to go home.
That was all he’d ever wanted. Even on that very first day, that was all he’d wanted. Home.
Could he possibly . . . make it there? Finally? After . . . however-many years?
Rye’s eyes shifted to Jake’s laptop, and he continued watching silently as Jake did whatever he was doing. Typing. Occasionally taking sips from his mug.
The computer could tell Rye what day it was. What year. And then he could figure out... how long it had been. How horribly, horribly long he’d been gone.
And maybe it didn’t really even matter. He knew it had been years. He knew he was at least twenty by now. Twenty years old. An adult. An adult who couldn’t even read. Probably.
Rye scanned the room, his eyes stopping on an old-looking, dark-wood bookcase pushed up against the wall opposite where he sat. It was filled—overfilled, actually. Books of all colors and shapes, a row of yellow magazines, and papers. Lots of loose papers stuffed wherever they would fit. It looked sort of organized and sort of messy.
And he was drawn to it.
Yet he didn’t move.
His eyes darted back to Jake, who was now watching him with that same kind, gentle expression. Rye felt tears welling up in his eyes, yet again.
“I won’t hurt you.”
Jake had said the words earlier. He’d said lots of words, including promises that Rye was safe. But all Rye felt right then was nauseous. He looked back down at the grayish carpet under his feet and hugged his knees to his chest tighter. Rye had heard those same words before. And they’d been the farthest thing from the truth.
So why did hewantto trust Jake?
He glanced back up. Jake’s brown eyes were so soft, just like his smile.
Take me home, Rye wanted to say.I live on Sycamore Avenue with my mom. I’m Ryan. Ryan Henry Davis. And I was taken when I was eight. I was walking home from school. My mom was taking care of my grandma. She was sick, and my mom couldn’t leave her. A man offered to drive me. I should have said no. I should have said no. I should have said—
“No! No, no, no, no. No, no. No!” The sound of his own voice was foreign to his ears, bursting from his mouth with a hoarse panic. He’d pushed himself up out of the corner now and was scrambling toward the back door, his hands groping for the wall as he tripped and stumbled. He almost fell, but he managed to catch himself. And he could feel it chasing him. That same monster. That same darkness, breathing down his neck now, reaching out to grab him.
But then he was outside, the freezing air hitting his face, a strong breeze blowing his hair back off his forehead. He kept going. Forward. Away. Away from the monster chasing him. Away from the darkness and out to the railing.
The ocean stretched out in front of him, and down below was a crisp, clean beach. Gentle waves lapping at the curved shoreline. A bright blue sky, the sun shining down from just overhead. Birds flew along the cliff face.
He gripped the railing and sunk down to the ground, just staring. It was beautiful. The sight was beautiful.
And before he really knew what was happening, he was crying. Staring out through the slatted wood of the railing and crying. The cold breeze coming off the water stung his cheeks, but he didn’t move to go back inside.Inside.Even the word made him shiver. Even the thought that the door might be locked. That he might be locked in, held there. The thought made him sick again, and he closed his eyes and set his hands down on the wood underneath him.
He should have said no all those years ago. He should have said no and refused to get into the car with that stranger. That man sitting in his little white car, smiling his weird, icky smile at Rye, his teeth some odd shade of not-quite-white-but-not-quite-yellow.
Rye sucked in a breath, ignoring the sharp bite in the air, the chill cutting through his chest.
Where would he be right now? If he’d said no, where would he be? A twenty-something adult. He’d wanted to be an astronaut. He’d wanted to go to the moon. So would he be in college? Or maybe he’d have been working at the school. He’d loved math and numbers. They’d always made sense to him. So maybe he’d have been teaching math to kids at theschool.
Some intense sadness washed over him like a wave, and it was as cold as the air around him, and it hurt. It was his fault. All of it. He’d deserved what had happened to him. Because he should have said no. He’d known better.
Stupid fuckin’ child.
“Hey . . . Hey there, are you okay?”
Rye froze for half a second before his body would move. He struggled back to his feet and turned around quickly. Jake stood in the doorway, his expression worried but strained, and he was obviously still hurting, holding tightly to the doorframe and with most of his weight shifted to his good leg.
