She opens the driver’s door. “I work in the ER. Panic doesn’t help.”
I grunt and slide into the passenger seat, every movement lighting up my side. She gets in, starts the car, and pulls out like this is just another errand she didn’t plan on.
“Closest hotel,” I tell her.
She hesitates. Just for a second. “I have more supplies at home,” she shares.
“No,” I snap. “Hotel.”
She keeps driving, eyes forward. “I live five minutes from here.”
“I said?—”
“I know what you said,” she interrupts, calm as ever. “But a hotel means other people. Cameras. Front desks. I’m guessing you don’t want that.”
My jaw tightens. She’s not wrong. I don’t like that she’s not wrong.
“I live alone,” she continues. “Except my grandfather. He’s eighty. Bedridden. Parkinson’s. His caregiver leaves at eight. I can send her home early. Then you come inside. It’ll just be us. He will never lay eyes on you. I’ll try to help you.”
I stare at her profile, at the steady line of her jaw, the way her hands don’t shake on the wheel.
“You’re either incredibly brave,” I state, “extremely stupid, delusional from exhaustion, or you’ve got a death wish. Which is it?”
She shrugs. “You’re already hurt. If you wanted to kill me, you’d have done it in the parking lot. You want help. I took an oath to help. So I’ll do what I can and you can be on your way and I can go to sleep. But bottom line, if you were going to shoot me, I wouldn’t be here talking now. So put the gun up because you’re wasting energy.”
That lands.
I laugh—a short, rough sound that turns into a wince. “How often do you get kidnapped that you’ve got this kind of plan ready?”
“First time,” she shares. “But I improvise well. I read books, the women tend to have a good time with it. But I’m not having sex with you, just so we get that clear now.”
I watch the road slide by, weigh my options, feel another warm spill of blood soak into my shirt.
“Fine,” I state finally. “We do it your way.”
She exhales, just a little. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” I mutter. “I’m still holding the gun.”
“I noticed.”
Her house is exactly where she said it would be. Small. Modest. One story, with a narrow driveway and a porch light that flickers like it’s on its last leg. No neighbors peeking through curtains. No barking dogs. Quiet.
She parks and turns off the engine. “Caregiver’s inside,” she says. “Let me talk to her. Stay in the car until she backs out.”
I nod, keeping the gun low but visible. She steps out, moving with purpose, and disappears inside. I sit there, pain gnawing, every instinct screaming that this is a bad idea.
The door opens again a few minutes later, an older woman steps out wearing scrubs, moves to her car, and leaves. The nurse from the hospital emerges not long after that.
“She’s gone,” the nurse says softly. “I told her I’ve got it.”
I follow her inside.
The house smells faintly of antiseptic and coffee. Clean, but worn. Lived in. The living room opens up immediately, and my gaze locks on the hospital bed set up near the window.
An old man lies there, thin and pale, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Machines hum softly beside him. He doesn’t stir when we enter.
“You weren’t lying,” I state quietly as I follow her into a back bedroom.
