"Sit back and relax," the driver states before the divider window slides up, sealing off the front. The engine roars, speed increases, and tires hum louder against the pavement.
I sit upright, spine rigid, eyes tracking every turn through the darkened glass. My jaw locks until the tension burns along the hinge. I push the window button, but it's locked, too.
The city thins into buildings that give way to warehouses stretching down blocks. The SUV keeps a steady pace, speeding through traffic until the last of the skyline disappears behind us, replaced by low buildings and sparse lights.
Where is he taking me?
More time passes. I shift my attention to details I can measure, like the time on my watch, the direction of the sun through the tinted glass, and the changes in road texture. I count exits until the counting turns useless, because the numbers mean nothing when you don't know the destination and you don't have a map.
My pulse doesn't slow. I draw in air through my nose and hold it for a beat before releasing slowly.
The driver veers toward a sign that reads "Wisconsin."
I press the button for the divider window again, but it's still locked. So I shout, "I asked where we're going."
There's no response, not even the faint movement that the driver might have heard me.
I lean slightly toward the glass that separates us and knock, then raise my voice. "Tell me!"
He still doesn't flinch.
The hairs on my arms rise again. I sit back, turning back toward the window, cataloging more buildings until we cross a bridge and houses appear, then rows of trees, and patches of neighborhoods.
The light changes from bright to dull, not quite dusk yet but no longer midday. My sense of time shifts, and my throat dries. I swallow and close my eyes.
All I see is Blue in her apartment, holding her breath how she does when she's bracing for impact. Then the marks on her skin appear, and I close my fists tight.
My fingers tighten against my thighs so hard that my nails press through my pants.
She better be safe.
The SUV veers off the exit, and the tires change pitch as the surface beneath us shifts. It moves onto a road that narrows and curves, with less traffic, fewer signs, and fewer lights.
The driver's hands stay steady on the wheel. He doesn't glance back. He doesn't slow except when the road forces him.
I don't know whether that steadiness is training or boredom. Either way, it's worse than nerves. Nerves suggest uncertainty. This suggests routine, and that freaks me out further.
We drive for another stretch that could be ten minutes or thirty. My mind tries to assign numbers and keeps failing.
Then the world outside opens up. A wide expanse of water stretches to the horizon and comes into view.
The SUV turns onto a narrow drive. Gravel crunches under the tires, loud after the long hum of pavement. There's only one house at the end of the driveway, facing Lake Michigan. It's clean-lined, modern, and expensive.
The driver parks, slides the divider window down halfway, and deadpans, "You've got twenty-four hours. Go inside. Don't leave until I come back to get you."
I stare at the back of his head. My jaw tightens. "What happens after twenty-four hours?"
The divider window rises again, and the lock clicks.
I push my door open and step out. Cold air hits my face, sharp and clean. The sound of the lake is faint but constant, the water moving against the shore in a steady rhythm.
I straighten, scanning the perimeter. There's no visible security, other vehicles, or people. There are only trees, a luxury house, and Lake Michigan.
The driver pulls away as soon as the door shuts. Gravel spits, and the SUV disappears down the driveway.
I survey the property another time, and a gust of wind almost knocks me over. I move toward the house, and the handle turns easily. I step into the entry and shut the door behind me.
The interior is quiet. Furniture is positioned for symmetry and comfort. A fake bowl of decorative fruit sits on the island. A throw blanket lies strewn over the sofa. The gas fireplace roars, spitting out heat.
