I whisper, “I’ll find you, Sarah. I swear to God, I’ll find you.”
The room answers with silence.
But I know she hears me.
9
SARAH
The text comes at 10:48am:
Honey, please meet me for brunch. I’m at the Denny’s near the bus station. I have to see you.
There’s a second message, seconds later:
It’s okay. He’s gone. I promise.
The part of me that has always done what Ma asks wins out.
I shower, dress, and try to leave a note for Michael, but the pen keeps skipping and nothing I write sounds right. Before the best words can come, there's a knock at the door.
"Housekeeping," says a voice from the other side. Since I'm on my way out, I might as well let them in.
I open the door to a smell I recognize instantly; motor oil, cigarettes, cheap cologne. Someone pushes me into the room where I put up a fight before a wet cloth slams over my nose and mouth. My last thought before everything goes dark is that I hope Michael comes back before I'm taken out of here.
When I come to, it’s dark and as hot as a fever. My first move is to sit up, but my head smacks something metal, and I bite my tongue so hard I taste blood. For a second, I think I’m dead, but my brain sorts out the clues. The smell of exhaust, the way my knees are jammed up under my chin, the faint vibration under my back.
Trunk, I think. Car trunk.
Panic crashes over me like a tidal wave. I try to scream, but the sound is a ragged squeak, barely enough air to feed it. I pound with my fists, once, twice, until the pain in my knuckles tells me it’s not going to budge. There’s no light, not even a pinprick. I try to reach for the emergency latch, but my wrists are duct-taped together in front of me. I try to twist onto my stomach, to kick, but there’s so little room I can only manage a frantic scrabbling.
I gasp, and the air tastes like rust and old carpet. My shirt is stuck to my back with sweat. The car's motion is relentless … turn, brake, speed up, slow down, and every curve jolts my body into the metal. My whole world is six feet by three, lined with stains that reek of wet rubber.
If you scream long enough, someone might hear.
So I do.
Somewhere up front, a man’s voice shouts, “She’s awake.”
There’s a laugh, high and manic. A second voice, lower, says, “She’s got spirit, I’ll give her that.”
We slow, then speed up again. I strain to listen, ears wide, tuning out my own ragged breath.
“That little bitch has made Eileen think she can leave me,” says the first voice. It’s Dade. Of course it is. “Only way to keep Eileen in line is to keep her daughter close, but not at home.”
The words are so casual, so practiced, it almost doesn’t register.
“What are you gonna do?” says the second voice.
A long pause. Then Dade's voice comes through loud and clear, “Got a guy, runs the girls at that biker bar by the off-ramp. He’ll keep her for a while. Give her something to mellow her out. But I want her close. If Eileen tries anything, I’ll let her see the girl, just enough to remind her what happens when people cross me.”
“Boss move, man,” says the other, like he’s commenting on a sports play.
I can’t breathe. The sweat runs down my face in rivers. My mouth tastes like chemicals, and the urge to vomit is so strong I have to choke it back.
I focus on the details, try to memorize them, because if I live through this, I want to be able to burn them down with a single phone call. The car smells like a mechanic’s garage, something floral underneath, like cheap air freshener or maybe spilled booze. My legs are cramping; there’s a sharp edge digging into my left thigh. If I twist my hips, I can get my fingers around it. It's a tire iron, slick with oil.
I wedge it between my hands and try to lever at the seam of the trunk. I get nowhere, but it gives me something to do besides cry. And feel sorry for myself.
