1
SOPHIA
The autumn air bites at my cheeks as I hurry across campus, my psychology textbook clutched against my chest like a shield.
It’s nearly eight p.m., and the October darkness has already swallowed most of the quad.
I should have left the library earlier, but I got lost in my research paper about trauma and memory—ironic, considering my family is a lesson in both.
My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket. I fish it out, expecting a text from Melinda asking about our study session tomorrow. Instead, it’s an unknown number.
Your father sends his regards.
Ice floods my veins. I stop walking, my sneakers scuffing against the concrete path.
My father?
I haven’t heard from that bastard in three months, not since he called asking for money I didn’t have.
Before I can block the number, I hear footsteps behind me—too close, too fast.
I spin around just as a hand clamps over my mouth.
My scream dies against a leather glove. The textbook tumbles from my grip, pages fluttering like broken wings as it hits the ground.
Strong arms wrap around my waist, lifting me off my feet.
I thrash wildly, my elbow connecting with something solid, but my attacker doesn’t even grunt.
“Stop fighting,” a rough voice growls in my ear. “Makes it easier.”
Like hell it does.
I bite down hard on the gloved hand, tasting leather and salt. The man curses, but his grip doesn’t loosen. Another figure materializes from the shadows—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black ski mask. He moves with military precision, grabbing my legs before I can kick.
“Get her in the vehicle. Now.”
My heart hammers against my ribs as they carry me toward a black SUV idling at the curb, its windows tinted so dark they look like pools of oil.
I try to scream again, but the hand over my mouth presses harder, cutting off my air. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.
This can’t be happening. Not here. Not on my campus where I’m supposed to be safe.
They throw me into the back seat like a bag of garbage. My shoulder slams against the leather interior, pain radiating down my arm.
Before I can scramble for the opposite door, one of the masked men slides in beside me, his bulk blocking any escape route.
Another slides in on my other side, pinning me.
“Please,” I gasp, my voice cracking. “Please, I don’t have any money. My wallet’s in my backpack, you can have it?—”
“Shut up.” The man beside me doesn’t even look at me. He pulls out a zip tie, and my stomach drops.
“No, no, please—” I try to pull away, but he’s too fast. The plastic bites into my wrists, tight enough to make my fingers tingle. Tears burn my eyes, but I blink them back furiously. I won’t cry. I won’t give them that.
The SUV lurches forward, tires squealing.
Through the window, I watch my campus disappear—the library where I spent countless hours, the coffee shop where Melinda and I laughed over terrible lattes, the life I knew vanishing into the night.
