The man doesn’t look amused. His face tightens with irritation, which somehow only serves to make him more handsome. “Then I would kill your entire family. And it would do you no good. I pay the police to leave me alone.”
Well, I guessed that.I take another slow breath. “Well, then I guess I won’t bother. So if I’m either going to die or go home, and if the latter means I can’t possibly snitch on you without my whole family getting killed, then what’s wrong with telling me your name?”
His jaw works, the expression of irritation on his face growing. "Write the letter," he says, his tone final. "If all goes well, you will be home soon."
He turns to leave, and I hear myself say, because apparently I do have a death wish after all, "The gunshots. What were they?"
Curiosity killed the cat.
He pauses at the door, his hand on the handle. For a moment, I think he won't answer. Then he looks back at me, and his expression is completely cold. "Business," he says. "Nothing you need to worry about."
Then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click. The lock engages.
I sit on the bed for a long moment, staring at the paper and pen on the dresser. My hands are still shaking, and I take a deep, slow breath, trying not to lose it now that I’m alone again.
I’m trapped in a mansion with this terrifying, confusingly handsome man, and he says he’s going to ransom me. If that doesn’t work, he’s going to kill me.
So I need to make sure the latter doesn’t happen. All that matters is getting home.
I stand up and walk to the dresser. I pick up the pen and unfold the paper… and realize I have absolutely no idea what to write.
How do you ask your father to pay criminals for your life? I sit at the desk by the window, the blank paper in front of me, the pen in my hand, and my mind completely empty of words.
Dear Dadseems too casual.Dear Father,too formal.To Alexander Baumanntoo cold, like I'm writing a business letter instead of a ransom note. Which, I suppose, is exactly what this is.
A business letter. A transaction. Nothing personal.
I set the pen down and press my palms against my eyes. This shouldn't be so hard. It's just a letter, just words on paper. Justa simple message: I'm alive, I'm being held, they want money, please pay it. But every time I try to form the sentences in my head, they sound wrong. Too desperate. Too detached. Too emotional. Not emotional enough.
What would my father want to hear? What would convince him this is real, that I'm really in danger, that he needs to act? I pick up the pen again and write:I've been kidnapped.
I stare at the words. They look absurd on the expensive paper, like something from a movie script. But they're true.
I continue:I'm being held by people who want money in exchange for my safe return.
Too vague. He'll want details. Proof that it's really me writing this.
I cross it out and start again.
Dad,
I don't know how to write this, so I'm just going to be direct. I was taken yesterday afternoon in Manhattan. I'm being held somewhere outside the city—I think—by men who say they'll release me if you pay them. I'm unharmed. They haven't hurt me. But they're serious about the money.
I pause, reading it over. It sounds like me—direct, not too formal, like I’m trying to stay calm. But is it enough? Will he believe it's really from me and not some elaborate scam?
I add:Remember when I was eight, and I broke my arm falling off the swing set at the house in the Hamptons? You told me that Baumanns don't cry, even when it hurts. I didn't cry then, and I'm not crying now. But I need you to do what they're asking.
The memory is specific enough that he'll know it's real… personal enough that it can't be faked. I continue writing:They're going to call you. When they do, please just listen. Please just pay what they're asking. I want to come home.
That last sentence catches in my throat as I write it.I want to come home.It's the most honest thing I've written, the most vulnerable. The closest I've come to admitting how terrified I actually am.
I almost cross it out. But I leave it.
Please,I write.Liesl.
I sign my name at the bottom—my full signature, the one I use on legal documents. Then I set the pen down and read the whole thing over.
It's not perfect. But it's honest. Hopefully, that will be enough that he will pay attention. It could be a while before he realizes I’m missing, unless Isabelle or Giulia gets hold of him. We don’t talk every day… sometimes not even every week, depending on how busy he is. But hopefully this will accelerate things.
