"Breathe through your nose," a voice says. It’s clearly male, with an American accent, flat and professional. "You're hyperventilating. Breathe through your nose, or you'll pass out."
I don't want to listen to him. I don't want to do anything he says. But my body overrides my defiance, because he's right. I'm on the edge of passing out, black spots dancing behind my closed eyelids, and if I lose consciousness, I lose any chance of figuring out what the fuck is happening.
I force myself to slow down. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. In. Out. In. Out. My heart rate doesn't slow, but at least I'm not drowning in my own panic anymore.
I’m pulled upright, into a seat. As the van takes a turn, I slide, and a strong hand closes over my arm. It’s clear they want to keep me from being banged up too much.Think. You need to think.
But thinking is almost worse than panicking because when I think, I come up empty.
I don't have enemies. I'm careful about who I let into my life, careful about who I trust, but I'm not important enough to have enemies. I'm not involved in anything dangerous. I don't knowany secrets. I'm just… me. Liesl Baumann, twenty-two years old, living a quiet life that happens to come with a trust fund.
The trust fund. My father.
Is this about him?
My mind races through what I know about my father's business. He made his fortune in real estate and tech companies, and some other things he talks about at dinners, which I don’t fully listen to. It’s all investments that are boring and legitimate… and thoroughly vetted by armies of lawyers. He's not involved in anything shady. He's not the kind of man who makes enemies—or at least, not the kind who would resort to kidnapping someone's daughter.
But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe there's a side to his business I don't know about. Maybe someone thinks he wronged them, or owes them, or?—
Or maybe this isn't about him at all. Maybe this is about me.
But that makes even less sense. I don't have the kind of money that makes kidnapping worthwhile, not in my own name. Everything's in trusts and investments I can't touch without lawyers and signatures. I get an allowance from it every month, and when I turn twenty-five, more of it will be unlocked for me. I’ve never lacked for anything, and if I want something, my father almost always lets me access enough to get it, because I’ve never been reckless or irresponsible with my inheritance. But I can’t just give it over to anyone.
There are plenty of valuables in my apartment… but they didn’t break into my apartment. They took me. Unless they’re taking me back there to threaten me unless I let them in and let them ransack it… But it feels like we’ve been driving too long. My apartment building isn’t that far away.
These men are clearly good at this. They know what they’re doing. But I can’t begin to fathomwhy.
I try to focus on details. There are at least two people in the back of the van with me that I heard when I was being kidnapped. The driver makes three. There could be more that I didn’t see. We're still in the city. I can hear it—the stop-and-go of traffic, the occasional horn, the rumble of other engines close by. But I've already lost my sense of direction. We've made too many turns, and without being able to see, I can't orient myself. Are we heading toward the bridges? The tunnels? Are they taking me out of Manhattan entirely?
"How long?" one of the men asks. His voice is different from the first one. He sounds younger, and there’s an edge to it that the other one didn't have. He sounds nervous.
"Twenty minutes," someone else responds. "Remember, boss wants her clean. No marks."
Clean. No marks.
The words echo in my head. They should be reassuring—they don't want to hurt me, they want me undamaged—but they're not. It just tells me that I'm a commodity. A thing to be delivered in good condition.
If they didn’t want damage, they should have tried harder, because the zip ties are cutting into my wrists. I try to shift position, to relieve some of the pressure, but it's impossible with my hands bound behind me and my body wedged against the side of the van. Every turn throws me off balance, and every bump in the road sends a jolt of pain through my shoulders.
You're smart, Liesl. You're capable. Dad always said you were the smartest person he knew.
But smart doesn't matter when you're zip-tied in the back of a van. Capable doesn't matter when you're outnumbered and overpowered and completely at someone else's mercy.
The panic tries to claw its way back up, and I shove it down. I can't afford to fall apart. Not yet. I need to stay aware, look for any opportunity that might present itself.
The van slows and then stops. I hear muffled voices outside—the driver talking to someone. My heart leaps. If we're somewhere with security, maybe I can?—
But we're moving again before I can finish the thought. The van drives a little further and then stops again. The engine cuts off.
I brace myself, every muscle in my body tensing. Whatever happens next, I need to be ready. I need to?—
The door slides open, and hands grab me, hauling me upright. My legs have gone stiff from the ride, and I stumble, but they hold me up, their grips firm on my upper arms. My feet hit what feels like gravel underneath my sneakers, and I can feel the heat of the sun on my shoulders. We’re outside, but not for long. The two men seem to be half-carrying me up a set of stairs so that I don’t trip. I hear the sound of a door opening…
Cold, conditioned air hits me, and the door closes behind us. Everything smells different in here. I can smell wood polish and the light floral scent of freshening spray or candles, something like that. I’m half-escorted, half-pulled along hard flooring until I’m jerked to a stop, and then another door opens.
This room smells like leather and paper. I’m shuffled forward and then pushed down into a comfortable chair. I feel buttery leather under my palms. My feet touch a rug. And then I feel my wrists being unbound, and hear someone curse in a foreign language. Russian, I think. I feel the sudden rush of blood back into my hands, painful and tingling.
“You were told not to hurt her. Her wrists are all red.Idiot.”
