It’s sad but sometimes lies are kinder than the truth.
“How long was I out?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
“A few hours maybe?” Another girl with dark hair, bronze skin, and terrified brown eyes speaks up. “The rest of us have been here since yesterday.”
Yesterday. That means at least twenty-four hours for some of them. Long enough for hope to start dying, and enough to understand how bad this really is.
I force myself to stand, even though my legs feel like wet noodles, and stumble to the door. It’s locked, obviously. Solid wood. No chance of breaking it down even if I wasn’t dizzy and disoriented.
Think, Scarlett. There has to be a way out.
I check behind the curtains next. The glass is thick, probably reinforced, and we’re on a second or third floor. Below is a perfectly manicured lawn stretching to a high stone wall. Definitely someone’s estate.
“I already tried that,” a third girl says quietly. She’s got red hair, freckles, and a nasty purple bruise spreading on her jaw. “Everything’s locked or reinforced. They planned this.”
Of course they did. You don’t kidnap six girls and hold them in your mansion unless you have a plan.
Human trafficking.
The words settle in my mind like poison. That’s what this is. We’re going to be sold. Used, or destroyed. Unless I can find a way out.
And I have to find a way out.
I move through the room carefully, checking every surface, every corner. Looking for anything that could be a weapon or a tool.The furniture is bolted to the floor. The chandelier is too high to reach.
“What’s your name?” I turn to the redhead.
“Jennifer.” Her voice sounds hollow, defeated. “They’re going to sell us, aren’t they? That’s what this is.”
The other girls start crying harder. Maya makes this wounded animal sound.
I could lie again. Could tell them I don’t know, that maybe this is a mistake, that someone will come save us. But they deserve better than comfortable lies at this point.
“Probably,” I say, meeting Jennifer’s eyes. “But that means they need us alive and undamaged. Which means we have time to plan. Time to find a weakness.”
“There is no weakness.” This comes from a girl with empty eyes who hasn’t spoken until now. She stares at the wall like she’s already given up. “I heard them talking when they brought you in. We’re waiting for buyers. Could be days or weeks. But eventually, someone pays and we disappear.”
Her matter-of-fact tone is somehow worse than the others’ tears.
“Then we make a weakness,” I say. “We stay alert. We watch for patterns. We figure out who’s guarding us and when. We look for opportunities.”
Maya looks at me with something like hope in her eyes. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”
I haven’t. I’m just as terrified as you are. I’m just better at hiding it.
“I’m a nurse,” I say instead. “I’ve seen what people can survive. Trust me, we’re tougher than we think.”
It’s not really an answer, but it seems to help. The girls shift, sitting up straighter. Even empty-eyes girl looks a little more present.
We spend the next hour talking in whispers. I learned their names, Maya, Jennifer, Lisa, Carmen and Rachel. I learn that Jennifer was grabbed coming home from work, that Lisa was at a club when someone spiked her drink, that Carmen was walking to her car in broad daylight when a van pulled up.
All different methods, which means this operation is big, organized and very, very good at what they do.
That’s not good at all.
I’m explaining where to hit someone to cause maximum damage—eyes, throat, groin—when we hear footsteps in the hallway outside and everyone freezes.
The lock clicks, and the door swings open. A man struts in like he owns the place, because he probably does.
