I cannot think.
I cannot do anything except move because the man’s hand is locked around my arm, his gun is pressed tightly against my side, and Cindy is walking closely on my other side.
Anyone who happens to look at us would just see three people leaving a park together.
Not a kidnapping.
Not a woman being escorted away from safety in broad daylight.
That is how easy it is.
That is how quickly ‘public’ stops being equally ‘safe’.
“Keep moving,” the man says quietly.
My legs obey because I do not know what else to do.
Because he said baby.
He said baby.
He knows.
How does he know?
My mind latches onto the question for half a second, frantic and useless, then slips off it because it does not matter how. Not now anyway. Not while the gun presses into me with every step. Not while Cindy walks beside me with her tote tucked against her body, her face calm, her eyes forward.
I am going to die.
The thought is so cold that it nearly paralyzes me.
But then another one follows.
My baby is going to die.
No.
No.
My vision blurs, and I blink hard.
Mario.
The name cuts through the panic so sharply I almost make a sound.
Mario.
I want him.
God help me, I want him.
I want his voice, his hand at the back of my neck, his impossible calm, his fury, his protection, all the things that scared me and all the things I refused to trust.
I should have told him.
The regret hits so hard it nearly folds me in half.
I should have told him everything.
