KIDNAPPED

TATIANA

I slap both hands on the window and watch the house get smaller. All the lights are still on in the dining room. No one’s going to turn them off now. No one’s going to do anything ever again.

He sits right next to me. Doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even glance over. His hands rest on his thighs and I notice a ugly scar across the palm of his right one. I wonder who gave him that. Or if he did it to himself.

Why did he kill them? Why not me? The questions are all jammed up behind my teeth but nothing comes out.

“You forgot my mother has a twin. Since you’re clearing the whole family tree, step-brother, you might as well finish the job.” I stare at him. “Oh, wait. She’s already dead. Was that also your handwork?”

His head turns just a tiny bit. Those pale grey eyes find mine again. He still doesn’t answer. The car speeds up onto the highway and the mansion disappears completely. I look down at my hands. The fork left little dents in my palm. I press my thumb into them harder. At least that still hurts.

I should be crying. Or fighting. Or something. But I just feel… hollow. Like someone scooped everything out of me and left this empty thing that keeps breathing anyway.

I sneak another look at him. He’s younger than I imagined he'd be. Maybe thirty. Maybe less. I used to hear his name in whispers when Dad got mad. Sometimes I’d try to picture what he looked like when I was bored. Now I’m sitting right next to the real thing. His face would probably be handsome if it wasn’t so… blank. Like someone started drawing a person and then lost interest.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

Nothing.

Of course not. Guys like him probably don’t talk much. Too busy murdering and kidnapping and ruining perfectly good dinners.

I try again. “I have a book club tomorrow, you know. We’re doing Pride and Prejudice. I’m supposed to bring scones.”

Still nothing. Not even a blink.

“Fine. Keep your secrets. But just so you know, my scones are always dry. Everyone pretends they like them because Dad was mayor, but they’re honestly kind of bad. You’d think being a politician’s daughter would make me better at faking stuff, but nope. My baking is brutally honest.”

I’m rambling. I can hear myself doing it. But if I stop, I might start screaming again, and I don’t think I have any screams left. Maybe if I annoy him enough he’ll just let me go. Out of sheer irritation or something.

The car takes an exit I’ve never seen before. Not that I’ve seen many. My whole life has been inside that house or inside books. Twenty-two years and I’ve never even been allowed to walk down the street alone.

I can smell salt through the air vents now. Ocean. My stomach twists. Is he taking me to the cliffs? Push me off, make it look like I jumped? Or just drown me and walk away?

I wonder if I’ll even fight when it happens. Or if I’ll just let it take me like everything else tonight.

I dig my thumb into the fork marks again. The little pain feels sharp and honest. It keeps me here.

“You’re not going to kill me,” I say, half hoping he’ll tell me what he actually wants.

He doesn’t answer right away. I’m starting to think maybe he’s deaf.

“Are you going to sell me?”

He finally turns and really looks at me. Those grey eyes again. For a second I swear I see something like regret flash across his face.

“No,” he says. His voice is low and rough, like he doesn’t use it much.

“Then what do you want?”

He looks back out the window quietly ending the conversation. The cliffs are darker shapes against the night sky now.

I press my thumb harder into my palm and stare at the blood drying on my skin.

I guess I’ll see.