The Lies That We Tell

Chapter 3

Fuck! Where is this guy taking her? The van I’ve been following went north on the 101 once it hit San Jose, and now we are slowly making the long trek over the San Mateo-Hayward bridge. I hate this fucking bridge.

The van wasn’t difficult to find once I got close enough. It was the only vehicle on the freeway going the exact speed limit the entire time— because that’s not suspicious. The difficult part has been blending in with the other cars behind it so it’s not obvious I’m following him.

The van takes the Industrial exit towards the airport. Fucking hell, I cannot let them go to the airport. I mean, I know there are other things besides the airport off Industrial, but if that’s where this fucker is taking her I can’t let him get her on a plane. He makes a random left turn, it’s getting harder off Industrial, onto a dark, less used street. There’s no way I’m going to be able to remain anonymous from this point forward, so fuck it. I press on the gas pedal, speeding up to get a better look at the van’s license plate.

I tap the screen on my dash and call my brother.

“Where are you? Did you find her?” He asks instead of greeting me.

I gnaw my lip for a second, thinking about how to answer. “Not exactly, but I’m following the blue dot, and the van I think she’s in.”

“Well, we have a fucking problem.” Liam”s words are hurried and concerned.

This can’t be good. “Well out with it,” I spit.

“Tate’s been stabbed. We’re following behind the ambulance on the way to the hospital now.” Adrian cuts in.

Shit. The hits keep coming tonight. “By whom?” I ask.

“That’s the weird thing, bro. It was the guy who tried to kidnap Rhyann the other night.” my brother explains.

“So either I’m on a wild goose chase, or the guy wasn’t working alone.” I say to no one.

“Exactly,” Adrian confirms. “You should head back, Devon. We will find Rhyann safe, I promise.”

“Fuck that. One of you take down the plate number for me, before this dick wad realizes I’m behind him.”

“Okay, give me a second,” Adrian says. “Go for it.”

I read off the plate number, the make and model of the van, and the description before ending the call. The driver of the van must have noticed me, because they throw something out the window and pick up speed before making a sharp right turn.

There’s a sinking feeling in my gut as I pull over and find Rhyann”s purse laying in the muddy gutter.

“Of course I lost him. I don’t know how the hell he even found me in the first place.” A voice says in the darkness.

There’s a ringing in my ears and my head throbs as I try to clear the fog from my brain.

“No, she’s still out cold. Yeah, I tossed her purse. It was pretty light though.” the oddly familiar voice goes on.

I try to open my eyes, but there’s nothing but darkness. My wrists and ankles are bound with— based on the tacky feeling against my skin— duct tape, again. I groan inwardly, he doesn’t know I’ve woken up yet. Good, at least I have that small advantage.

“Why the hell would you do that?” he goes on. I assume he’s on the phone. It isn’t on speaker or bluetooth, so I can only hope he isn’t having a conversation with himself.

Quietly, I wiggle my wrists a little, trying to see how much give the tape has. There isn’t a lot, but it’s enough that I think I can loosen it and free my hands.

“Whatever, just as long as he takes the fall for all this. We’ve been planning for too long. Don’t fuck it up. I’ll call you when it’s done.”

Everything goes quiet. God, I wish I could see. My hands go up to feel my face. I’m blindfolded, of course. I pray he isn’t looking back as I push the itchy fabric up enough for me to see. There are no windows, and I’m stretched out on the cold metal floor of what seems to be a van. The only windows that I can look out of are at the back, and they seem to be tinted since the single street lamp we’ve passed had an orange glow through the window. I catch the sound of leather squeaking and lay my head back down.

“Still sleeping ginger?” my kidnapper laughs. “Good, we’re almost there. Almost to the end.” That last ominous comment sends a cold chill over my skin. He’s going to kill me, I have no doubt about that.

My heart races, and I fight the panic threatening to cloud my judgment. I need to think, I need to figure a way out of this before he realizes I’m awake.

I lift my wrists to my teeth and begin chewing at the duct tape. The blindfold has fallen back down over my eyes and I have no idea if he’s noticed me yet. I silently pray that he hasn’t. It takes way too long for me to get the stupid tape loose enough to free my hands. As soon as I do, I take the blindfold off and get a better look at my situation.

The driver is wearing a hood over his head, so I can’t get a look at his hair. Not like I’d be able to make out much detail in the dark. There’s a dim glow from the dash, enough to help me see that I’m in some kind of utility van.

I slowly start working on the tape at my ankles, being extra careful not to make any noise and alert the person in the driver seat. Like I thought, he’s alone and that’s another small blessing in my favor. The tape is almost off when he makes a hard swerve to the right.

“Fuck,” he growls as I hit the side of the van with a thud.

The sound causes him to look back, and the outline of his features are somewhat familiar. I know I have seen the person before, more than once. But it’s still too dark for me to tell who it is.

“Oh hell no, bitch,” he says and swerves sharply to the left, throwing me to the other side of the van. The side of my head smacks the metal siding and bells ring in my ears. “You’re not getting away from me again.”

He continues back and forth in the road, and I crouch on my hands and knees, attempting to stabilize myself on the floor of the van. I’m not the only thing rolling around back here, something heavy scrapes against the floor. On my hands and knees, I crawl to the back of the van, feeling around for the source of the scraping. There’s a metal box, most likely a tool box, in front of the back doors.

I rummage through the box, looking for something big and heavy. Anything I can use as a weapon.

“What the fuck are you doing?” my kidnapper asks as he makes another sharp swerve, knocking me back against the wall, the tool box sliding with me, hitting my hip bone hard.

I feel my phone fall from the hidden pocket of my dress. Oh shit! I’d completely forgotten about the pockets and my phone. I continue my search through the tool box, ignoring the searing pain from my hip, until I find something useful. From the feel of it, it’s a large, heavy crescent wrench.

Feeling like I have a chance out of this, I grip the handle of the wrench and try to stand but the driver is going too fast and swerving back and forth too much for me to maintain my balance. So I crawl my way back to the front of the van.

“Hey shit head,” I say standing up on unsteady legs. When he turns his head to look at me, I swing with all the energy I can muster, connecting the wide rounded end of the wrench with his temple. “Fuck you,” I scream as his head and the van swing to the left, the force sending me back against the wall just as hard.