7. Willa
CHAPTER 7
WILLA
L ionel’s text appears the next morning. Unable to sleep, I’m already up and drinking coffee when I see the notification pop up on my phone.
LIONEL: Returning Monday. Confirm.
After confirming receipt, I drop the phone on the couch beside me and let out a huge sigh of relief. He’s alive and coming home in two and a half days.
Sunday and Monday. The rest of today. I can do this. Tempted to stay in my safe apartment, I quickly realize I’ll go stir crazy if I don’t get out. Normal routine, right? I force myself to get dressed. The fridge is empty, and that was the last of the coffee.
At the grocery store, I slowly walk up and down the aisles to kill time. Surrounded by bright packaging and smiling faces, the smothering feeling of being watched recedes a bit. It’s just me and my sugary childhood cereal. I choke out a quiet laugh. Maybe I’m losing my mind.
After buying more groceries than usual, it takes me a few minutes to fit them all in the trunk of my little hatchback. While I’m standing there, a huge black truck with tinted windows slowly rolls past me. I glance at it but can’t see inside. Something about it makes me nervous, and I shove the last bag in and slam the hatch shut.
On the road, my eyes flick between the view in front of me and the rearview mirror as I leave the store until I’m sure nobody is following me, then I turn to go home. When I get there, I try to grab everything in the first load but can’t quite carry it all. Rushing up the stairs, I dump the first load on the kitchen counters and hurry down to get the rest. I grab the few remaining bags and shut the door. As I walk back up the stairs, I see the same truck go by the house.
Completely spooked, I hole up in my apartment for the rest of the weekend with the app open and all the lights on.
* * *
Lionel is coming home, and I want to be able to tell him I followed my routine even though it’s the last thing I want to do today. So, here I am, waiting for Trent to show up for his tutoring session. He strolls into the conference room a few minutes late and plops down into the chair beside me. The lines around his eyes are tight with anger. He stares at me for a full minute without saying a word.
“Is everything okay?” I tentatively ask as he continues to sit there.
He snorts. “That depends.” Full lips twist into a half sneer.
Someone is in a mood. “Let’s postpone.” I offer the words, although I have no intention of ever rescheduling.
He immediately shakes his head. “No. This is our last session. My father doesn’t want me seeing you again.” Shocked but relieved, I raise an eyebrow at his statement, and he elaborates. “ A Hightower doesn’t need a tutor. You’re either smart enough to figure it out or you’re a failure .” Bitterness seeps into his tone.
Appalled at the callousness of his father’s words, I lean forward and clasp his forearm. “I’m sorry.” The muscles bunch under my hand, and I jerk it away. “Well, let’s cram two sessions into one, okay?” Relief eases the tight muscles in my shoulders. This gives me a clear out. Not wanting him to see, I look down at my papers and shuffle them around.
He reaches out and grabs my hand in his. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to take our family drama out on you, and I actually don’t have time to stay. Can we reschedule? Meet me tonight? At Murray’s?”
Murray’s is an all-night diner close to campus. The students love it because they serve breakfast all day, and it’s a good spot to eat cheap and study. Since it’s Monday, there will likely be some open tables.
But Lionel’s supposed to return tonight. “I can’t. Can you meet tomorrow?”
He vehemently shakes his head. “He comes home tomorrow. It must be tonight. Please.” He flashes his best puppy dog eyes at me.
I stare at him, unsure of what to do. Maybe he’s involved in all this, and maybe he’s not. I don’t know. It’s just one more session. In a public place. Somehow, I find myself nodding. “I can meet at five p.m. for one hour. That’s it.”
He smiles broadly. “I’ll see you there at five.” Then he’s gone.
The moment he leaves, I start having second thoughts, but I promise myself I’ll cancel if Lionel gets home before five.
* * *
Four forty-five, and Lionel isn’t here. I’m not even sure he’ll see my text, but I send one anyway, telling him where I’m going. Hopefully, he’ll text me the second he’s home. This week has been crazy, and I need answers.
As I pull into a parking spot at Murray’s, I swivel my head around, but I don’t see anyone nearby, and not once have I seen the black truck today. It might have been just a coincidence, but until I know who’s after me, I prefer to be safe than sorry. Public places and my apartment. That’s it.
Striding into the diner, I spot Trent in the corner booth, typing furiously on his phone. Waiting until he finishes, I drop my backpack on the seat and flag down a server to order a Diet Coke before removing my coat.
“Thanks, Amy,” he says when she brings it back to me.
Startled, I turn toward him. “Sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt you, and I was dying of thirst.” Gulping down half the glass, I set it back on the table and take a seat across from him.
His phone buzzes, and he swipes it up. “Sorry, I have to get this. Football stuff.”
This goes on and on for the next fifteen minutes until I find myself itching to throw the damn phone out the window. Even when he’s not fiddling with the phone, he’s tapping his fingers on the table or looking out the window. Clearly, he’s distracted.
Enough. “Look, I’ve got to go. We don’t have to go over this stuff in person. You can text me if you have any questions. Free of charge,” I tell him with a strained chuckle. This was a completely bad idea, and I’m pissed I gave in to his sad plea.
He holds up a finger and types another text.
With a shake of my head, I grab my backpack, put on my coat, and place a five on the table for the server. “Sorry.” I slide out of the booth, and he flashes me a look I can’t decipher, but for some reason, the sight of it makes my stomach cramp.
I wave at the server and point to the table where I left the money. With a sour taste in my mouth, I head out to my car, trying to erase the last few minutes from my mind. It’s not until I’m reaching for my door that I see the black truck, parked two spots down from my car. There’s nobody in it, but I immediately turn to go back into the diner. Unfortunately, it’s already too late. A huge, burly guy steps in front of me.
“Where do you think you’re going? We’ve been waiting for you,” he tells me, beefy hands reaching for my shoulders.
I open my mouth, but another hand comes from behind and covers it, cutting off the scream before it even gets started. Panicking now, I kick out at the guy in front of me, and swing my backpack toward his face, but for a big guy, he moves fast and easily rips it from my hands.
I pick my feet up and slam them against my car, pushing back, hoping to catch the guy behind me off guard, but he only takes a half step back. Damn, he must be big, too. I can’t see him, but the arm wrapped around my shoulder is bulging with muscles. He picks me up like I’m weightless.
Wild with fear, I jerk my legs up and down, kick back at his knees, and basically, throw all my strength at him, but nothing loosens his granite grip.
The guy in front of me folds his massive arms across his chest and laughs. “I was expecting a bit more from you. Are you sure that’s all you’ve got?”
Terror rips through me. I start thrashing again, and the guy behind me heaves a large sigh.
“Tommy, stop fucking around. It’s broad daylight. Grab her legs,” a guttural voice orders from behind me.
Tommy scowls at his friend but moves toward me. “Hold your fucking horses. Just trying to enjoy the moment. Besides, Trent’s going to take care of the cameras.”
The words reverberate in my head. Trent’s going to take care of the cameras. Are they kidnapping me? What the fuck? Is this a game? Football hazing?
Some of the fear leaves me, and anger takes over. When the guy bends over to grab my legs, I bring my knee up and slam it into his big fat ugly mug.
Blood gushes from his nose, and he curses and yells.
The guy behind me chuckles.
“Mother fucker. You fucking bitch. I think you broke my nose!” Tommy screams at me while holding his hands to his face and pinching his nose. “I think it’s time you took a nap.” He waves a bloody hand at the guy behind me.
“Nighty night,” the other guy whispers in my ear.
A prick to my neck, and the whole world goes dark.
* * *
A throbbing headache wakes me from my sleep. Hurting, I try to massage the pain away, but my arm is stuck. Why can’t I move my arm? Confused, I roll my head to the side and look down at my body. The burgundy sleeves of my sweater have been pushed up to my elbows, and my wrists have been tied to the arms of the chair. I tug on them, but they refuse to budge.
I lift my head, but the weight is too much, so I let it fall back against the wood behind me. Blinking several times, I try to focus on my surroundings, but everything is spinning in a lazy circle.
What is wrong with me?
Keeping my head still, details slowly become clearer. In front of me, sunlight streams through a dirty window set high in a wall of equally dingy brown slats. A single door is encased on the same wall, which isn’t very big… maybe five or six feet long.
I roll my head from one side to the other. The world spins again, and I close my eyes to make it stop. Seconds or minutes later, I’m not sure, I open them again and blink continuously until that side of the room comes into focus. A dirty sink with a two-door cabinet above it. There are dishes and a McDonald’s bag on the tiny counter beside it.
Where am I?
Alarm buzzes at the edge of my brain, but it’s cold, and I’m so tired, I can’t think. My heavy eyes drift shut.
Crickets. A croaking frog. The sounds pierce my sleep, and I peel my eyes open. Moonlight streams through the window from earlier, flooding the small space. It’s nighttime, and I’m still in this… shack, for lack of a better word. Time has little meaning, but the sun was up the last time I opened my eyes. The cold night air makes me shiver. I wonder how many hours have passed.
How did I get here? The last thing I remember was going to the diner to meet Trent. He was… distracted. On his phone. I left. He stayed. Two guys stopped me. Memories sweep through my mind, and I gasp. Those bastards kidnapped me.
My mouth is wooly like cotton. I swipe my swollen tongue across my dry lips, but it feels like sandpaper scraping across the delicate surface. I’m so damn thirsty. A tear rolls down my face, and I open my dry lips. It slides into the corner of my mouth, but the drop of moisture barely registers.
I wonder if Lionel’s home and searching for me. A half-sob escapes at the thought, but I squeeze my eyes closed until it subsides. Crying isn’t going to help. I’m already severely dehydrated, and I need to get out of here. The fog lifts a little. Think, Willa. I straighten and look down at the ropes tying my wrists to the chair.
Thick, tan, rough. They look immovable. I jerk on my wrists, trying to see if the ropes are loose enough for me to pull my hands through, but they’re too tight, and the rough rope scrapes the raw skin underneath, so I stop. Whoever tied these did a fantastic job.
Frustrated, I look around for something sharp to cut them off. My eyes land on the window, but it’s too high. There are a few items in the sink, but the dim light makes it difficult to see what they are.
I try to stand, but something tight pulls at my ankles. Bending over, I peer down at my legs. Also tied. Picking up my feet, I try to move my ankles away from the chair legs, but they don’t budge.
Think, damn it.
Tapered chair legs. An idea pops into my head. Could I slide the ropes off the chair if I stand? Scooting to the edge of the seat, I carefully place my weight on my feet and stand up as far as I can. Hunched over, I jerk my arms and the chair up and down. The skinny chair legs move the tiniest bit. Elated, I do it again. And again. Sweat drips down my face to the floor below, but I don’t stop. Time slides by until finally the chair legs slip free, giving me enough room to maneuver. I use one foot then the other to shove the loosened ropes off my legs, then do a little dance to get the blood moving in my feet again.
With a swipe of my shoulder, I wipe the stinging sweat from my eyes so I can see better and figure out what to do next. Lionel taught me to solve problems one step at a time. Feet are free, but I can barely walk with the rest of me tied tightly to the chair. Still hunched over, I shuffle over to the sink to peer inside.
My eyes immediately focus on the faucet, and my tongue glides across my cracked lips. Freedom first, water second, I promise myself, turning my gaze to the bottom of the sink. A bowl. Spoon. My eyes light up when they see the last item. A glass. That would work. Now, how do I get it, and more importantly, break off a piece large enough to use?
Back aching fiercely, I decide to sit while I figure this one out. Could I shimmy myself up onto the counter and grab it with my teeth? Maybe, but the grime coating its surface makes me grimace, and I’d have to smash the glass with it in my mouth.
My only other option is to take off my shoes and socks and use my feet to grab it. I think about it for a second. It could work. To test it out, I lift my feet up and over the sink. This is the answer. I swing them back to the floor.
Kicking off my shoes, I use my toes to shimmy off my socks. Barefoot, I slide down in the chair until my butt is touching the edge and lift my legs up and over the lip of the sink again. I move them side to side, but I can’t reach the glass. Maybe I need a few more inches. I lift my butt off the chair into a bridge. Pain shoots across my back, begging me to stop, but I refuse. My toes graze the top of the glass. With a grunt, I shove my hips up another painful inch and stretch farther. It works. Carefully wrapping both feet around the top of the glass, I grab it. Pausing for a second to make sure it’s secure, I then lift my feet and swing them in front of me.
Now comes the hard part. I place the side of the glass against the sharp metal edge of the Formica counter and take a deep breath. Closing my eyes, I tap the glass against it, harder and harder, until it breaks. Sharp pain streaks across my arch and inhale sharply. A quick glance at my feet reveals a small, jagged piece of glass in my foot. I shake my head. I’ll worry about that later. The top of the shattered glass is one large piece with sharp edges. Perfect. I smile.
I wipe my face with my shoulder again. Now comes the hard part. Tongue between my lips, I slowly lower my feet until my fingers can grasp the big piece. Once I’m sure I have it, I drop my feet to the floor. Cramps in my hamstrings make me grit my teeth, but after a few seconds, the muscles loosen, and I can shuffle closer to the pool of moonlight.
Thankfully, they only tied my wrists to the chair, not my hands.
Hunching over my right arm, I twist my wrist as far as I can and start sawing at the closest piece of rope. Tiny pieces of glass rain down on my wrist, grinding into the tender skin, but I don’t stop. I can’t. I need to get out of here before someone comes back.