CHAPTER 24 Rowan
CHAPTER 24
Rowan
O n Sunday night, I’m in the living room playing on my phone when Charlie comes out of his office, where he’s been working on a video. “I’m done. Come on. Get your shoes on.”
“Where are we going?”
“I think we need to do a few seasonal things,” he says.
“I’m intrigued.” But honestly, I’m a little moved, too. He’s got something planned? What?
Charlie first drives us to a coffee shop, where he gets us both peppermint hot chocolates with whipped cream.
“I’m not four,” I say, but I’m not really complaining.
“You definitely aren’t. But you need to do some of the holiday things I think you missed.”
Then he drives us to a street in the San Fernando Valley. There are a ton of cars backed up. He rolls down the windows as we drive slowly past a house that is so covered in lights I worry about their electric bill.
“These guys sure decorate,” I say.
“Yep.”
When I see a sign, it dawns on me that we’re at one of those Candy Cane Lane places where all the neighbors decorate their houses to the max.
People are walking around. There’s music playing. Even some carolers. We see houses that are complete light shows, with lasers where the music syncs with the lights.
Charlie looks over at me and grins like a little kid.
He loves this. And I love that he’s giving it to me.
I also love the soft look in his eyes that makes me believe I matter.
“I’ve never done this before,” I say.
“I figured. I told you we’d do some holiday things,” he reminds me. “This is my favorite. I’m not that into movies or music or white elephant gifts, but I love seeing how far people go when they decorate with the intent to go all out.”
“It’s cool,” I whisper, and we keep driving and looking at the holiday lights.
On Monday, I’m back in my car. The radio is chock full of Christmas songs. Charlie is headed up to Santa Barbara this evening to go to an event with Tristan. That doesn’t make me happy, but I trust him.
Since going back to work, I’ve learned my lesson about a few things. For example, I don’t accept rides from new accounts. Not sorry. Even with my new dashboard cam, I still need social proof before I take them on. It’s for my safety. And the safety of my plant. Who I don’t have.
I’ve driven from where I was supposed to pick up “Pierce” to where the police found my car more times than I care to admit. Each time I take a different route, driving slower than usual, with no metal music, hoping to see where they chucked Wilbur. I always assumed that they’d get rid of Wilbur fast, so I’ve even pulled to the side periodically and walked around looking for him, even though Charlie and I already combed the ditches multiple times.
But … nothing.
I’ve just dropped someone off in Oxnard and am headed back down the coast when I decide to take one last look on the other side of the road, up maybe a mile or so from where my car was stolen. It’s an area that’s popular for taking photos, so there’s a few cars parked along the highway and some people walking on the beach.
I pull into a parking area on the northbound side and find a spot between a few cars. And, again, having learned things, I turn my car off and lock it, and I make sure I have my phone with me as well as my wallet and knife.
A few cars whiz by, but it’s not a super busy area. I hear traffic above me while I’m down in the ditch, looking around, and then I see something behind a group of rocks below the grade of the road.
“No. They wouldn’t have,” I say, my heart rate increasing as I take off at a run. I spy a little spot of green. I go around, and yes! There he is! I pick up the shattered pot of my Wilbur. My heart leaps. He’s back! A bit bedraggled, but at least we had some rain over the past few weeks, so he’s not dead.
“I can get you a new pot,” I coo, picking my way up the ditch and back to my car. I pop the trunk and get out an old plastic bag to put him in, doing my best to keep his soil around his roots.
Shaking with relief, I set him in his macramé cradle and close the passenger door, ready to walk around to the driver’s side.
But then the cool metal of a gun touches my temple.
Holy shit.
And also, what the hell? I have nothing to give anyone. Literally nothing .
“What the fuck do you want?” I hiss, despite knowing that it’s unwise to get mouthy with someone who has a gun. He’s not alone, either. Someone else has appeared on my other side. I don’t get a good look at either of them, since I don’t want to move my head, but they’re both taller than me. Practically everyone is, of course. I can hear someone else behind me. There may be more than three, I don’t know.
Then I see the sleeve of an Adidas track jacket.
I should’ve called the cops on the man in the Dodge Charger. I knew something was wrong, and so did Charlie. “We need to talk with you,” he says. “Come with us.” He’s not the one with the gun, that’s the guy on my other side. But they’re all standing closer to me than is socially acceptable.
“What if I don’t want to?” I ask, because I never said I made good, smart decisions.
Tracksuit man tsks. “We’ve tried to talk with you nicely, but you haven’t made it easy, so this is the way we’re going to do it.”
I feel like I’m in some bad mafia movie, only this is real life. “I’m taking my plant with me.” I don’t want him to fry in the greenhouse of my car or wilt in the trunk.
“What the fuck? No.”
“No. Either we both go or we both stay,” I snarl, not clear why I’m willing to die for my plant.
Then Charlie’s face comes into my head. I’m not willing to die and never see Charlie again. I’m about to open my mouth to say I’ll just stash Wilbur somewhere when they relent. “Fine. Bring the plant.”
The kidnappers throw Wilbur into the back of the Charger none too gently and then secure my arms behind my back with duct tape.
“That’s gonna hurt,” I say.
They put duct tape over my mouth as well.
I mumble some curses at them, but they (obviously) don’t hear me. They’re shoving me into the back of the car when one of them stabs a syringe into my arm, and the world goes dark.
I wake up in a bare, windowless room. I don’t know what time of day it is. I don’t know where I am. How long was I out? Are my organs going to be harvested? Did those assholes take me across the border into another state? Another country?
The walls are painted white, and I’m lying on a couch in a room with a chair and … that’s it, besides a door. There’s no bathroom. Good thing I don’t have to pee. Someone took the tape off my hands and mouth, at least. I’m glad I wasn’t awake for that.
Okay, what the actual hell? Am I being trafficked?
Then I look up, and there’s a security camera very high up pointed at me. I flip it off.
Ugh. How do I get out of this one? I check my pockets, but they’ve confiscated my phone, wallet, and knife. At least this time it’s not my fault that I don’t have them. I remembered to take them with me. Wilbur, of course, is nowhere in sight. They’d better not have done anything to him.
I hear a key in the lock, and the door opens.
A man comes into the room. A very well-dressed man, but he’s not looking too good. Like, his skin is gray, and he’s quite thin.
Then his eyes catch mine, and my mouth falls open. I stutter out a bark of laughter.
His navy blue eyes are the exact shade and shape of mine.
His nose is like mine. Long and slender, with a flared end.
His lips are like mine. Thinner on top and thicker on the bottom.
“I’m sorry they were rough with you,” he says. “Bringing you here wasn’t supposed to go like that. I’ve fired the one responsible.”
“What the fuck is going on? Who are you?” I ask, my skin tingling. I’m breathless, and I’m shaking my head in denial. I know what’s coming—what has to be true.
He stares at me. He tilts his head, and I can tell that he’s done the same facial analysis I did. “I think you know who I am.”
“My father?” I whisper.