Chapter 11 #2
I don’t have time to second-guess this. At once, I push open the door and am struck by the scent of Rachelle’s perfume of the day. Bergamot and cedar, with hints of something lighter like herbal tea. It’s a comforting smell, like velvet, and it coats the air in this room.
Focus. Think. Think.
On the wall to my left, there’s a large vanity with built-in lights around its mirror, and the right wall holds a large window seat in front of a picture window.
The bed—perfectly made—sits against the wall in the center of the room, next to a large opening that leads to their walk-in closet and bathroom suite.
He said the bed or closet.
I check under the bed first, moving with determination on my way to the side nearest the window, next to the nightstand with Pierce’s cologne and watch collection.
I ease down to the floor and swipe my hand under the bed in the darkness, looking past a walking pad and a pair of house slippers, my heartbeat hammering in my ears, straining to listen for any sound in the house.
There’s nothing else there, not on either side of the bed.
I stop at the end of the bed, at their cognac-colored leather bedroom bench, and pause. I check the door again. Breathe. Then, carefully, I lift the lid.
There. My breath catches in my throat as I spot the radio.
I grab hold of it with one hand and ease the bench closed, casting another quick look over my shoulders before moving.
I hurry across their carpeted floor and back out into the hall.
I look left, then right, making sure the coast is still clear, before I hurry toward the stairs.
Go. Go. Go. Go. Go.
I hear phantom noises, sounds of doors opening and approaching footsteps, but it’s all in my head. They aren’t home yet. They couldn’t possibly be home yet.
Back in our bedroom, I move toward our window, searching for an outlet.
The one closest to the window is near the bed, so I plug the radio in, stretching the cord as far as I can to see the driveway below.
The cord isn’t long enough to reach the window seat, so I stand in between the bed and window, watching the driveway, the radio in one hand.
Even if they’re right about this all being a prank, I have to know. I have to get answers.
I flip it on and lift the microphone to my lips. “Lia? Can you hear me? Honey, it’s Astrid.”
I wait, adjusting the volume knob. If she’s not old enough to know how to work it, I need to help her. “There’s a button on the side of the microphone piece, the one you talk into. If you push that button, I can hear you, okay?”
After a few moments, I try again. “Lia? Say something if you can hear me. Are you there? Push the button and say something.”
Something deep in my chest squeezes as I watch the empty driveway down below, my pulse thudding in my ears, desperate to hear a sound.
Please. Please. Please.
Then, a voice.
Her voice.
“Astrid?” It comes out soft, broken. Real.
I can’t press the button fast enough. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes. I’m here.” I turn the volume as high as it gets, but even still, she sounds quiet. I can hardly hear her. My eyes hit the woods surrounding the house, and I realize—she’s too far away. The signal isn’t as strong here. It’s why her voice is crackling, cutting out.
“Are you okay? Are you alone?”
It takes a long time for the answer to come in. “He left.”
My blood pulses, her words swelling to fill the air. Stay calm. Stay calm, Astrid. Think. Think. “I need you to listen to me, okay? Do you know where you are? Can you… Are there any windows? Have you been outside? Do you know what it looks like? What’s around you?”
She’s quiet again.
Think. Think.
“Lia?”
“I don’t remember.” She sounds as if she’s going to cry. Or maybe she’s getting angry.
“And you’ve never heard the man’s name?”
“No.”
“Can you describe him to me? Is he young, old?”
“I…I don’t know,” she says again.
“Does he bring you food? And toys? How did you find the radio you’re using?”
There’s another long pause. “He comes at night.”
“And the?—”
“Mom brought it.”
“Your mom brought you the radio?” When she doesn’t answer, I go on, questions pressing against every surface of my brain.
“Listen, the man…could he…could his name be Pat?” The theory is random and unfounded, but I have to ask.
I have to know. What if Pat’s still alive?
What if he kidnapped someone and named her after his daughter?
But why?
None of this makes any sense, but I desperately need it to.
My heart throbs in my chest, rattling in my rib cage like a feral animal. I need to help her, to do something. I can’t just sit here. I’m a mandated reporter, and I know what reality sounds like. This is real.
At least, I think it is.
It might be.
They could be home any minute. I could be caught. They could tell me this is all a prank again.
My phone.
The realization hits me all at once. I should’ve tried to record her. I should’ve— I wasn’t thinking. Why wasn’t I thinking?
I drop the radio on the bed and grab my phone. I hold it up to the mic and press the button to record. “Lia?” I call again. “Honey, say something. Let me know you’re still there.”
I wait. And wait.
Several seconds pass. They turn into a minute.
I can’t wait any longer. If this is real, if there’s any chance it’s real, I have to do something now.
Without waiting for her to say anything else, I close out of the recording and dial 911.