26
Sheena
The dark house was overwhelmingly, excruciatingly quiet.
For the first time in more than a decade, I was alone. Utterly, and completely alone.
I couldn’t bear to look at the girls’ bedrooms, or Dad’s. Or the kitchen, where I’d left the note and pizza box. So I locked myself in my bedroom with my laptop, eyes glued to the bright screen as the minutes and hours ticked past, reading everything I could find online about the missing children, memorizing the information, and combing through Reddit discussions.
By the time I looked at the clock, it was 12:30 a.m.
What I really needed was sleep. But sleep was impossible, my mind churning through every awful thing that had—and might—happen. And what I needed more than sleep was for my girls to be home safe. But they were gone, and anything but safe.
My throat ached so much I could barely swallow, and my head felt so full of tears and terror that I imagined the toxic floodwaters slowly drowning me from the inside out.
I kept pulling up the photos that had been posted on KTRB and read the articles one more time, even though the words and images were seared into my mind.
There were three main articles on the site. The first headline was, “ ABDUCTED: Ten Northridge Elementary Students and Bus Driver, Missing.”
They ’ d included a photo that I recognized right beneath it. Sage, Bonnie, and three other kids playing foosball in the rec room at Bright Beginnings. I ’ d seen it in the monthly newsletter just a few days ago. I could hardly stand to look at their smiles. Lanky Sage was facing the camera and smiling with her mouth but not her eyes. She stood more than a foot taller than the other kids, with her curly black hair in a ponytail I ’ d wrangled and re-wrangled that morning. Bonnie wasn ’ t looking at the camera. She was looking at Sage, her identical black curls swept over one brow so you could see the adoring expression on her face.
The article beneath the photo was sparse, repeating information I already knew from the police. Careful, un-inflammatory words that didn ’ t say much at all. Police and FBI are working with Bright Beginnings and Northridge. Panicked parents left cars stopped in traffic to pour into the rec center parking lot, looking for answers. The children, ages seven to twelve years old …
The comments section, on the other hand, was anything but sparse. It swelled and blazed like a dumpster fire, ranging from white-hot sympathy that tore me up to flippant emojis and LOLs that hollowed me out.
I CANNOT imagine what those poor mamas are going through. Hold your babies close, everybody. PRAYERS.
Are you fkin serious a FKIN BUS GOES MISSING. Fake news??
Popo here are dummmmmmbasses.
There ’ s gotta be so much they aren ’ t telling us. There ’ s gotta be a ransom note. They aren ’ t just gonna take a bunch of kids for shits and giggles. Hope they don ’ t botch it like they did in that one movie.
When I read that last comment, I had to run to the bathroom and dry heave.
There was a ransom note. And I already knew I was going to botch it.
I was alone, way past my breaking point, and if something went wrong it would be all my fault. But if I went against the kidnappers’ explicit instructions —and something went wrong—it would be my fault, too.
Dad ’ s often-repeated words echoed louder than ever. Trust your gut. If he were here—and himself—he ’ d be reminding me about Mindy Falcrest and all the other cases where things had gone sideways after following “ protocol. ”
I dug my fingers into the palms of my hand. My gut was screaming that the people who ’ d written that ransom note meant what they said.
I closed the first article and opened the second. This headline, posted on KTRB thirty minutes after the first, read, “ UPDATE: Missing Northridge Students’ Phones Located.”
There was no photo this time. The article went on to explain that the police had located the students’ and bus driver ’ s phones on the side of Highway 55, out of sight down a crumbling embankment.
Most likely, the kidnappers had dumped the phones there right after the abduction. The police and FBI were holding the phones, searching for any clues. But, as the article speculated, it was pretty clear that the kidnappers were fully aware that the phones could be used to track their location. And they weren ’ t going to allow that to happen.
The third article was the one that made my stomach clench hardest.
The headline read, “ UPDATE: Northridge Elementary Bus Found, Abducted Students Still Missing.”
From the timestamp on this last article, police had located the bus right about the time I was opening up the ransom note attached to the pizza box.
I couldn ’ t stop staring at the photo—a distant glimpse of the bus itself, nestled among the trees of what appeared to be a cherry orchard. The last rays of sunlight glinted off its white paint and turned the shadows coming from the gnarled cherry trees into long, dark arms reaching across its sides. Like the bus itself was being held captive against its will.
The number of unanswered questions spinning in my mind were mounting: Why was the bus in the cherry orchard? The narrow dirt lane that led deep into the orchard wasn ’ t on the bus route. Why had the driver turned that way in the first place? How had the kidnappers forced the bus to go there? Why hadn ’ t any of the kids been able to get to their phones to call for help?
This last article showed a photo of the phone-cubby system at the front of the bus. I recognized it from a brochure from Bright Beginnings I ’ d seen back when I signed Bonnie and Sage up for aftercare. “ Student and driver safety is our priority!” the brochure read. “ Phones are stowed and inaccessible at all times during transit.”
The irony dug its claws into my chest.
I shut the web browser only to open my Maps app and retrace the route I ’ d need to follow in the morning.
Five banks, five different counties in the Treasure Valley, five withdrawals of $10,000 each.
About three hours’ drive time, if traffic was good. Plus time to wait in line at each lobby, fill out the appropriate paperwork, chat with the tellers like I wasn ’ t fighting for my life. If I got to the first bank the moment it opened at 9:00 a.m., I would be finished collecting money around 3:45 p.m.
I blinked away the blur in my eyes that was turning the phone ’ s light into a dancing halo in the dark room.
Whoever had made this plan had clearly researched withdrawal limits—but not enough. In general, it was true that $10,000 was the trigger-limit that would alert the federal government, and that this amount could technically be withdrawn from several banks without hitting the Feds’ tripwire. Especially if the withdrawals came from different counties. However, I knew from past experience that multiple withdrawals of even numbers would trigger the tripwire more quickly. Trying to withdraw exactly $50,000 was way too risky.
I would need to bring evidence of city expenditures for each withdrawal—which I ’ d be able to do, given the surplus bond funds and the upcoming expenses with the new bus fleet.
Not $50,000 in one day, though.
I could maybe stretch it to $40,000 if I was really ballsy. But even that was asking for trouble when I really thought about it.
And if I drew attention to myself with reckless withdrawals, that would mean a fast-track to scrutiny from the government—and police. Probably the FBI, since they were already involved with the case.
If the police started scrutinizing my behavior, and the kidnappers were watching like they said they would be, they would quickly realize I had screwed this whole thing up.
So I couldn ’ t screw this up.
I had to assume the writers of the ransom note would be angrier if I drew police attention than if I withdrew slightly less money than they ’ d asked for in cash.
Follow these instructions TO THE LETTER.
My stomach lurched again and I swallowed back the bile.
Basically, they ’ d be angry no matter what I did. You ’ re going to fuck this up, one way or another, my mind wailed.
Despair fizzed through the fear, making my stomach turn over again and again.
I sat up and switched on the lamp sitting on my nightstand, finally admitting that sleep would not be happening tonight. Then I pulled the Maps app up yet again, calculating the drive time to Little Eddy campground this time. Two hours and fifteen minutes from the last bank I ’ d be visiting on the outskirts of Melba.
Once I dropped the cash at Little Eddy, it would be another hour ’ s drive back to the house to transfer the two million in Bitcoin. That part would actually be easy compared to the bank withdrawals. All I ’ d needed to do was set up a Coinbase account, and that had taken me fifteen minutes. However, it would raise the biggest red flags the second anyone from the city realized what I ’ d done. There was no doubt the kidnappers had anticipated this, saving it for my final step.
My mind spun, calculating and recalculating. There was just a little over an hour of play in the plan. Throw in a couple of quick bathroom breaks, a little traffic, a detour on the road, and even that buffer would dwindle to nothing.
Prickles of sweat turned my pajamas sticky against my underarms.
I knew they ’ d made the schedule tight on purpose. So I wouldn ’ t be tempted to deviate—or bring in the authorities.
Eyes grainy and mouth dry, I opened yet another tab on my phone and typed in “ Ransom kidnapping police involved.”
Maybe I was hyper-focusing on the stories Dad had told me about his time as lieutenant. I needed to know what else was out there—and if I was making the biggest mistake of my life by going along with the ransom note.
The headlines were worse than I expected. I scrolled, unblinking, through the gauntlet of horrors.
Kidnapper Executes Hostage After Police Ignore ‘No Cops’ Demand.
Failed Rescue: Victim Found Dead After Police Intervene Against Ransom Note Instructions.
Police Raid Turns Fatal as Kidnapper Follows Through on Threats.
Family Devastated as Police Involvement Leads to Hostage ’ s Gruesome Demise.
Kidnap Victims Slain After Police Misread Ransom Demands.
I couldn ’ t bring myself to even open these articles. The headlines were already too much.
I glanced at the time on my phone once more—just past 1:30 a.m.—before forcing myself to turn the screen dark. This wasn ’ t helping, even a little bit.
I closed my eyes and pictured Bonnie and Sage. Were they together right now? Were they still in Idaho? Were they sleeping?
I refused to imagine anything else. So I pictured them tucked together like ducklings, breathing soft and deep, their impossibly long eyelashes fluttering while they dreamed.
I told myself that the image was real, over and over again in the darkness until the words lost all meaning. Because my mind already felt like a horse about to bolt. And I wasn ’ t sure I could hang on if it really took off headlong into all the dark possibilities.