49
Sheena
The Bitcoin transfer wasn ’ t nearly as straightforward as the ransom note made it sound like it would be.
By the third attempt, my hands were trembling so badly that I could hardly keep hold of the computer mouse on my office desk, let alone navigate through the endless menus and verifications. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears like a warning. Handling funds for the city was one thing, but this … this was truly something else.
It had only been eight short minutes since I ’ d arrived home. I ’ d promised myself I wouldn ’ t check the watch tracker ’ s location until I finished the Bitcoin transfer—but I was starting to lose my mind.
Every step of the process seemed designed to trip me up. I ’ d opened the bank ’ s online portal plenty of times before, but the options—beyond those of standard transfers—were buried under layers of security, each one more frustrating than the last. Each one likely tripping warning alarms that would alert higher-ups. I was ready, though. I had my boss ’ s credentials and codes for the two-factor requirements. I ’ d used them plenty of times to avoid red-tape. I ’ d never encountered anything like this before, though.
I kept telling myself I had to stay calm, that I had to focus, but every mistake felt like a countdown to disaster.
“ Come on,” I choked, desperately clicking another verification.
Every time I tried to link the city account to the Bitcoin wallet, another obstacle popped up—a security question, a two-step verification process, a delay in processing. The clock on the wall seemed to tick louder with each failed attempt, each setback pushing me closer to the edge of full-on panic.
I had to keep wiping my hands on my jeans, the sweat making my fingers slippery on the keys. I couldn ’ t afford to make any mistakes. One wrong digit, one miss-click, and the money could vanish into the void.
But no. Here was the final confirmation code. Are you sure you want to transfer? read the message on the screen.
I clicked before I read any of the other details in the long warning text that appeared below it.
Transfer confirmed. Then a confirmation message.
I stared at it, overwhelmed with relief for a split second. But the feeling shriveled almost immediately, replaced by that building wave of dread and spiraling panic.
It had been nine minutes since I ’ d arrived home.
The money was gone, out of my control now. Which meant that the time to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do next had arrived. I still didn ’ t know. Every single move I could make felt like pulling the pin to a grenade.
I stared at the phone as I unlocked the home screen with shaky hands, to reopen the watch-tracking app.
While I waited for it to load, I willed an unknown phone number to appear on my screen, someone confirm ing they’d received the Bitcoin transfer—and that my children would be released, safe and sound.
The phone stayed silent.
When the watch-tracking app opened, I was greeted by a notification warning me that the watch battery was down to four percent.
“ No,” I choked out in horror. The last time I ’ d checked the dot ’ s location ten minutes earlier, the watch was twenty miles away—back near the place where I-55 started to wind into the mountains. They ’ d turned off a rural side road, one that wove parallel to city limits through the foothills.
I stared at the map, switching between topography and street view.
The blue dot was on the move again, but still in the vicinity of that rural foothills road—and creeping west.
I took a screenshot and was about to close the app when a named road—Sugarloaf Lane—flashed into the periphery of the map.
I felt my forehead furrow in confusion. Fear prickled at the back of my mind.
I was pretty sure I knew that street name, that general location.
Why were the kidnappers headed that way?
Words from the ransom note swam through my mind.
Do NOT contact authorities.
Follow these instructions TO THE LETTER.
Go home and wait for instructions. We will be watching. Once we have confirmed the cash delivery and Bitcoin transfer, we will release the children to you.
Adrenaline and fear started to make my legs shake. My gut was tied in knots, but I begged it to speak to me anyway. Do I call the police now? Wait a few more minutes? What if they were about to let the kids go, and I sent police sirens headed their way?
I typed 9-1-1 into my keypad, trembling so violently I kept my thumb a few inches away from the call button. Was I really going to do this, after everything? Did that mean I ’ d fucked up and should have notified the police from the start? Should I wait just a little longer to hear from the kidnappers ?
“ Contact me like you said you would, dammit, ” I cried.
Dad ’ s cases, and the headlines I ’ d googled while I lay awake the night before were still burned into my brain, throbbing like a brand.
Police Raid Turns Fatal as Kidnapper Follows Through on Threats.
Families Devastated as Police Involvement Leads to Hostage ’ s Gruesome Demise.
Kidnap Victims Slain After Police Misread Ransom Demands.
And then the worst thing happened.
That little blue dot disappeared, the “ 4% battery” message suddenly replaced by a notification in the corner of the app that read GPS DISCONNECTED. CANNOT LINK TO DEVICE.
“ No, no, no,” I cried out in stunned disbelief. I ’ d been so careful, checked so few times. The tracker couldn ’ t just die like that. Not now. Not after everything.
But it had.
The watch was dead, the blue dot frozen in place at the intersection of an unnamed dirt road and Sugarloaf Lane.
Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead , my mind echoed louder and louder, even while my body stayed frozen in place.
I ’ d just lost my Ace.
A long-buried memory burst to the front of my swimming brain, like an after-image from staring directly into the sun. From the summer Bonnie was a toddler and Sage was six, and I took the girls to the Oregon Coast by myself. We were walking up the bluffs toward the rental condo after exploring tide pools—Sage soaking wet from jumping in, Bonnie wailing because she was ready for a nap—when I heard shouting from the beach behind us.
I turned in time to see the sneaker-wave roll back toward the ocean, retreating fast over the craggy tide pools.
There was a woman dashing barefoot across the lava rocks in hot pursuit of the retreating foam.
I wasn ’ t sure what was happening until I saw a little red jacket tumbling in the churning white surf.
Horrified onlookers, including a man who appeared to be the woman ’ s husband, screamed for his wife to stop, to come back. The sneaker-wave had rushed in—and out—so fast, it had already pulled that little red hoodie toward the sea cliffs and the wave break far beyond the innocent tide pools clumped along the sandbar. The waves beat against the rocky ledges of the cliffs. Anyone who tried entering the ocean there would be smashed against them.
My breath caught in my throat as I realized that if she entered the water, there was every chance I was about to watch two people die.
The man screamed again for the woman to stop, to come back, that someone had called the Coast Guard, that there was nothing she could do.
The mother didn ’ t stop, though.
She swam hard toward that hoodie, impossibly fast in the churning surf, until she reached her child. Then she held on tight, pulling a mop of brown hair and grasping hands to her neck even when the next swell sent them both dashing against the cliff face.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Bonnie nuzzled against my neck. Sage whimpered, shivering, as she tugged on my hand.
And then, against all odds, that woman somehow swam her baby safely back to shore.
She ’ d been rash to attempt it. I could tell from the stunned faces and head shakes from the onlookers that they thought she ’ d nearly just signed her own death certificate. But sometimes, there was no other way.
Sometimes, the only choices are awful, with little hope that anything will ever be okay again. And you pick one anyway.
Like that desperate mother swimming toward her child being swept away, I was already in over my head. I had been from the moment I decided to continue following that ransom note ’ s instructions to the letter.
It was dangerous and stupid.
I had no doubt that anyone who read the news report later would say I should have called the police and the FBI from the second I saw that letter attached to the pizza box.
But that mother on the Oregon Coast? Not her. She ’ d know that the only thing I could do at this moment was make a mad dash directly to the place where there was the smallest sliver of a chance I ’ d find a way to save my children.
So, with that bobbing red hoodie in my mind, I finally punched 9-1-1 into my phone.
Then, as I hit dial, I raced back to the garage, ready to drive like hell toward the last place I ’ d seen that frozen blue dot.