JOSIE
I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out. The operator’s “Ma’am, stay where you are, the police are pulling in,” echoes through the dim space between me and the person crouching on the floor in the dark corner.
I stare at her. She stares at me. Messy hair tied at the back, a coat, jeans, boots, her hands tied to the pipe with a rope. Only when she tugs at them, making the pipe rattle against the concrete basement wall, do I wince out of my stupor.
“Who are you?” I breathe out.
The woman straightens a little. “Where is he? Is he still here?” she asks, her voice breaking, her eyes full of fear.
She must be in her thirties or forties. I can’t tell. It’s too dark.
“Oh my god. Are you okay?” I ask, my eyes flicking to the pipe she’s tied to, then back to her face.
I take a step toward her, then another, then several more until I reach her and kneel before her.
“C-can you help me?” she pleads.
“Yes, yes.”
“Ma’am?” the operator says on the speaker. “Please, do not do anything. The officers are at the house.”
But I don’t listen. I can’t just stand here and do nothing, so I set the phone down and start tugging at the rope, trying to find a way through the knots to untie the woman’s wrists.
It’s dim, cold, and damp. There’s a puddle on the floor next to the woman. It might be condensation, but judging by the stench, it might be something entirely different.
A loud knock comes from upstairs. Then the door opens and slams shut. Male voices. Radios beeping.
“We’re down here!” I shout as I try to undo the knots, but they won’t give. “I’ll get you out of here, I promise,” I whisper, struggling with the rope, as the woman sniffles repeatedly, her hands brushing mine cold as ice.
And then I hear loud footsteps, several people, a loud voice saying, “Ma’am, please raise your hands and step away. Slowly.”
It’s the police, two officers, holding their guns up.
“I’m just trying to—”
“Ma’am! Step away! Hands raised in the air!”
After this, everything is somewhat hazy.
My brain violently pulsates in my head. I recognize one of the men.
I rise to my feet and hold my hands up while the two officers approach.
One of them gently leads me aside, calls to the other, who radios for backup and the ambulance, then cuts the ropes to free the woman.
Then we are upstairs, and one of the officers sits the woman down on the couch.
The other one darts outside and ushers the medical personnel in.
I stand at the door, hugging my middle, trying to put together the pieces and remember the chain of events.
One officer is already asking me questions, and I try to answer, but two things keep flashing in my mind.
The woman’s first question “Where is he? Is he still here?” and the fear in her eyes.
My thoughts are spinning as I try to figure out the whys and the whos. Why did the man lure me to this house? Where is he? What kind of games is he playing? Who is this woman?
I hear a familiar booming voice on the porch, then another officer’s voice.
“At this point, we are looking at kidnapping, assault, and possible abuse,” one says in a low voice. “We identified the victim, but she doesn’t remember much about the man who took her.”
The front door opens, and the chief walks in, stops, and trains his concerned gaze on me. “Hello, Josie.”
I nod, biting my lip. I dreaded this moment more than anything. It’s easy to explain to the police how I ended up in this house. But I feel like I’m being set up.
The chief’s eyes take on a hint of disappointment. “What sort of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?”