Prologue
Samantha Russo
In front of Murphy’s Bakery, a bit north of my subway stop, I debate which one of her famous confections I should order—the cannoli or a mini apple pie.
As I’m about to open the door, my ex-boyfriend appears from out of nowhere and jabs a gun into my side. “Get in. Don’t say a thing.”
What the actual...? My heart thumps as I’m pushed into the backseat of a waiting yellow cab.
Driver dude, I’m being kidnapped. Ignoring my silent plead in his rearview mirror, the cabbie clears the meter as he glances at Will. “Where to?”
“Port Authority.” After we merge onto Atlantic, the man I once loved whispers in my ear, “Don’t try anything. Nod if you understand.”
Normally, I’d argue, but laser beams of pure, fucking crazy shoot from his eyes. Granted, his texts had gotten weird lately, but an abduction? Nope, I missed the signs.
Clearly, I need to up my game.
We traverse through Brooklyn, over the Triborough Bridge, and crawl up Eighth Avenue in silence.
Despite many traffic lights and slowdowns, I dare not move.
In the movies, private investigators are shot all the time, but someday, I may want to donate a kidney.
I’m quite sure a bullet would be disqualifying.
Forty-five minutes later, we stop outside the bus station. Tossing the driver a hundred-dollar bill, Will puffs out his chest. “Keep the change.”
Holy shit. My ex either robbed a bank, sold his book, or inherited a fortune.
When he opens the door, I coil, ready to escape. As I’m about to dash forward, a mom pushes a stroller in front of me. Dammit, I can’t risk it.
No doubt sensing my intent, the Tolstoy-wannabe clamps onto my upper arm.
While I hold back a scream, he yanks me past dozens of shops and races us down two flights of escalators.
Along the way I pointedly stare at the security cameras.
With any luck, someone will trace my steps.
Preferably before Father O’Connell says mass over my open coffin.
Finally, we stop at a glass door under the Washington DC sign.
“Why are-”
“Shut. The. Fuck. Up. I swear I’ll pull the trigger.” With the gun to my ribs, he pushes me outside into the dimly lit, diesel-fumed tunnel.
As we join the line of commuters, our roaring bus pulls up alongside us. Keeping the cold metal dug into my waist, Will shoves two tickets at the driver. After we climb the stairs, we sit in the back, where floral scents try to mask human feces.
While I gag, the vehicle jerks. As the yellow coach grinds and wobbles, we exit the hellish darkness into the late afternoon sun.
Pretending to glance out the window, I study my abductor. Will’s beard has grown to his chest. Overgrown locks stick out all over the place. Truth be told, I barely recognize the man who claimed to be the next Pulitzer Prize-winning author.
“Take out your phone, pull out the sim card. Now hand it over.” When a car backfires, I check for blood.
Finding none, a montage of this-is-your-life flashes in my mind’s eye. I remember my cousins urging me to eat glue, my high school graduation with a flask of vodka under my robe, and getting fired from the FBI.
Fuck. I never got to prove how a woman can be a damn fine private dick.
My favorite character, Stephanie Plum, would undoubtedly do something audacious but somewhat stupid before being rescued by one of her sexy boyfriends. Nevertheless, this is real life. I’m nowhere near as clueless, and my one, sometimes lover, doesn’t know I’m missing.