Chapter 14 Danae #2
I gasp. “Stop—” I start, but the gun shifts slightly and my words collapse. A blindfold comes next—something thick, rough, pressed against my eyes.
Darkness swallows me. I suck in a deep breath and it still the panic is consuming me. “No,” I whisper, because saying it out loud feels like maybe it will matter. It doesn’t.
A hand grips my arm. Hard.
Not gentle. Not cruel either. Just efficient. They guide me away from my car.
Each step is uncertain. Gravel shifts under my shoes. My balance wobbles. My heart pounds so loud I’m sure they can hear it.
My purse. My phone. My keys. All left behind.
A door slides open with a hollow metallic sound. A van. The smell hits me first—stale air, sweat, something chemical like cleaning supplies.
They push me inside. My knees knock against something hard. I stumble. Hands shove my shoulders down.
“Sit,” one of them says.
I fold awkwardly, wrists bound behind me, blindfold pressing against my lashes. The seat is vinyl, cold and sticky. My back is straight because I don’t know what else to do.
The door slams shut. The sound echoes inside the van like a final sentence. Then the engine turns over. The van moves. The sensation of motion twists my stomach. Every bump jerks my shoulders. My mind tries to track direction. Left turn. Right turn. Straight. Another turn.
But I’m exhausted. Disoriented. Panicked.
I can’t keep up. I force myself to breathe again.
Think smart.
That’s the only instruction I can give myself that doesn’t break into screaming. Think smart. Stay alive.
Grandpa.
The thought of him is a knife.
I picture him waking up confused, calling my name. I picture him sitting up in his bed gazing out the window waiting for my car to pull into the driveway.
I picture him dying because I didn’t do what they wanted.
Hot tears push behind my eyes, trapped by the blindfold. They slip down my cheeks anyway. I swallow hard, trying to keep my breathing steady.
The van smells like rubber and old fast food. I hear the driver’s music low—something with a heavy bass, a steady thump like a heartbeat.
I listen for voices.
Two men, at least. But I’m thinking it’s three. The one behind the wheel. The one who shoved me. The one with the picture.
They don’t talk much.
That scares me more than if they were yelling.
Quiet means plan. Quiet means purpose.
My wrists ache. The zip ties cut into my skin every time the van jolts. I shift my hands, trying to find a position that hurts less. It doesn’t.
I try to memorize what I can.
The sound of tires on pavement changes—smooth to rough. The pitch of the engine changes—slowing, speeding. A train horn in the distance. A dog barking. The rise and fall of the road.
It’s not much.
But it’s something.
Stay smart. It equals staying alive.
I focus on not hyperventilating. On not begging. On not giving them more of my fear than they already have. Because fear makes you sloppy. Fear makes you miss details. Fear makes you do what they want without thinking.
I don’t know what they want yet beyond obedience.
I don’t know why they have my grandfather’s photo.
I don’t know who sent them.
But I can guess even if I’m wrong, my mind goes there.
Dr. Reeves’ face flashes in my mind, uninvited. The way he smiled like he owned the world. The way he pressed when I said no. The way his eyes turned cold when I didn’t bend.
My stomach turns.
No.
Don’t assume. Don’t spiral.
Think smart.
Stay present.
The van hits a pothole and my shoulder bangs against the side panel. Pain shoots down my arm. I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood.
I keep listening. Minutes stretch into something elastic.
The van slows at one point, idles, then speeds up again. Maybe a stop sign. Maybe a light. Maybe a checkpoint. My mind is grasping at scraps.
Then the sound changes again—less traffic noise, more wind. The hum of tires shifts like we’ve turned onto a different kind of road.
Gravel. My stomach drops. We’re leaving the main roads. Going somewhere quiet.
Somewhere hidden. The van rattles, the suspension protesting. My pulse spikes.
I fight the urge to scream. Screaming won’t help. Screaming will make them angry. Screaming will waste my air.
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, grounding myself in the physical sensation. I remember something a counselor once told me after a particularly brutal patient death: Name five things you can sense around you immediately. The reminders you are in the land of the living.
I can’t see. So I do the rest.
I feel the sting in my wrists. I feel the cold vinyl under my thighs. I hear the bass thumping from the front. I smell stale sweat and cleaner. I taste blood.
My brain steadies a fraction.
Think smart.
I try to slow my breathing to match the bass. In. Out. In. Out. The van turns again. The gravel gets rougher, louder. Then the van slows.
The engine idles.
A door handle rattles. Panic surges up my throat like bile. I swallow it down. The sliding door yanks open.
Fresh air rushes in, sharp and wet. I hear distant sounds—maybe trees moving, maybe nothing at all. Hands grab my arm again.
“Get up,” a voice orders.
My legs are stiff when I stand. Blood rushes to my feet in pins and needles. I sway. A hand grips my elbow harder, steadying me just enough to keep me moving.
They guide me out of the van.
The ground beneath my shoes is uneven—dirt, maybe. Rocks. Leaves.
Forest? My breath comes faster despite my efforts.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask, forcing the words out.
No answer. I take another step, and another. A door creaks open somewhere close. A building.
They steer me forward.
Inside, the air changes—warmer, stale, the smell of old wood and dust. The floorboards creak.
The door shuts behind me.
Darkness on darkness.
My own heartbeat is so loud it’s a roar.
One of them moves behind me. I hear the snip of something.
The zip ties loosen.
My hands drop, numb and aching. I rub my wrists instinctively, but a hand slaps mine away.
“Don’t,” he warns.
Then the blindfold is yanked off.
Light stabs my eyes. I blink hard, tears spilling.
The room comes into focus in pieces—bare bulb overhead, peeling paint, a metal chair, a table with nothing on it. The windows are covered.
Two men stand in front of me.
Their faces are still partly hidden—hats, masks, shadows—but I can see enough to know they’re not teenagers playing a game.
They’re grown.
Capable.
And they’ve done this before.
One of them holds the photo of my grandfather again. He sets it on the table like it’s a contract. “We’re gonna ask you some questions,” he prepares me.
My throat tightens. “What questions?” I whisper.
He leans forward slightly. “You answer right,” he says calmly, “your granddad keeps breathing.”
The other man shifts, gun still in his hand, still pointed in my direction like I’m not a person, just a problem. I swallow, forcing myself to meet their eyes even though every instinct is screaming at me to look away.
Think smart.
Stay calm.
Be useful.
Stay alive.
My voice shakes but I make it work. “Okay,” I say. “Okay. I’ll answer.” I commit but I’m confused as to what I could answer to help any of these men.
And in my chest, beneath the terror, something hard begins to form. Not courage. Not yet. Just resolve.
Because I don’t know what they want. But I know what I have to do.
Survive this.
For Grandpa.
For me.
And—though the thought nearly breaks me—for Miles, who doesn’t know yet that something has gone terribly, terribly wrong.