Chapter Seventy-Two. Riley, Present Day
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
RILEY, PRESENT DAY
The longer I remain still, the more I become aware of the nocturnal noises around me: the chirp of crickets, the rustle in one of the trees overhead, and the faint, high-pitched cry of an animal.
Was it an animal? I listen closely, but the sound doesn’t repeat. I can’t even tell which direction it came from.
I have no idea which way to go. If Betty’s gift is real, she must be trying to guide me toward Alex right now. She sounded so certain Alex was being held outside.
All along, I considered Sandra a good role model. But I was wrong. Betty is the one I should have been looking up to. She never grew bitter, despite everything she had endured. Leaving her house to return to Marquis was an immense act of bravery, and trying to save Alex is nothing short of heroic.
I start to heave myself to my feet, then I hesitate. I owe it to Betty to try things her way.
I sink back onto the ground and close my eyes, trying to calm the chattering of my mind.
I do my best to bring forth an image of Alex, down to her worn sneakers and bitten nails.
The longer I sit there, the more vividly I see her in my mind’s eye.
I can almost hear the defiance mingled with pain in her voice.
My breathing slows.
Where are you, Alex? I think over and over again, until the words become almost a mantra.
Then a strange warmth washes over me. I rise to my feet so quickly it’s like I’m being helped up. I turn sharply to my right and start walking. No doubt clouds my mind; my steps are steady and sure. As if I’m following a map.
Less than five minutes later, I spot it between two tall trees, like a mirage. If I hadn’t almost walked into it, I would never have noticed it. It’s a shed, painted black so it blends into the inky night.
I try to yank open the door, but it’s locked. The only other entry point is a small window covered by a dark curtain. I look around and spot a good-sized rock. I smash the window and knock away the loose glass, then squeeze through it.
Alex is tied to a chair, wearing leggings and the same coat she had on during our walk. Cushioned headphones are over her ears and the eerie white blindfold covers her eyes. Her chin is resting on her chest and she isn’t moving.
I gently touch her shoulder and she jerks violently, thrashing from side to side.
“Make them stop, make them stop,” she wails.
I gingerly remove her blindfold and ear coverings first, then untie her. She slumps to the ground, curling into the fetal position and whimpering.
“You’re safe, Alex,” I keep repeating. “I’m here to help you.”
In one corner of the hut are a quilt and a few bottles of water, the bare essentials for survival. I grab the quilt and cover Alex, who is shaking.
“You’re going to be okay,” I whisper. She opens her eyes and blinks, but her gaze is unfocused. Seeing her so broken brings tears to my eyes.
“I’m Riley, I met you once before. I’m going to get the police now.”
She doesn’t answer.
“Try to drink some water.” I pass her a bottle and am encouraged when her hand closes around it.
I spot a small battery-operated lantern hanging from a hook across the shed. I hurry to it and turn it on, its glow illuminating the space.
“Alex, don’t move,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”
I unlock the door and step out, bringing the lantern with me, but instead of taking it, I put it down in front of the shed. It’ll give Alex a source of light and be a beacon to lead me back here.
I look around, trying to figure out which way the house is located. A break in the clouds provides a glimmer of moonlight but I can’t see anything other than the thicket of trees. I start to plunge ahead, then hesitate. Something is holding me back, whispering that there’s a better way.
I take a deep breath, quelling the panicked voice inside me that’s urging me to hurry. I scan my surroundings again, this time more slowly, and I spot headlights moving down a distant road.
I’m now certain it wasn’t an animal crying in the night that I heard a little while ago.
It was the faint squealing of brakes, likely from a truck.
Perhaps I subconsciously recognized this and tucked the information into a back corner of my mind, where it could have been buried by my other thoughts and conjectures if I hadn’t coaxed it forward.
Maybe that’s a big piece of what intuition is—the straining out of extraneous noise and the distilling of what our senses pick up into a new kind of knowing.
I hurry toward the road. When I reach it, I only have to wait a few moments before a car comes toward me. I jump into the middle of the street, squinting in the bright headlights as I wave my arms. Brakes squeal and the driver leans out the window, shouting, “Are you okay?”
“Call the police!” I yell. I give the driver Sandra’s address and tell him Alex Finch’s kidnapper is being restrained there and that Alex is in a shed on the grounds. He repeats everything to the 911 dispatcher who takes his call as his eyes grow wide.
“Send an ambulance, too,” I shout. “Alex is still alive! I’ll shine a lantern in the woods behind the house—follow the light and they’ll find her.”
Then I turn around and run as fast as I’ve ever run in my life.