Stealing Her Page 2

  And then there’d be no escape at all.

  So, I stay put and let him guide me through a creaking doorway into a place that’s totally dark and smelled of rotting earth. I wrinkle my nose and cough underneath the cloth wrapped around my eyes and mouth. My captor’s hands push me forward on and on, step by stumbling step, into the murky, musty darkness.

  Then, without saying a word to me, he leaves me here.

  I hear his footsteps retreating in the other direction. I turn slowly around to ‘watch’ him leave with my covered eyes. Through the thick fabric of the blindfold I can make out the faint shimmering of daylight at the entry of whatever hole he’s shoved me into. I follow the vague silhouette of my kidnapper as he ducks out into the sun. The door slowly closes, shutting out the light to leave me standing hopeless and paralyzed in the penetrating dark.

  Lila

  I stare at the wall, my heart having finally calmed down from its galloping pace to beat a slow, even rhythm of pure resolve. This is what I have to get used to now. This is where I might have to make my home, at least for the time being.

  That’s what I try to tell myself. It’s strange, maybe, and some might call it learned helplessness. In fact, that is the exact term my old psychology professor probably would have used on me at this point.

  He was always kind of a jerk, anyway.

  Pointing me out in class, calling on me to try and catch me off-guard, but I always knew the answer. I always knew what to say to keep my grade point average dangling high, high above my classmates. My father taught me that there is nothing less I can do if I want to make it in this world. If I want to succeed, I have to be the best, especially since I’m a woman and there’s little I can do about that.

  I never learned to be helpless, contrary to what that skeezebag of a professor tried to pin on me. I evade diagnosis. I defy categorization. It’s what I have strived for my entire life— to be not only good enough, but better. Daddy expects nothing less of me, and god forbid I ever let him down, even now, locked away in this musty, dank hole in the ground.

  But once I escape, he will be proud. He has to be. I’ve been taken, and I have no information about the who or what or where or why. It’s like a puzzle, one I have to solve, and that makes it a little less scary. If it’s a puzzle, it’s a game.

  And a game can’t be scary.

  I wonder what the hell this place could actually be. Some kind of post-apocalyptic bomb shelter built by some guy with equally superfluous levels of wealth and paranoia, maybe? I know the type. My father is a highly successful businessman. He moves through a world of old money and new money, all of them doggedly dedicated to collecting new shiny toys to show off and prove their worth to everyone else in the same socioeconomic class. Usually, it was a car. Or several cars, to be more exact. Orange Lamborghinis with the vertically-opening doors. Baby blue Bentleys with the creamy leather interior. A glossy Rolls-Royce Phantom with its blocky shape and seats the precise color of a Fijian sunset. Of course, they all owned houses— massive and multiple. My father has a summer house somewhere in an exclusive beachy neighborhood of Miami. I have never been there.

  He prefers to keep me separated from that world. Always at arm's length, until I finally find the way to make him realize that I’m worth it.

  And then, as expected there are the millionaires and billionaires who funnel their endless cash flow into less pedestrian pursuits. Instead of a glitzy car or a twenty-room mansion in Florida, they spent their fortune on daydreams and nightmares. I remember once Daddy had a friend who cornered me at a party we held at our place so he could rant and rave on and on to me about his end-of-the-world preparedness. He droned on about his bunker, his pantries upon pantries of canned goods and endless bulk-sized packages of toilet paper. It was much more difficult to pretend to be interested in that conversation than it is to sit through any number of college classes. Now I’m grateful I managed to listen to the whole conversation. Maybe that information could help me in here.

  Wherever here is.

  I shift uncomfortably, grimacing at the damp, musty earth underneath me. Whatever I must be sitting on right now is undoubtedly staining the hell out of my clothes. My father would have a lot to say about that if he were here. I ponder that for a brief moment: what if he turns up any second now to save me from whatever hell this is?

  I realize with a sinking feeling that I would almost rather stay here longer and try to figure it out myself than let Daddy see me this way. I know the look he would give me, that furrowed-brow expression that wordlessly conveys his disappointment in me. His disgust. I am constantly working against that look. I want, just once, to make him smile.

  I know he must be capable of it, right? He was married at one time— to my own mother. Surely, they used to smile sometimes. They had to have been in love at some point. Of course, I ruined all of that by being born. Maybe there was a time when Daddy was content, but never during my lifetime.

  I have spent the past twenty years of my life trying to make up for killing Mom. I didn’t mean to. I had to be born somehow. And yet, it’s the one weight on my shoulders I could never shrug off.

  Sometimes, as a kid, I wondered if I had broken him. If I was to blame for my father’s quiet cruelty.

  I made him this way, didn’t I?

  So I am forever trying to please him, to atone for the crime I committed the very day I entered this world. I deserve his anger, his disapproval. But at least there are some who don’t look at me with resentment.

  I have a friend. Just the one. Her name is Cassandra. We met when I became her math tutor awhile back. She’s the same age as me, both of us trekking through college together, although she’s not a business major like I am. She studies art and photography, kind of the creative yin to my analytical yang.

  I sit up straight and rigid suddenly, a realization dawning over me.

  What is going to happen to Henry?

  My heart aches and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks. Henry is my angel. He’s a scrappy little terrier, a shaggy-haired, twelve-pound mutt I adopted from the animal shelter where I volunteer. I only started volunteering there as a means of padding out my resume— or at least that’s what I tell Daddy— and I had set the hard rule for myself that I would not take home any of the animals. Growing up, I was never allowed to have a pet, and I assumed it just wasn’t for me. Daddy always made it sound like such a tedious pain, having to pay for and look after a dumb little animal. He always reasoned that it was silly to spend money and time on a dog when you could be buying a motorcycle or a trip to Barbados or a new designer suit.

  I’ve always been inclined to just believe whatever Daddy believes. After all, he’s been pretty much the singular driving force in my life. So, I walked into that animal shelter with a serious look on my face, totally prepared to turn off my heart and see it as a business transaction. But from the very second my eyes landed on little Henry, his fur all matted and his big brown eyes blinking sadly at me through the metal bars of his crate, I was a goner. There was no convincing my heart to forget about him. I have never loved another living thing the way I love that ridiculous little dog. He’s about seven years old and he’s lived with seven different caretakers, so he’s been through the wringer, but none of that hardship has made him any less sweet and trusting. I took him home on day one of volunteering there. I just couldn’t resist. It’s been six months and I’m still just as enamored with the little guy as I was that first moment when he jumped into my arms, trembling but licking my face.

  The tears burn in my eyes and I bite down hard on my lip, nearly drawing blood. I can’t give in. I can’t let myself break down and cry.

  Still, I can’t stop worrying about Henry. Who will feed him? Who will play with him? Whose bed will he sleep in if I’m not there? I promised him I would never abandon him and now here I am, shoved into some damp underground hole, unable to be there for him. Then I remember with a sigh of relief that he’s no
t alone. I let Cassandra take him home with her last night, as she told me she has a great idea for a little photoshoot for him Monday morning before school. Although, as it occurs to me now, it’s Monday today.

  Which is great news for Cassandra and Henry. I’m sure they’re having a blast with their little photoshoot. But for me, it’s bad news. Because I don’t have any classes on Monday. I don’t even have volunteer hours scheduled. I generally just spend my Mondays on campus in the library, studying and poring over research for hours on end until I start to go cross-eyed and have to call it a night. That means I’m usually un-accounted for on Mondays. Nobody to look after me. No role call to count me in or out.

  It means that nobody will even know that I’m missing until at least Tuesday. Cassandra is due to return Henry to me on Tuesday evening when she comes over to my place for her bi-weekly tutoring session. I already miss them both terribly, especially Henry, since he’s been my constant sidekick and companion for six months. No creature or human on the planet has ever been so good at calming me down and brightening my lonely days than he has.

  Sometimes I just look at Henry and wonder how I ever managed to survive so many years without him around.

  I wish he was here right now. I would give anything to feel his soft, scruffy head resting on my knee, those big, expressive eyes peering up at me with adoration.

  Again, I bite back the tears.

  I don’t know how long I have already been in this place. Could be hours. Could be all day. I also have no idea whether someone is going to come in and check on me anytime soon. I never even got to see my captor’s face. By now, I have managed to wiggle my nose and twist my head back and forth just enough to loosen the blindfold around my eyes. Of course, it’s completely pitch black in here, so it doesn’t do me much good, but I sure wish I had gotten a chance to see who put me here.

  He must be some kind of monster. A predator with a cruel face and a behemoth body. I wrack my brain, trying to drum up what all I do still remember about him. I can recall his brute strength more than anything. The way his powerful arms slid around me and so easily kept me bound to his muscular, broad chest. I can remember the sensation of large, calloused hands— the hands of a laborer or an artisan of some kind— running down my arms to bind my hands together. They’re still tied even now, which is annoying because of the cramps in my wrists, but also because you never realize just how often you need to scratch an itch until you can’t. I can’t help but wonder if that’s part of the torture. Another little detail intended to drive me insane and make me plead for mercy.

  That only makes me feel more defiant, though. Because even though I have spent my whole life trying to be as obedient and exceptional as possible in a desperate bid for my distant father’s approval, there’s still that crackling ember of a flame inside me. It’s a fire that has been steadily burning every day of my life, just enough to keep me propelled forward rather than shrinking back from the overwhelming challenges of my everyday life. That fire sustains me even as I try to please the one man nobody could ever please.

  “Ugh,” I groan. “Cassandra, I wish you were here.”

  I immediately feel kind of stupid for talking out loud to myself, but honestly, it’s not as if there’s anyone around to hear me anyway. I could sit here and sing the national anthem for hours on end and no one would know. I close my eyes and pull in a deep, slow breath, attempting to channel Cassandra’s ability to dissect a situation. She’s always been better at that than I am, despite the fact that I’m the math-minded one and she’s the artist.

  She has a flair for creativity, for seeing the threads that wrap around each life. If I toss a rock in the river, I can count the rings and the circumference and how far out they’ll go, but she can see something broader, the space between the ripples. The impact the stone will have on the rest of the lake, not just on how it makes the water move.

  But I just don’t think of things the same way she does. All I can focus on is the ache in my wrists and the clammy smell clinging to my nose. I blink my eyes again and again, trying to find some shapes in the heavy darkness. I keep thinking that eventually my eyes will adjust to the lack of light, but—

  My heart stops for a moment, my eyes going wide.

  There’s a soft, barely-audible sound on the other side of the door. At first I wonder if I’m just imagining it, but then I hear it again. Something akin to footsteps, muffled by dewy grass. A moment later, there’s a tiny rectangle of light several feet in front of me. I realize slowly that it’s a slot in the door, the soft light of late afternoon sunshine filtering through. But then something else swims into focus: within that rectangle of light I can make out two smallish, shining dark orbs. They blink and I gasp in fear, trying to wriggle backwards away from it.

  Eyes. A pair of dark, penetrating eyes. Looking right at me.

  “Wh-who are you?” I manage to cry out. My voice is hoarse, the fear clearly evident in the way it trembles. I hate it. I wish I could sound braver.

  At first, the man is silent, just watching me with those deep, dark eyes. They’re brown, but so dark as to nearly be black. I wish I could see more of his face, but at the same time… his eyes alone are frightening enough.

  “Say something! Come on!” I hiss angrily.

  More silence. I slump back against the earthy wall.

  Then, finally, he speaks in a low, gruff voice. “You’ve removed your blindfold,” he points out flatly.

  “What else am I supposed to do in here?” I shoot back.

  I hear what could possibly be a chuckle, but those black eyes don’t waver for a second. I wait for him to say something else, but apparently, he’s content just to watch me.

  My stomach churns and uneasiness grips me. I don’t like this. It feels wrong.

  Even wronger than being kidnapped and held captive in the first place.

  His stare somehow feels more intimate. More dangerous. More… threatening. I have to collect more puzzle pieces if I’m going to figure out how to escape.

  “So, are you going to tell me who you are? Or why the hell you brought me here?” I ask, rather startled by my own defiance. He seems a little surprised, too, but also amused.

  “You’re very talkative for a captive,” he notes.

  “And you’re very quiet for a kidnapper,” I retort. “Are you going to hurt me?”

  “That depends,” he replies, sending a shiver down my spine.

  “What? What the hell does that mean?” I ask, my voice muted with fear.

  “If you will obey, you will survive,” my captor responds matter-of-factly. “You have to be a good girl for me. Can you do that?”

  I stare at his eyes, totally stunned by the demand. On the one hand, I’m completely offended and indignant— he’s speaking to me as though I’m a child. But on the other hand, there’s something strangely exhilarating about what he’s asked of me. Normally, I don’t much enjoy being told what to do, but I must be losing my mind because it feels… different this time.

  “I-I’ll do my best,” I reply, trying to appeal to him.

  “If you’re a good girl, if you behave, you will be rewarded,” he states.

  “I can do that,” I insist desperately, scooting closer. “I promise. I’ll be good.”

  “Yes,” he grunted, “you will.”

  And with that, the little rectangle of light closed off and the eyes disappeared, leaving me lost and confused in the dark yet again. “Wait! No! Please, come back!” I cry out, but I can hear his soft footsteps getting quieter as he walks away.

  Lila

  “Get your grimy hands off of me!” I scream.

  Dust kicks up under my feet as I spin around, yanking my oversized messenger bag down from my shoulder. I turn to face one of my attackers, an almost beastly snarl on my face as I glare at him. It frustrates me to no end that he’s wearing a ski mask— they all are for some reason— because I want to see his face. I want to know exactly what this man looks like so I can have a before and aft
er in my mind once I beat his face in with my bag. I have never been so grateful for the overly ambitious load of classes in my university schedule as I am right now, because my messenger bag is stuffed full of heavy textbooks, notebooks packed with intricate notes, and a bulging case of pens and pencils. The bag must weigh at least fifteen pounds, more than my little dog, Henry.

  As soon as his precious, sweet little face pops into my mind, I’m filled with a renewed sense of vengeance. These fuckers think they are going to capture me and take me away from Henry. They think they can just show up in my busy, tightly-wound microcosm of a world and shake it all up so easily, like I’m made of papier-mache. Like I’m some wimpy little waif just waiting to be scooped up and stowed away in a castle.

  I’m no princess. I’m no damsel. Nobody is going to Rapunzel me.

  There are three of them and one of me, but all of my attackers are regarding me more like a wild animal with rabies than a slender, petite co-ed. That’s good. I want them to fear me. I want to keep them on their toes.

  “Go on! Do your worst!” I hurl at them, spitting on the ground with rage. “Just try and take me, you filthy cowards! You have no idea who you’re messing with.”

  “Calm down,” one of them hisses, glancing around furtively.

  It’s still dark here on campus, the sun just starting to crown over the horizon. The sky is still that anemic shade of pale gray, the light barely illuminating the fluffy clouds above. Every tree and bush is shrouded in darkness, a hulking, mysterious shadow in the low light. The thought occurs to me that time is on my side. If I can just keep these guys at a safe enough distance for long enough, people will start showing up on campus. Students will start rolling in, half-asleep and bleary-eyed, for their early morning math classes. Professors will march across the grassy paths to their offices to prepare for a long day of teaching. The custodial staff will turn up to keep things clean and gleaming. After all, this is the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. This is an important place, filled with important, brilliant people. Overachievers like me who show up before the sun rises and don’t leave until after the sun disappears back over the horizon. Surely, sometime soon, backup will get here and I’ll be saved.