I find one of Dad at a fundraiser, smiling at someone who was out of the shot. He was clinking his champagne glass. I press print and something catches my eye. It’s a woman’s hand holding another glass to his, and there was a silver bracelet with a heart dangling from it on her wrist. Holy crap! I start clicking like mad through the photos to see if I can get a better look at this woman. I realize they were at the annual fundraiser for breast cancer we attend every year to help support the cause. It was something we did for Mom. I shudder at the sudden vision of my mother having to deal with all the chemo. She looked like a different person toward the end of her life.
I guess it was nice to see my father smiling like that four months into my kidnapping, funny as that sounds. It was good to know he wasn’t stressed, at least at that moment, but the woman in the picture made my stomach knot. Who the hell was she? I look up the number for the charity organizer and jot it down, hoping I can make a phone call. I’ll discuss it with Cole later.
I also searchLos Sirvientes Del Diablosand Servants of the Devil. I print off their history from Wikipedia, as well as the Cartels. I think I should know what I’m up against. I read about other kidnap victims who got away and lived to tell their stories. They all had one thing mine didn’t—a very large ransom. Most were asking for half a million. I start making a list of things that are similar to or different than my kidnapping. I turn on the lamp without a care about how late it’s getting. I’m so engulfed in my research.
I was held captive for a lot longer than most. SeemsLos Sirvientes Del Diablosdoesn’t like to keep their victims for long. They did a proof of life picture and video on me roughly five times. The stories I’m reading say they only did it twice. So why keep me longer? What purpose did it serve, especially when I was only worth fifty grand? That number still makes my gut churn.
“Savannah?” Abigail says from the doorway. “Will you be joining us for dinner?”
I glance at the time on the computer. I have been at this for nearly five hours.
“Yes, sorry. I lost track of time. I’ll be right down.” I unfold myself from where I am sitting and gather my things. My brain feels fried. I haven’t stared at a computer in a long time. Plus, I had a lot to take in. I drop my stuff in my room and head down the stairs.
I find Abigail hustling about the kitchen. I offer to help, but she says she has it under control, so I go look out the front living room window. The horses are running back and forth along the fence, and a light flickers off in the distance, warning of another flippin’ storm coming. Another flicker sends me into a flashback.
“Up!Chica apurate!” the fat man yells at me.
I hurry to my feet as two women enter with a tub on wheels filled with water. They have a bucket with shampoo, body soap, and a large sponge.
“What’s going on?” I ask, feeling my panic rise.
“Picture time,” he mutters, standing by the door holding a large, army issue gun.“¡Apúrate!”he screams at the women then disappears out the door. They both approach, and one gives me a small smile.
“We need to remove your clothes,” one whispers, “quickly.” I’m confused but so happy to see a woman here I don’t protest. She helps me into the tub and proceeds to wash me. She’s mostly concentrating on my hands, neck, and face. The other woman won’t make eye contact as she starts roughly washing my hair. I want to cry out—it hurts—but I don’t, because at least I’m finally getting clean. Before I know it, I’m yanked out of the tub and dried off. When the other woman leaves for a moment, I lean toward the nice one.
“Please, what is your name?” She looks around as her hands fuss with my hair. “Please, I’m so lonely—you’re the first person who’s been nice to me since I arrived.”
“Maria,” she barely whispers. “Do as they say! Don’t fight them, or they’ll kill you.”
A hissing noise makes us both jump. The other woman has returned, holding a dress, and looks angrily at Maria. She yanks the dress over my head, letting it fall to my knees. It smells awful, but it looks clean. Someone wraps a blindfold over my eyes, and I start to panic. Is this it? A hand grabs my arm and drags me a few steps out of my room and pushes me to my knees. When the blindfold is removed, I’m staring at a video camera. A bright light is pointed at me, nearly blinding me. I look off to the side and see legs from the thighs down, guns hanging by their sides. I can’t see their faces, but there must be ten of them. A newspaper is shoved into my hands.
“Sonria,” a man yells from behind a tripod holding a video camera.
“Say your name,” the fat man hisses at me. I look over at the video camera and see the red light on.“¡Nombre!”
“S-Savannah Miller,” I whisper, then someone snaps the newspaper away. Shit! I want to see the date!
“What’s your papa’s name, what he do?”
My stomach turns as I lick my dry lips.
“Doug Fox, Mayor of New York.”
“Up!” Someone grabs my arm as someone else returns the blindfold. Just as I am being pulled out of the room, I hear the boom of thunder.
“Ahh!” I shriek as I am jolted back to the present. I scream again when someone touches my arm and holds me steady. I realize it’s Cole, and my hands grip his biceps for support.
“Hey, what’s going on? You’re white as a ghost,” he asks softly.
“Sorry.” I shake my head, trying to clear the memory. “I just was remembering something.” I take a deep breath and fight the urge to cry.
“Did you eat lunch?”
“No, she didn’t.” Abigail gives me a shake of her head from the doorway. “I found your sandwich in the trash.”
I close my eyes, feeling terrible.
“Sorry, just wasn’t hungry.”