Had they discovered I was missing?
What would happen when they did?
My hope resided in the fact that Ian didn’t knock too often. It was long before dinner, if Rett had intended to come and get me. I was without a watch, but I guessed it was midafternoon. Ian may not discover that I was MIA until after I was away.
Climbing the steps to the front porch, I made the decision that telling anyone that I’d been kidnapped and held in their neighbor’s home wasn’t a viable explanation either. I contemplated my options. Despite my fleeing, I had no desire to cause Rett legal problems. My yearning was to forget this bizarre chain of events and get back to my life.
Rapping my knuckles against the front screen door, I came up with a plausible story for my missing shoes. I’d been wearing high heels. They hurt my feet, so I removed them and accidentally left them in the park. I tried to remember the name of the park near the church.
No, that park was in the French Quarter, and as I looked around at the elegance and majesty of the homes, I knew I was no longer there. After another look behind me at the empty street and sidewalk, I knocked on the door again and continued my wait.
My nerves kicked up as I knocked a third time. When no one answered, I took a step closer to one of the tall windows.
With my pulse thumping in my ears, I shielded the sunshine with my hand to see through the glass pane. Condensation formed on the glass from my too-rapid breaths. Wiping it away, I squinted my eyes to see inside.
The room I saw was similar to Rett’s dining room, with a heavy overelaborate table, upholstered tall-backed chairs, and a large chandelier light fixture. Everything within was immaculate and luxurious. The people who lived here would help me. I knew they would, if only they’d answer the door.
I turned, looking onto the street as a car drove slowly by. There were more houses, all very nice and maintained. However, I feared that if I continued house by house down the street, Rett, Ian, or another one of his men would surely see me.
It was then I thought of Kyle.
My mouth felt dry as I considered the possibility that all Rett had been telling me was true.
What if the man who I’d known my entire life really wanted me dead?
No. Kyle had died. I hadn’t seen his body or those of our parents. The police said I could but warned me that the car had exploded upon impact and the remains were not the people I loved. I chose to allow the coroner to do his job, and then I had all three cremated.
Just because I hadn’t actually seen Kyle or our mother or father didn’t change the fact they were deceased. Ever since arriving in New Orleans, I’d been a player in a bad dream—no, a nightmare—and if I could simply call Ross, I could make it out. My thoughts may seem naive, but after a week, I was desperate to hold onto some reality.
Another scan of the street beyond the hedges and iron fence let me know there wasn’t a posse out to get me yet or at least not a visible one. Breathing too heavily, I hurried down the steps from the porch, and walking on the grass, I went around the side of the large house opposite of Rett’s home. Lush landscaping obstructed my view as I danced over prickly objects on the ground and continued my trek to the back of the house. Taking one last look toward the street, I stepped around a corner of the house, nearing what I assumed was the backyard.
There wasn’t a warning.
No noise or visual alert.
I didn’t see anyone. I barely had time to scream as I fought as something dark came over my head.
My lungs burned. I feared I was on the verge of hyperventilation as I clawed at what seemed like a bag, now secured around my neck. Instinctively, I released whatever was over my head as I thrust out my hands. I’d been pushed down, face-first, toward the hard earth. A gust of air came from my lungs as I landed with a thud, saving myself by a millisecond with my outstretched hands. The remaining air rushed from my lungs as a heavy object landed in the middle of my back.
I turned my face to the side. The world was obstructed by the black bag.
Muffled noises beyond my head covering were difficult to distinguish. I thought I heard the sounds of exasperation over my own screams and gasps for air.
I couldn’t push up. Whatever or whoever was on top of me had me pinned. And then my wrists were roughly seized—one by one—and secured behind me with a sharp tether.
It all happened so fast.
No matter how much thrashing or yelling I tried, I was no match for my captor. The more I pulled against the restraints, the more they tightened. The ones on my wrists felt as though they’d cut my skin as my fingers clawed to no avail.
Spots formed in my vision. Through very small holes in the fabric I was able to make out the green of the grass where I was pinned.
Was there more than one person?
Before I realized what had been done, my ankles were also bound. The same sharp tether was used to keep my legs from kicking independent of one another.
“Rett,” I called out, but my voice was muffled by the bag. “Rett.”
Why had I decided to flee?