Kit whistles, and one of the men jogs over. They have a brief, murmured conversation I can’t quite catch, and then the man nods and runs off. He returns moments later with what looks like a rope and a strip of cloth.
My stomach drops. “Please,” I say, hating the quaver in my voice. “Don’t.”
Kit doesn’t respond, just takes the items from his man. He turns to me, and I force myself not to flinch as he lifts my hands. His touch is surprisingly gentle as he binds my wrists together in front of me. Not tight enough to hurt, but secure.
“This isn’t a punishment,” he says quietly. “It’s a precaution.”
Then he lifts the cloth and ties it around my eyes. Darkness descends, disorienting and complete. I feel a momentary spike of panic, my breathing quickening.
“Easy,” Kit murmurs, his hand on my elbow steadying me. “I’ve got you.”
He guides me forward, one hand on my arm, the other on the small of my back. I stumble occasionally, blind and off-balance, but his grip keeps me upright. After what feels like an eternity of careful steps, we stop.
“Up,” Kit says, and then hands are lifting me, helping me climb into what must be the cab of a truck. I’m guided ontoa seat, the vinyl cold beneath my legs. I hear the door close, and then nothing. Just the sound of men’s voices, distant and muffled, and the occasional slam of a truck door or tailgate.
I sit in darkness, trying to control my breathing, trying to ignore the fear coiling in my stomach. Minutes pass, maybe hours; I lose track of time. . The air grows colder and I shiver in my pink sweatshirt, wishing for something warmer.
Finally, I hear the driver’s door open. Someone climbs in beside me, the truck dipping slightly with their weight. The engine rumbles to life beneath us. We begin to move, the truck bouncing slightly on the uneven ground before smoothing out.
Neither of us speaks. I can’t tell who’s driving; they make no sound other than their breathing, steady and calm. I consider asking where we’re going, but something tells me I won‘t get an answer.
The drive seems to go on forever, or maybe it’s just the blindfold making time stretch strangely. Eventually, the truck slows, then stops completely. The engine cuts off. The driver’s door opens and closes. A moment later, my door opens as well.
Hands help me out of the truck, steadying me when my feet touch the ground. I’m guided forward again, but the surface beneath my feet has changed. No longer asphalt but dirt and small stones that shift under my weight. I stumble frequently now, the terrain uneven, but whoever is with me doesn’t let me fall.
Finally, we stop. I stand there, swaying slightly, disoriented and uncertain. Then I feel hands at my wrists, untying the bindings.
Hot breath against my ear makes me freeze. It’s Kit’s voice, now lowered to a whisper. “Tell him I did it for Amara,” he murmurs. “Don’t disappoint me, plant lady.”
And then he’s gone. I feel it; the sudden absence of his presence beside me. I’m rooted to the spot, afraid to move, afraid to call out. Is this a trick? Another test?
After what feels like an eternity, I slowly raise my hands to my face, half expecting someone to stop me. No one does. I pull the blindfold down, blinking as my eyes adjust to the dim light of early evening.
I’m alone in a small clearing, surrounded by trees. But not far away I can see lights. Headlights from passing cars. A road. Civilization.
I spin in a slow circle, looking for Kit, for any of his men, for the truck that brought me here. There’s nothing. Just trees and undergrowth and the distant hum of traffic.
My heart pounds as the reality sinks in. I’m free. Actually free.
I start walking toward the sound of cars, pushing through branches and undergrowth, stumbling over roots and rocks. The pink sweatshirt snags on branches, but I don’t care. I keep moving forward, toward the lights, toward people who might help me.
I break through the last line of trees and find myself on the shoulder of a busy highway. Cars whiz past, their headlights cutting through the gathering dusk. I follow the shoulder, walking with traffic, looking for any sign of civilization beyond the roadway.
In the distance, a gas station appears, its fluorescent lights a beacon in the growing darkness. I walk faster, then break into a jog, ignoring the pain in my bare feet.
The gas station is small but busy; several cars are fueling up at the pumps. I push through the door, the bell above it jingling cheerfully, and find myself in a brightly lit convenience store. The clerk, a middle-aged man with thinning hair, looks up from his phone. His eyes widen slightly as he takes in my appearance.
“Can I help you, miss?” he asks, his voice cautious.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. After everything, I’m not sure what to say. How to explain. What to do next.
“Can I use your phone?” I finally ask, my voice coming out as a croak. “Please. It’s an emergency.”
17
Chapter 17
Kayla