The sunlight morphs from bright white to mellow yellow as the hours pass by and afternoon yields to early evening. I watch the shadows change, lengthening and growing as twilight approaches, and shiver at the thought of spending an entire night sitting here alone in the darkness.
My captors said they’ll be back in a week, if Paul fails to return whatever it is he took from their boss.One week.Might as well be a lifetime. I’ve read enough books about wilderness survival to remember the Rule of Threes.
Three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food.
Good news? I might not starve to death.
Bad news? I’m still going to die — either from dehydration or mortification. Because the fact that I’m here, asscheeks going numb from sitting so long, stomach rumbling with hunger, about to pee my yoga pants becauseoh my freaking godit’s been hours since I last encountered a bathroom, all due to my asshole husband getting himself into trouble with some seriously scary dudes…
That’s just pathetic.
I hear a beep from the bowels of my bag: my phone is dying. Not that it matters — I can’t reach it with my hands bound, anyway. For a while, as I listen to the rhythmic beeps of the depleting battery, I entertain the deluded thought that someone will call and check in on me. That, when I fail to answer my phone, they’ll get in their car and come over to make sure everything is A-OK at the Hunt household.
After all, a gal can’t just fall of the face of the earth without anyone bothering to notice…
Right?
The reassurances sound thin to my own ears. The truth is, the few family members still in my life reside three states away and don’t keep in touch if it’s not a major holiday — sometimes, not even then. As a freelance graphic designer, I don’t have any co-workers to notice my absence in an office cubicle come Monday morning. And my friends are all far too busy with their own lives to realize mine might be in jeopardy.
Phoebe’s off on her honeymoon with her new husband. Gemma is due to have her baby any time now, confined strictly to bed rest until she goes into labor. Chrissy has two toddlers that keep her occupied every minute of the day. Lila is working full-time as a nanny while balancing her brand new relationship. And Zoe is halfway around the world by now, sailing off into the sunset with her fiancé. It’s safe to say, “Check in on Shelby!” isn’t the most important item on their packed to-do lists.
I’m officially on my own, here.
Night falls, and with it the temperature. I shiver in the dark, wishing I could summon the strength even to cry about my own miserable luck, but I’m too tired. Every bone in my body aches like I’ve been thrown down a flight of stairs. Ten straight hours of stress have sapped my energy levels completely. To make matters worse, when all is said and done, I’ll probably have a UTI from holding my pee for this long… if I manage to survive, that is.
Straining my ears, I listen to sounds from the street as my neighbors return home for the night — slamming car doors, muffled laughter. I imagine them eating dinner, watching tv, climbing the stairs to go to sleep. Eventually, the whole block falls silent as lights are doused and eyes slip closed.
All my life, I’ve felt invisible. As though no one sees the real Shelby Hunt — merely the illusion I’ve put forth for so many years, desperate to show the world a brave face instead of a tear-stained one.
The perfect woman in the perfect house with the perfect marriage.
As the hours trickle by, silent and unyielding, I realize my well-crafted facade of perfection will be my own undoing.
No one is looking for me.
No one is coming for me.
I am alone in a prison of my own making.
I have built my walls so high, isolated myself so thoroughly, that even my closest friends and family will not seek me out when a day, or a week, or a month goes by without contact.
I will slip out of existence as easily as a ring off the finger of a cheating husband at a seedy bar whose wife waits at home with dinner on the table.
I am Shelby Hunt.
The perfect woman.
The perfect ghost.
Chapter Three
AVOCA-DON’T
I’m notsure what wakes me.
Perhaps the stirring of the curtains as wind blows through the half-closed bay window. Perhaps some distant sound — the jiggling of a doorknob, the thudding of footsteps on a wood porch. Perhaps nothing remotely so dramatic — merely the dull ache in my bones from being stuck in the same upright position for such a long time.
It doesn’t matter.