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Sam processed the words one at a time. Samantha...will...go.
"No!"
Garrison's shout came before she could formulate a reply.
"She can't."
The man in the suit stared at Garrison, a quizzical look on his face. "What do you mean, she can't?"
"She has agoraphobia."
He looked back at Sam, smiled. "Is that true?"
Garrison said, "It is, she can't—"
His words were cut off when the man pointed his gun at Garrison's head. "Stop talking."
Garrison glanced at her, and she willed him to be quiet. She would have to answer for herself, have to do whatever they asked of her. She didn't know how to do it, didn't know what he'd require, but she would have to find a way.
"I thought agoraphobics couldn't leave their houses," the man said. "But I didn't see anything that led me to believe a woman lived here." He looked at the scary guy. "Did you?"
The guy didn't respond, which apparently the suit took as a no.
The suit turned back to her, pushing his glasses up on his nose. "If you don't live here, but you are here, then you can't be agoraphobic."
Garrison inhaled like he was about to speak.
"I think I told you to be quiet." The man didn't break Sam's eye contact when he spoke to Garrison.
Garrison remained silent.
"I used to be like that." Just answer honestly. It was all she could do right now. She probably should have shown more fear by this point, but she'd been all right. It didn't make sense, really, but somehow, she'd managed the fear. She even felt calm. Sort of crazy calm. Crazy, obviously. Because for some reason, even in this, she had to have an element of the insane. "I used to stay mostly at home. There were a few places I'd go, but just a few, and none very far from my condo. But then, I got a little better. Now, I can go all over Nutfield."
"And these cabins you own?" he asked.
"They're all around the lake."
"I see. The car is in Manchester. That's not far. You can make it to Manchester."
She hadn't been in years. Not since her panic attack at the mall. And the thought of that had her inhaling deeply, then blowing out the breath. Garrison scooted closer and rested his shoulder against hers, his arm against hers. His strength, his warmth, his comfort. She took another deep breath, blew it out.
"It's been a long time since I've been to Manchester. Years."
"I see." The suit backed up, looked around the room, and sighed. He addressed the dark-skinned guy. "We can't send Frank. Knowing him, he'll bolt at the first sign of trouble, leave everybody else to fend for themselves."
"I would never do that!" Frank's voice was vehement as he looked at the suit, then at his son. "This is my son. I would never... I can go, do whatever you want me to do, and come back. I would never abandon my son." He looked across the room, seemed to remember there were others there, and added, "Or any of these people."
The suit shrugged. "That may be true. But I think you'd say whatever you have to say to get out of here." He looked at Matty. "Young Matthew is a wildcard. His explanation for all of this might be true. It might not. I'm not convinced he isn't talking out of both sides of his mouth. And teenagers these days...one can never be sure." The suit shifted, tapped Aiden's knee with his toe.
No. She didn't want Aiden to do it. He needed to stay with his father. She tried to speak, but all that came out was a pathetic squeak.
Garrison pressed into her shoulder.
"What's your name?" the man asked.
Garrison shifted to watch the scene while his son looked up and shook his hair out of his face. "Aiden."
"You look like your father."
Aiden glanced at Garrison, then back at the man. "I'll do it. I won't cause any trouble. All I want is for my father and my friends to be safe. I'll do exactly as I'm told."
"Perhaps. How old are you?"
"Seventeen."
"I see." The man looked at the Indian guy, who shook his head slightly. "I tend to agree." He let his gaze roam the room. "The problem is that we need somebody who looks innocent, somebody who, if a guard or a cop approaches as we're retrieving the package, can seem legitimate. No offense, but it's the teenager thing again. What cop will believe a long-haired greasy teenager isn't up to no good? And then, my friend over there would have to kill the cop. And we'd prefer not to go that route."
Kill the cop. The man's words ricocheted like bullets in Sam's mind. She gasped, tried to blow the breath out, but it felt stuck there. She gasped again.
"It's okay," Garrison said. He inhaled slowly, then exhaled. She had to relax, had to get her breathing under control. She listened to Garrison breathing, matched his breaths again and again until she felt normal.
She leaned toward him, pressed against him. "Thank you."
"You're okay." He kept his shoulder pressed against hers. The feel of his breath in her hair calmed her.
She looked up, saw the suit watching them. "Are you two done?"
"She has an anxiety disorder," Garrison said. "I'm guessing your talk of killing people frightened her."
The man studied her, and she tried to hold his gaze. Maybe ten seconds passed before she looked at the floor again.
Amazing, really, that she was doing this. Some part of her wanted to stop, to analyze it. What was different now from the night before? She was very aware of the danger of a panic attack, had nearly had one. But she hadn't. With Garrison's help, she'd controlled it.
She sent up a quick prayer, just one more among the constant stream she'd prayed since she'd seen the scary guy and his big black gun approach from the house. That moment, the world had seemed to stop. She'd thought at first she was hallucinating, thought it until the man had grabbed her arm, propelled her forward. She'd stumbled, fallen on the gravel driveway. The man had just stood there with his scary gun and waited.
She'd stood, gone inside, and seen Garrison and Aiden. She'd seen the other two prisoners, a man and a teenager. She'd known then that a panic attack would make everything worse. All she could do was pray.
She still prayed. Surely, this wasn't how God intended for any of them to die.
And if he did, she wasn't going to go like this, cowering on the floor. She gazed up, saw the man studying Garrison.
"No, you won't do," he said. "You may be a forensic accountant, but you carry yourself like a cowboy. Or a soldier. Or a cop. Spend some time in the service, did you?"
She felt his shoulders rise and fall. "A few years. Mostly clerical work."
"Right. You look like the typical secretary."
"You should see my shorthand."
How could Garrison make jokes? The man was nuts.
The suit smiled and shook his head. "Sorry, but I'm not buying it. You're staying right there where we can keep our eyes on you. Where we can keep our guns aimed at your son, keep you in line." He shifted to look again at Sam. "And I'm back to you, sweetheart."
She held his gaze.
"She can't," Garrison said.
"Let me do it," Aiden said. "I can be convincing. Ask my dad—I'm a great liar."
Matty said, "No. I'll go. I swear I'm not up to anything. I just want to make all this right."
Frank said, "Send me. You know I won't double-cross you, man. We've worked together enough. You should trust me."
Garrison repeated, "She can't. Any of the rest of us can do it."
Through it all, the suit stared at her. And she at him.
"I can do it," she said.
The suit nodded. "If you care about these people, you'll have to." He returned to his seat, pulled a small notebook and pen from an inside pocket, and peered at the computer screen. He wrote something down, tore the sheet off, and handed it to the scary guy. Then he picked up his gun and aimed it at Aiden again.
Garrison tensed.
Aiden looked down.
Sam prayed and watched the scary guy type on a cell phone, then slip the phone into his jeans' pocket and pull his gun out again.
The suit aimed at Matty. "Stand up and sit in front of your friend over there."
Matty pushed himself up, crossed the debris, and settled beside Aiden.
"Do you not comprehend the words, 'in front'?"
Matty shifted until he was directly in front of Aiden, facing the sofa where his father still sat.
"Your turn, Frank. Right in front of the accountant-slash-secretary."
Frank obeyed, settling in front of Garrison. Probably a human shield to keep Garrison from moving.
"There we go. Isn't that cozy?" The suit disappeared into the kitchen. He returned with a knife and motioned for Sam to turn around. She slid so her back was facing him, and a moment later, the plastic tie fell away.
She shifted her hands, turned, and met Garrison's eyes. "I'll be okay."
He held her gaze. "I'm so sorry."
"It's not your fault." She kissed him, a quick peck that had the suit sighing.
"You can do this." Garrison stared into her eyes like he was trying to impart a message. "Just another day at the office."
The office?
"Whenever you're ready," the man in the suit said.
She squeezed Garrison's forearm. "I'll be okay." Then she stood and approached the door.
"The white SUV," the suit asked, "is it yours?"
"Yes."
"And the keys are where?"
She had to think. "They're in my purse, in Garrison's rental."
"Okay." The suit turned to Garrison. "Is it unlocked?"
He shrugged. "I think so. We hadn't finished unloading it."
"And the keys to the Camry?"
"They're with it," Garrison said. "I don't have another set with me."
The man smirked. "Does it have an alarm?"
"Yeah."
"Of course it does." The suit looked back at her. "You know what the car looks like?"
"Black Camry, New York plates. There probably won't be more than one."
The suit nodded, his face solemn. He looked at the other prisoners, then approached her. Just a foot away, he stopped, looked into her eyes. "Listen closely."
She swallowed. Didn't speak.
"If you don't come back, they die. If my friend doesn't come back, they die. If the package doesn't come back, they die. You understand me?"
"Yes."
"If you try anything funny, you die. Any questions?"
"No."
He stepped back and smiled like he was sending them off for a holiday. "Hurry back."
The scary guy motioned toward the door with his gun.
She turned, met Aiden's eyes, then met Garrison's. With a deep breath, she stepped into the warm night air.
A breeze rustled the treetops and carried with it the scent of rain. Ever since little Ana had been rescued a few months before, she'd associated the scent of rain with the presence of God.
Maybe the scent was a gift.
Maybe it was a coincidence, and she was grasping for any reason to hope.
"Get your purse."
She jumped at the words. It was the first time the scary guy had spoken. She'd imagined him with an Indian accent, so the Brooklyn accent threw her.
She opened the passenger door of Garrison's rental and lifted her pocketbook. She started to reach inside it, but the scary guy yanked it out of her hand. He tipped it over and shook the contents onto the gravel at her feet. He toed the things there. In the dim light coming from inside the car, she saw her wallet, the little bag with her lipsticks in it, her cell phone, her checkbook, a couple of pens. And of course, her keys.
He stepped back. "Get the keys. Put everything else back in the purse, then put the purse in the car."
She did as she was told, then at his prompting, climbed into the driver's seat of her SUV. This was one of her safe places, but it felt anything but safe right now.
He climbed in beside her, rested the gun, his hand still ready to aim and fire, on his lap. "Turn left."
Though the highway was in the other direction, she turned left. They drove past a few cabins. When she reached the little parking lot beside the beach, he said, "Stop behind the BMW."
The luxury car was parked on the beach out of sight of the road unless you were looking for it. There was a dark sedan beside it. Like the BMW, it had New York plates. She did as she was told. The man took keys from his pocket and pressed a button. The trunk popped open. He stepped out of the car and pointed the gun at her head. She looked away, stared straight ahead at the gaping hole of the other car's trunk. Swallowed. Prayed.
"Don't move. I'll be right back."
This could be a moment of escape. If she could move fast enough. If he aimed and missed. She could imagine the gunshot reverberating across the lake. The man in the suit would hear it. Garrison would hear it. They would all hear it, and they would know something had happened. And then...what? The man would wait for his friend. His friend would return. They would start killing people.
Sam closed her eyes, gripped the steering wheel, and breathed deeply. In and out, in and out.
She heard the trunk slam. A moment later, her back door opened. Something metal clanked behind her before the door closed again.
And then he slipped in beside her.
"Good choice." He fiddled with his phone, and a woman's monotone voice prompted her to head east.
She backed out of the driveway and turned toward the highway.
They passed the cabin where Garrison waited for her to return. His words came back to her.
Another day at the office. That remark had made no sense, because she only had her office at home, and he'd never seen that. So maybe he'd just been trying to encourage her, but his words seemed so specific. A secret message she was meant to figure out?
She hadn't worked in an office since she'd quit her job with the town. They'd been talking about that on Monday night—which was only last night, which hardly seemed possible. They'd been talking about her job with Eric and Brady. She'd joked about how she never saw them anymore, since her office wasn't attached to the police station.
And that was it, of course. Garrison was telling her to try to get the police involved. Try to escape. Try to alert Brady or Eric or any of them to the trouble at the lake. But even if she had the opportunity to get away, would she dare? Could she risk all of their lives on that gamble?
Not a chance. She'd do what she was told. She wouldn't take any risks with Garrison's life. With Aiden's or the others' lives. Even if she had the opportunity, she knew she'd do everything in her power to return to the cabin with the package. It was her only chance to save the people she loved.