Chapter 25

Clare never saw her attacker. She’d been sitting on her couch, mid-day, reviewing analytics she’d received from the marketing department at work. Her head wasn’t in it, though. Her thoughts were with Peter. She’d been upset with herself over how she’d acted toward him the past few days. It wasn’t Peter’s fault she’d been caught up in an armed robbery. In fact, he’d been incredibly calm throughout the whole ordeal. Clare shudders to think how it might have gone without him there.

Caught up in the memory, Clare lit a candle to settle her nerves. The counseling she’d received had helped, and she was glad she reached out to Peter to suggest a meet-up. A smile crept across her face over the thought of seeing him again. She considered the time and stood to retrieve her phone from the kitchen counter.

A searing pain struck Clare in the back of the head, and her vision blurred as she stumbled and landed face down on her couch. She’d feared she’d had an aneurism.

Now awake and suffering the residual headache from the blow, Clare finds herself in a small room, possibly a basement, if the damp smell is any indication. She is tied to a chair, arms squeezed against her sides, hands behind her. Her calves are similarly tied and secured to the chair’s legs.

“Hello,” she manages a hoarse whisper and clears her throat. “Hello?” Clare feels utterly helpless. How could she have ended up here? Who would have done this to her? She runs through a series of possibilities but arrives at no one who would want to scare her like this. They’d assaulted her. They’ve hidden her away. This is a nightmare, she thinks as panic rises to meet the intensity of the pounding in her head.

It’s so dark; she waits for her eyes to adjust. Slivers of muted light break up the darkness where blackout curtains must be drawn over the high-set windows. Her other senses work diligently to discern her location. She listens to the creaks and groans of the building above her. It’s a basement, she surmises. Something scuttles across her foot, and she lets out a squeak of terror. Her mind fills with scenarios of being left to the rats. She hates rats. It’s why she bought the penthouse suite. No rats. No possibility of rats. Now she shares a dark, dank basement with the greasy little monsters.

What have I done to deserve this? There’s nothing I could have done to end up like this. She struggles again against the rough ropes expertly securing her to the chair. She tries to stand to see if the ropes will give a little but is afraid to fall over and have her face at the same level as the vermin.

Tears tumble quickly down her reddening face. Clare cries out to frighten the rats but also out of frustration. The chair bounces on its feet as she can’t help but continue the struggle. I won’t die like this, she tells herself. I won’t. The chair feels made of metal, so she can’t hope to break its back and wiggle free. Sweat stings her eyes as it moves past her thin eyebrows. She wants to scream again but considers her position.

I’m alone right now, save the rats; perhaps my captor should think me unconscious. What will they do to me when they learn I’m awake? They’ve been waiting for me to regain consciousness. Why? Why do this to me? I’m nobody. She is a young executive at a budding social media platform. There could be no ransom for my life. My parents work two jobs each and live in a rental on the city’s outskirts. There is no money.

Clare becomes angry at the absurdity of it. This can’t be for money, but if not money, what? Will she be sold to some uber-wealthy ex-pat on an island somewhere? Will she never see her family again? Peter? It’s odd Peter comes to mind, she thinks. Peter, who she’s only just met but has become increasingly fond of. Someone she could see herself with in the long term. Would he be her knight in shining armor? Could he? He would be worried she hadn’t shown up on their date. Was that last night? How long has it been?

She wants answers but not from the person who’s abducted her. She doesn’t want to face them. Who could they be? Why are they doing this? She tries to rub the rope against the chair’s back spindle where her wrists meet. It’s painful, but it’s something. She can’t just sit here and do nothing.

Her breath catches in her throat as footfalls rain dust down on her from above. She coughs against her better judgment. Light pours into the basement down rickety-looking wooden steps from a door above.

A singular figure takes one methodical step at a time as they descend the staircase. Once they reach the cracked cement floor, Clare’s frantic gaze settles on an ambiguous character dressed in baggy, dark clothing, a balaclava over their face. Her heart sinks, and she holds her breath.