Nancy Small sits on the couch, her legs pulled up underneath her, her arms wrapped tightly around her body. It’s as if she’s trying to become smaller, squeezing into as tiny a space as possible. The room is dark except for a pool of light cast by a reading lamp next to her. The windows in the room are curtained, but the darkness outside seems to press against the house. She can’t wait for the sun to rise. Somehow she associates the dawn with an end to this nightmare she’s living.
This is the couch she normally shares with her family. She sits on one end, Stephen the other, and the boys—all three of them—squeeze in between them. Now the couch is empty. She’s in her normal spot, but the boys are staying with her parents. And Stephen…she doesn’t know where Stephen is.
No one does.
At least no one besides his kidnapper.
Their house—their warm house that holds memories in every corner—is now full of FBI agents and police detectives.
It’s the middle of the night, and no one has slept, least of all Nancy Small.
Her mind is a fog. To her, the men in suits are just blurs in the background. They move around doing whatever they’re doing, but her mind is elsewhere.
She is trying to remember the last time she saw Stephen. He left in a hurry, running out of the house because he believed there had been a break-in at the B. Harley Bradley House. She can’t remember if she said she loved him as he was walking out the door. Or if he said it to her.
It was their habit to say the words whenever they parted, but he’d been in such a hurry to get out the door, they might have forgotten.
It seems very important to remember whether she said it or not. She wants to remember Stephen’s face as he said the words.
She shakes her head, trying to clear it of her spiraling thoughts.
But then she notices something is different in the house. The atmosphere has changed. The police officers are talking with more urgency, speaking into radios, discussing what to do. Their voices are louder as they call out ideas to each other.
Nancy wants to ask what’s happening, but she feels paralyzed on the couch. How can she inquire about what’s going on when she can’t even rise to her feet?
Finally, the agent who seems to be in charge—she’s forgotten his name—approaches her and sits gently on the couch next to her, where Ramsey usually sits. The FBI agent wears round glasses and has a paunch. He looks like a nice man, and, from the start, she has believed him when he told her that he will do everything he can to bring her husband home safe.
“Nancy,” he says. “We’ve caught a break.”
“Do you know where Stephen is?”
“Not yet,” he says, “but we’re getting close.”
He explains that the surveillance teams spotted a car leaving the location where the telephone call was made. An undercover officer followed the car to a home in Kankakee.
“We’ve run the plates,” he says. “Does the name Nancy Rish mean anything to you?”
Nancy is stunned for a moment—the absurdity that Stephen’s kidnapper is a woman with the same first name as hers? Then she thinks hard, traveling through her mind looking for any reference to the name.
“No,” she says. “I have no idea who that is.”
“Well,” the agent says, “we believe she is one of the kidnappers, working with at least one accomplice. We’re assembling a SWAT team now. We’re going to bring her down. If all goes well, we’ll have Stephen home by dinner tomorrow.”
Nancy feels her heart swell with hope. But then a cold needle pops her balloon of optimism, and she fills back up with apprehension.
The kidnapper said Stephen had forty-eight hours of air.
If he isn’t home by dinner, as the agent suggested, then he’ll soon be running out of oxygen.