The man from the plane doesn’t show up at baggage claim. I don’t know whether I’m disappointed not to see him again. He would have made small talk, and I hate small talk.
Except when it’s with handsome strangers, apparently.
Then even talking about the weather would make a little fire pitch inside my stomach.
He probably only brought a carry-on. Except he hadn’t pulled one down from the overhead bins. He’d only had a leather briefcase. Strange, even for someone traveling light.
A loud buzzing sound heralds the arrival of our luggage. They slide down the chute, stacking on each other in clumps like a poorly played game of Tetris. After a full revolution of the carousel, my cornflower-blue bag appears.
I grasp it and pull, almost falling backward.
Signs lead the way through customs and border control. I’m snapped at in rapid French for not checking the right box on the form. And then I’m finally free to find the exit.
A big blue sign proclaims TAXI. I pull my luggage along the rubbery floor, eager for a breath of fresh air. A block of exhaust envelops me. The crowd of people shout and wave their arms, a stark contrast to the languor inside the airport.
These aren’t travelers. That registers first.
They don’t have luggage. They’re wearing jackets and holding signs.
Protestors. Something about Uber. A row of yellow-and-black taxis don’t appear to be moving. A group of men surround a black Escalade, pushing, pushing, and I let out a shriek that no one hears. A window breaks, and they cheer.
“They’re on strike,” comes a low voice behind me, and I gasp. Adam gives me an apologetic smile. “The taxi drivers. Only a matter of time before they get violent.”
I watch them rock the Escalade back and forth on its wheels. “That’s not violent?”
“More violent,” he amends. “It’ll be hell getting out of here.”
Anxiety grips my chest. “What should I do?”
He pauses, seeming almost embarrassed. “You could get a train. Or… look, I hesitate to say this. I don’t want you to think I’m hitting on you. Again, that is. But I have a town car waiting. One of those things you schedule before the trip. They wait in a different lane than taxis.”
Relief is a steaming cup of coffee on a terrible morning. “God, that sounds—no, I couldn’t. I mean, it sounds wonderful, but I couldn’t inconvenience you that way.”
He nods once. Then turns, as if to walk away. Then looks back. “Where are you going? It might be on the way to where I’m going. Maybe.”
Hope sparks inside me. “The embassy. The American Embassy.”
A pause. He rubs a large palm across his jaw, and I can hear the scrape of his growth from here. “I believe that’s in central Paris. Where I’m heading. Listen, are you in some kind of trouble? We could look for a cop around here. I’m sure we can find one.”
That’s what decides me, that genuine note of concern in his voice. “No, I’m not in trouble. It’s my sister. She’s been missing two weeks already. I have to go to the embassy.”
His brown eyes soften. “I can get you to central Paris. Then you can grab the metro.”
“Thank you. God.” A stone smashes a window. “So much.”
He takes the handle of my suitcase before I can object.
Then he’s wheeling it over a bumpy sidewalk crossing. I struggle to keep up with his long strides. We round a corner, and everything becomes suddenly quieter. It’s almost eerie, the way sound doesn’t travel around this building. As if the riot a few yards away was a dream.
There’s not a neat row of black town cars. There’s only a lonely road. And a dumpster.
I do a little skip to eat up the pavement. “Are you sure this is the right way?”
“I’m sure,” he calls back, not slowing for an instant.
Nervous energy hits my body like I’ve run into a wall. Sparks in my chest. A thud at the base of my skull. I suck in air through a straw. I can’t trust him, this Adam Bisset. That might not even be his name.
My step falters, but he has my suitcase. All my things. My clothes.
Pictures of my sister. Her birth certificate.
What if I take it from him?
What if I rip it out of his hand and run back to the cabs?
Part of me feels ridiculous for even thinking it. He’s done nothing wrong. All he did was walk fast. That’s not a crime. Twenty-four years of social conditioning tell me to act normal. Act nice. The persistent rat-tat-tat of my heart warns me that something is wrong.
“Excuse me? Mr. Bisset. Adam. Wait.”
He doesn’t wait. He just keeps walking, and that’s when I know, when I know that I’m in trouble. I stop midstep. I need what’s in the suitcase. How can I make my way in a foreign city without clothes? But I can’t follow this man into—where? I take a step back.
The screech of a tire snaps me to attention. A white van bumps onto the curb. The man inside wears a black ski mask. Time slows to a crawl. Gravel sprays from the thick black tires. The protestors are only a dull roar. They won’t hear me if I scream. I turn toward Adam, as if he might protect me. And for a moment, he does. He pulls me close to him, shielding me. He murmurs in my ear, “Don’t fight, ma petite. It will only make this harder for you.”
My eyes widen. Then something black and thick covers my head. Hands drag me toward the van, and I fight, blind and in shock, lashing out at nothing before my arms are caught behind my back. Then I’m shoved roughly into something in motion. Something hard hits my face. The floor. I’m slammed to the side. A sharp pain behind my head. And then darkness.
CHAPTER THREE
My eyes open to pitch-black.
I wait for my bedroom to come into focus. Nothing happens. This is the complete kind of darkness, the kind without even shadows. My lungs burn, as if I’ve been holding my breath. I gulp down damp and moldy air. I curl my fingers against stone. Faintly slick. Biting cold.
Where am I?
Memories drop into my mind like rain in a puddle. I remember the long flight and fear for my sister. I remember the man with the movie-star smile.
I remember my fear for my sister. London, are you okay? But I can’t worry about her right now. I’m the one who needs help.
A shudder works its way through my body, lingering in aches and bruises, waking up pain as it goes. I move myself to a sitting position with a soft groan. The floor feels slightly uneven, almost like a natural rock formation. A cave or something.
I crawl forward. Something hard meets my face. My fists close around iron bars.
Not completely natural, then.
Adam Bisset. Why did he take me? Because I’m a tourist? Maybe he thought I’d have money. That’s no reason to take me, only my bags.
Or maybe he recognized me as the famous children’s book author. Except that the only person who could pay ransom without giving my parents a heart attack is my sister, and she’s missing.
There’s no other reason he would take me.
Isn’t there? The soft voice inside my head knows exactly why a man would take a woman. He asked me out, didn’t he? He asked to show me around the city. I said no.
He doesn’t take rejection well.
The darkness closes in on me, it becomes a tactile force, squeezing my lungs. I don’t want to stay here, in this pitch-black prison. I can’t stay here. There’s no oxygen. I gasp through the fist around my throat. I’m going to die here, before Adam can even touch me, and that seems almost like a gift, except that the body fights anyway. It wants to live.