and when it’s near enough to make out the driver of the boat, my stomach drops.
The person is dressed from head-to-toe in black, including the ski mask covering his face. It’s a guy, I can tell that much from the broad shoulders and height. He literally looks like he’s playing the part of a kidnapper in a thriller movie. He looks like a criminal. A goon. A Devil.
In conclusion, he looks scary as hell.
He docks the boat and cuts the motor, looping the tie around the post to keep it in place. He does this all in an easy, casual display of competence. I stare at that mask, the clothes, and am suddenly overcome by the insanity of this moment.
This is crazy. Crazy! I’m out here past curfew getting picked up on a boat by some large guy wearing a ski mask, and no one knows where I am. God, I can see my mom delivering the story in complete clarity. Seventeen-year-old Vandy Hall was last seen in her own home on the night of September 15th. My hands are shaking so badly that I’m almost positive Masked Goon Dude can see it, even in the dark. Why did I think this was a good idea?
I don’t do things like this. Impulsive, brash, scary behavior isn’t me. I stay home. I read books. I binge-watch ridiculous teen dramas on Netflix. I get stoned, but I don’t do this—whatever the hell this is.
But…
That electric thrum of exhilaration keeps ratcheting up and up, and it’s not the same—it’s not the dullness and numbness of the pills—but I know a high when I feel it, and if this doesn’t qualify as one, then nothing does.
The guy steps easily off the boat, takes a few paces in my direction, and extends a large, gloved hand. “Let me see your envelope.” The tremors in my hands are all the more apparent when I reluctantly comply, handing it over to him. If he notices, he at least does me the courtesy of ignoring it. He skims the paper and tucks it in his back pocket.
Note to self: take photographic evidence of everything.
“Before we go anywhere, you need to know that there’s no turning back. Once you step on that boat, you’re in.” I strain to recognize the voice, deep and gruff, but I can’t. It isn’t Emory or Reyn, of that much I’m sure. “You can’t tell anyone what’s about to happen. If you do—”
“I won’t,” I finally speak up, dusting my hands on my thighs. “Whatever this is, I’m in.”
It’s too dark to see the eyes of the boy standing in front of me, but I can tell he’s assessing me closely, silently. Whoever he is, I’m sure he’s wondering what the hell Vandy Hall is doing here. Who would invite this poor, broken, goody-goody girl to be a part of whatever this is?
He must come to some conclusion, because he pulls out another mask. This mask isn’t like his. It’s more like a bag—no eye holes—obviously meant to keep me blindfolded. He spreads it with both hands and holds it aloft, waiting. Every nerve in my body is screaming like an alarm, but I step forward, letting him slip the bag over my head anyway.
It’s scratchy and a little too big, and if I thought the lake at night was dark, then I was sorely mistaken. This is pitch-blackness, and I’m unable to make out anything but the sound of his feet against the weathered wood beneath us. His hand closes around my elbow, guiding me to the boat, but with the lack of any visibility and my dumb foot catching on an uneven board, I stumble, having to hop a bit to keep my balance. I don’t miss my kidnapper’s deep sigh at this, his hand tightening on my arm as he escorts me forward. I jerk away, determined to make it on my own. He lets me walk with only a hand on my shoulder to guide me, until I reach the edge of the dock. With surprisingly gentle hands, he helps me over the edge of the boat and into a seat.
A moment later, the motor cranks. He pushes the throttle so that the boat flies over the water, gliding over the smooth surface. I hold onto my hood with one hand and my seat with the other, and it doesn’t matter that I can’t see anything, because I can feel it all. The crickets as they wake. The wind across