Skip to content 
.
She’d completely forgotten about the National Geographic magazine. All that mattered now was getting away. She found the escalator and descended quickly, gripping the rail with white knuckles. The supermarket exit seemed miles away. Through the glass doors, she spotted her bus approaching. Helen burst outside and half ran, half stumbled toward the stop.
The doors had already closed, but the elderly driver saw her desperate waving. “Please,” she panted. The driver, a kind-faced man who looked to be in his 70s, reopened the doors. “Take your time, dear.” Helen climbed aboard, fumbling for her bus pass with shaking hands. “Thank you so much.” She made her way to the special seating area reserved for the elderly, and collapsed into a seat.
As the bus pulled away, she glanced back at the supermarket. No sign of the man, but his words echoed in her mind. We’ve been watching for years. If Zayn was truly alive, what had he become? Who was that man? And what price would she have to pay to see him again? Helen stepped off the bus at the hospital complex, her legs still shaky from the encounter at the supermarket.
The familiar medical building loomed before her. Its beige walls and tinted windows a testament to years of routine visits. She checked in at the reception desk, went through the usual blood pressure checks, and sat in the waiting room until her name was called. Dr. Peterson was efficient as always, reviewing her heart medication and writing new prescriptions.
Helen barely heard his reminders about avoiding stress. Her mind kept returning to the man’s threat and those impossible song lyrics. When she finally emerged from the appointment, prescription bag in hand, the afternoon sun was already declining. She stood at the bus stop outside the hospital, torn, the man had warned her explicitly not to talk to anyone, but Malcolm deserved to know about the plane.
He was still her husband despite everything. She couldn’t simply abandon him. A car horn broke through her thoughts. Across the street, a dark sedan idled. The man from earlier sat behind the wheel, gesturing her over with a curt nod. Helen’s stomach clenched. She considered running back into the hospital, but his earlier words echoed.
“Bad things will happen to you and your boy.” She crossed the road slowly, each step feeling like a betrayal of her better judgment. The man rolled down his window. Get in the back, he ordered. Helen hesitated. I don’t even know who you are. Back seat now. His tone left no room for argument. Against every instinct, Helen opened the rear door and slid inside.
The locks clicked immediately. “I know you were planning to visit your husband. You’re waiting for the bus to head that way, not back home,” the man said, pulling into traffic. “Can’t let that happen. I won’t say anything about you, Helen protested. I just need to tell him about the plane. He has a right to know. No, you can’t just put these on.
He tossed a pair of handcuffs onto the back seat. Helen stared at them in disbelief. Number I don’t know you. I don’t trust you. I should have called the police. Now you’re testing my patience. In one fluid motion, the man turned and grabbed her wrists, snapping the cuffs on despite her struggles.
“Make a sound and I’ll kill you right here.” Terror paralyzed Helen as he resumed driving. They left Crescent Harbor behind, the familiar streets giving way to highway, then narrow roads lined with towering pines. After what felt like hours, but was probably 40 minutes, he turned onto a dirt track barely wide enough for the car.
A cabin appeared through the trees, small, isolated, windows dark. The man parked and hauled her out, his grip firm on her arm. Inside, the cabin smelled of mildew and old smoke, sparse furniture, a stone fireplace, little else. Why are you doing this? Helen demanded. The police will look for me. When I don’t show up, they’ll search.
You can’t keep me here forever. I can and I will. Now you need to be quiet for your own good. He produced a roll of black duct tape and wrapped it around her mouth despite her muffled protests. He stepped outside, pulling out a cigarette and cell phone. Through the window, Helen watched him pace while talking. When he noticed her staring, he moved further away out of earshot.
Helen tested the handcuffs, but they were professional grade. Impossible for her arthritic hands to slip. Panic rose in her throat. She was 63 years old with a heart condition. Kidnapped by a stranger who claimed to know about her missing son. The man returned, crushing his cigarette under his boot. He moved to the far wall and pressed on what looked like ordinary wood paneling.
A section swung inward, revealing a hidden compartment. He extracted several small packages wrapped in plastic, each containing white powder. Helen’s eyes widened. She knew exactly what those were. He ripped the tape from her mouth. She gasped. What is that? You need to swallow these. Those are drugs. Helen shook her head violently. Number I won’t.