Another Precious Minute E-Book

J.D. Guice

• Herausgeber: Dragonfire Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

How do you find a victim when the witness can’t remember the crime?

Ivy Preston’s life takes an unforeseen turn when she witnesses a chilling kidnapping, but an accident leaves her with a problem—a concussion that erases her memory of the crime. Now, Ivy isn’t just a witness, she’s a blank slate in the face of danger.

As the kidnapper tightens his noose around Ivy, Detective Tomas Benson is desperate to piece together a puzzle with missing fragments. No one matching the victim’s description has been reported missing, and a piece of evidence left at the crime scene has the DNA of someone who died five years ago.

In this heart-stopping crime thriller, the shadows hold the answers… but as they deepen, so does the mystery, leaving Ivy and Detective Benson teetering on the precipice of an unsolved abyss.

Will they emerge from the darkness unscathed, or will the truth remain forever lost in the shadows?

Another Precious Minute is the debut kidnapping thriller from J.D. Guice, perfect for fans of James Patterson, Lisa Regan, Michael Connelly, and David Baldacci.

Leseprobe

Another Precious Minute

J.D. Guice

Another Precious Minute © 2024 by J.D. Guice

This is a work of fiction. All events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form without the express permission of the publisher.

Cover design by Keith Robinson

Dragonfire Press

e-Book ISBN: 978-1958354-59-9

Print ISBN: 978-1-958354-58-2

First Edition: 2024

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Prologue

15 Hours 2 Minutes

Wednesday, November 30 1:34 a.m.

My mind skips from thought to thought, replaying each moment of the day. I can’t stop the images from creeping into my head when I close my eyes. Every detail of her face is vivid, reflecting each emotion she experienced during those moments. I see the fear in her eyes when he placed the rag over her nose and mouth, and she realized what was happening. From the moment she lost consciousness until the second he slammed the trunk, her body twisted on the carpeted floor—I see it all.

In my mind’s eye, her face becomes his, their features twisting, merging into a nightmarish ripple. As he lifted her limp body into the trunk, fear and sadness filled his icy blue eyes, not hate and anger.

I tried to stop him from taking her, but he was too strong. I still feel the pressure of his hands on my shoulders, shoving me backward. In my dreamlike memory, I watch myself fall in slow motion, my head smashing a frozen mixture of sleet and snow on the pavement. I hear the ice pop and a hard pain explodes through my skull. Slowly losing consciousness, everything fades to black.

Since I witnessed the kidnapping yesterday morning, the two faces haunt my thoughts. The images won’t leave me alone, not for a second.

Sitting on the window seat, I stretch out my legs. A shiver weaves through my body, so I wrap the blanket next to me around my arms and tuck my legs underneath.

Gazing into the dark, dreary Boston sky, I’m mesmerized by the soothing sounds surrounding me. The enchanting violin solo, Ashokan Farewell, one of my favorite pieces, is playing low. The rhythmic clink of the frozen rain battering the windowpane accompanies the violinist.

Seeming to get louder and louder, the clock above the mantel in the adjoining room drowns out the sound of the clinking rain.

The clock is ticking, tick, ticking, and with each tick, another precious minute goes by.

I’ve always heard the first forty-eight hours are the most critical. If it’s true—she’s running out of time.

Chapter 1

24 Hours 17 Minutes

Wednesday 10:39 a.m.

Like most interrogation rooms, this one is small, furnished with only a simple wooden desk and three somewhat padded chairs. A computer screen stares at me as I sit at the desk. It’s hard to imagine how many others have been in this room doing the same thing I’m doing—searching for one particular face in an ocean of thousands.

With the push of a button, a photo flips past, then another, until the faces become a blur, a sea of images on a screen. So far this morning, I’ve viewed several hundred photos, and none resemble the kidnapper or victim.

Did I even see the man’s face as clearly as I thought? Even though we were within inches of each other, am I sure what he looked like? Is it possible that I misinterpreted what was happening? I know he put a cloth over the woman's nose and mouth and dumped her crumpled body into the trunk of the old blue car.

So, how does anyone misunderstand something like that? I laugh and dismiss the idea. Yes, I know what he looks like. I remember every dimple, every pimple, and every hair on his face. I’ll never forget what he looks like, perhaps never.

Weary, I slide the chair back and stand. I’m exhausted from spending hours scanning faces. My body is sore from sitting so long, and I’m disgusted with the tediousness of my task. I’m tired of looking at mugshots of thieves, murderers, and other criminals. It’s a waste of time. I want to do something—something that will help find her! But what?

Thankfully, the sketch artist, Holly Sampler, captured the kidnapper’s primary characteristics—his curly, dirty-blonde hair, scraggly beard, thin lips, and the small mole on his left cheek, with speed and accuracy. However, his eyes posed a problem. And no matter what shape we tried, something was off about them, so we never achieved the desired result.

Ms. Sampler compiled the sketch of the woman with little input from me. She drew the victim’s long, smooth, chestnut-colored hair and sculpted facial features in a single attempt. I hope my description is accurate. I had a hard time seeing the woman when she was lying unconscious or, God forbid, dead in the trunk.

Still, it’s difficult to describe one person, much less two. I only saw them for a few minutes in a tense situation. Sadly, nothing more can come from a second meeting with Ms. Sampler, but that’s what I’m supposed to do this afternoon. I roll my eyes at the mere thought of discussing facial details again.

As I move around the desk, I can’t suppress my yawn. After sitting so long, I stretch my arms and jiggle them to get the blood flowing. As I walk past the large window next to the door, I spot Detective Tomas Benson coming down the hall. He looks much more rested and less strained than when I met him at the hospital yesterday. The dark circles under his eyes are gone, and his face looks refreshed, no longer drawn and tired.

I didn’t make a perfect first impression on him, either. At least today, I’m not lying on a hospital bed getting stitches in my head. And I’m not soaking wet from falling in a puddle of icy water, blood oozing down my head, and moaning in pain. That wasn’t my finest moment. At least he’ll see me cleaned up and dry in a fresh setting today. As I straighten my top, I move away from the window and wait to see if he comes in.

The detective cracks the door just wide enough to poke his head around. His lips curl to one side in a half smile as he greets me.

With several fine creases etched into the corners of his gentle light brown eyes, I’d guess the detective is in his late forties to mid-fifties. He stands about five-eleven to six feet tall and towers over my petite frame. He’s a handsome man with a kind of magnetic appeal. The transition of his short, well-trimmed, dark mustache into his gray-flecked beard softens his facial features. His collar-length, salt-and-pepper hair lies in soft waves, giving him a younger, more stylish look than most men his age.

The black Patagonia winter jacket he’s wearing is a perfect fit over his simple brown knit henley, defining his athletic build. I can see myself being attracted to him—if he were a little younger. I blush at the idea and grin.

“Morning, Miss Preston. You’ve been at it for quite a while. After this long, I bet you need a break. Why don’t we get some fresh air.”

Before I can object, Detective Benson picks up my dark blue wool coat from the back of the chair, guides my arms through the sleeves, and then leads me from the room.

Using his hand on my back to direct me, the detective leads me through the narrow corridor past several detectives who nod. He continues to the central area of the police station where most officers work. Directing my attention to specific officers, Detective Benson calls them by name and tells me about their areas of expertise. Now and then, some officers stop what they’re doing, raise their heads, and acknowledge us as we walk past.

At one point, I spot the two officers who came to the hospital yesterday, the pricks who all but mocked me. They nod at Detective Benson, Cheshire cat smiles plastered on their faces. The detective tips his head in response, his eyes unblinking, his jaw rigid.

After we pass, the detective mumbles to himself, “Pricks.”

I look up at him and smile, thankful he’s the one working on this case.

As we walk through the central area, I feel self-conscious, like everyone is looking at me, so I avoid eye contact with most of the officers. I can’t help but wonder if they presume I’m leading them down a blind alley the way the first two I spoke with yesterday did. But no matter what they think, I can’t let my speculation about their thoughts intimidate me.

So, I hold my head high and plop my warm, fur-lined bucket hat atop my honey-brown hair. I wrap my burgundy wool scarf around my neck and tuck the ends inside my coat as we near the exit. My feet scurry, working to keep pace with the detective’s long stride.

“There’s a cafe down the block, on the corner. It’s a nice little place to sit and relax for a bit. It’s just a short walk if you’re up to it,” he suggests. He pulls a wool scally cap from an inside pocket and places it on his head before we step onto the snow-shoveled sidewalk.

The detective’s accent is apparent but not overpowering, and I can’t help but grin. Although I’ve lived in Boston for almost three years, I’m still intrigued by an authentic Bostonian dialect.

Detective Benson was the first officer to accept what I said to be true yesterday. He sat down with me and listened to my account of the kidnapping. He doesn’t seem to see me as some strange, neurotic person making up a wild story for attention.

Even though I’ve just met him, Detective Benson appears to be an excellent detective. He’s been helpful and kind. I feel comfortable—safe—when I’m around him. Despite being direct and assertive, he doesn’t come across as intimidating.

The first officers I spoke with yesterday, Detective Brandy and Detective Gallion, are the detectives I spotted at the station house. They suggested I got the gash on my head from an accidental slip on the icy pavement—accidental, meaning I was in a hurry and ignorant of the weather hazards. When I told them a man kidnapping a woman shoved me backward, they shook their heads and grinned at each other. They treated me like some hysterical woman with a giant imagination.

All cocky and condescending, those officers were so full of themselves. What made them assume I imagined the whole thing while I was unconscious? Both tried to conceal their giggles, but their rudeness was apparent. The detectives said a woman my size, in her right mind, wouldn’t try to stop a big man from abducting someone. They made it plain they didn’t buy my story, and having to make out a police report annoyed them even more. They even made me sound deranged in the written document. No wonder people don’t report crimes. Who wants to deal with assholes like them?

When I recall the kidnapping, I realize how dangerous my actions were. Confronting that guy wasn’t the most brilliant move I’ve ever made, that’s for sure. But I've always been the one to defend the underdog, even when I was a kid. I can’t count the number of times in grammar school I got my butt kicked by bullies when I tried to stop them from picking on other kids. Despite being small, like the ones they bullied, I didn’t just stand by and watch.

And again yesterday, I tried to help‌ the underdog—the woman. Since no one was around but me, I had to help. My only regret is not getting the tag number, but I couldn’t do that lying unconscious on the ground. If I had thought about it, I could have gotten it before I rushed in the way I did. When I saw the man behind the woman, his hand over her mouth and her struggling to get it off, my reactions kicked in. I didn’t think about what might be the best thing to do. I had no time to think, only act. It all happened so fast!

Detective Benson said I was lucky the man didn’t take me too, that he just slung me to the ground instead of pushing me into the trunk. As I swipe my hand across the back of my head and touch the line of stitches through the bandage, a twinge of pain shoots through my scalp. It seems the detective was right. I was lucky that my only injuries were a small gash and a sore head. If the man had thrown me in with that woman, I’d be wherever she is, if not dead.

Even now, the fear I saw on the woman’s face haunts me. I sense her fate lies in my hands, my finding the one person I’ve spent hours searching for. The one image I can’t erase from my mind.

The kidnapper’s face.

Chapter 2

24 Hours 32 Minutes

Wednesday 10:54 a.m.

When we arrive at B. J.’s Corner Brew, I notice the cafe has a distinct coffeehouse vibe with a free-spirited, boho-style decor. Lots of booths and tables are available for patrons to sit at. The bright patterned tablecloths draping the tables mix well with the gold, earth-tone sofas and soft chairs scattered about. Macrame wall hangings and art of different cultures add decorative character to the walls.

The fragrant aroma of brewed coffee and fresh-baked pastries drifting through the air arouses my senses. A subtle hint of incense mixes with the other aromatic fragrances, likely lingering from the evening crowd. It’s the sort of place you’d expect to find in South Boston, not downtown.

Detective Benson selects a booth in the back, away from the crowd. After he takes my coat and drapes it over the back of the seat, he scoots into the booth opposite me as I remove my hat and gloves.

I have to say he chose well. This cafe is perfect for unwinding after a tough day. The atmosphere is very relaxed and cozy. Maybe I’ll bring Nick one evening. It might be fun to listen to some singers and poets while sipping a warm drink with him. We’ve had little time together since he travels so much. We didn’t even get Thanksgiving Day together, just a fifteen-minute video call.

Nick’s gone a lot now that he’s the project manager of excavation sites. All his assignments are for extended periods in other states or other countries. It’s hard dating an archeologist since they’re constantly moving from one dig to another. At least, that’s been my experience. Our only contact in the past eight months has been phone calls and a rare visit home.

We were very close when we first started seeing each other. Nick wasn’t gone as much, and we reveled in each other’s company. Sighing, I fiddle with the bracelet he gave me. I know I have to accept that things have changed. Even though I wish he were here with me, that may not be what he wants now. Nick’s job is important to him, and I understand. It just seems like I’m not anymore.

“Any special coffee you’d like, Miss Preston?” The detective slips off his jacket and lays his hat on his gloves next to him.

Lost in my thoughts, I only hear part of the detective’s question. I’m surprised to see the server, a dark-haired, attractive woman in her thirties sporting tight jeans and a lavender turtleneck, standing beside the table. I didn’t notice her when she walked up.

“Um, I’ll have a latte—extra espresso, please.”

“And you, detective?” Gazing into Detective Benson’s eyes, she moistens her lips, licking them with her tongue. Acting as though she can’t hear over the noise, she inches a little closer to him, leans down, and all but kisses him as she takes his order.

Judging by the way he’s squirming, there’s no doubt the server, Lisa, by her name tag, made an indelible impression on the detective. Enthralled by the flirtatious behavior, I watch for his response, and, as I expect, he grins and gives her a wink. This silver-haired gentleman is turning out to be quite the lady’s man.

“I’ll just have black coffee today, Lisa. No frills.”

I wonder if this is a regular flirtation or a concealed romance. Not my business, though. Exhausted and depressed, I look down at my hands folded on the table and get lost in the intricate pattern on the tablecloth.

Detective Benson notices the solemn look on my face. “I bet you haven’t had a bite to eat today. Would you like a sandwich or a cup of chowder?”

Searching the menu, I find nothing appetizing. I shake my head and mumble, “No, thank you. I don’t think I could eat a bite.”

Ignoring what I say, the detective glances at Lisa. “How ‘bout bringing us two of your lunch chowders?”

“You got it.” Lisa jots the order on the pad. “Be right back.” She smiles and walks away, hips swaying.

As she moves out of view, the detective looks at me across the table. His face softens as though he’s gazing at a wounded kitten. Compassionately, he lays a single hand on mine, pats it, and smiles.

“It’ll be alright, ya know.” His voice is soft and low, almost a whisper.

Although I want to cry, I force a tight-lipped smile and hold my tears inside. I’m an emotional wreck. Maybe it’s because I banged my head on the ice or the trauma of the kidnapper overpowering me yesterday. It’s made me feel weak. Perhaps it’s because I’m also a victim, just not in the same way as the woman. I’m not a ‘needy’ person. Most of the time, I can handle anything thrown at me. But‌ right now, I feel so fragile, so alone. And I am—except for the detective.

My parents are planning to fly up from Jacksonville on Saturday. They’re concerned about my well-being. I’m hoping the police will find the woman before they get on the plane, so maybe they won’t come. I’m just not up to the whole family thing right now. As much as I love them, it’ll make it harder on me if they come. All the crying and pressure to act like I’m fine in front of them is more than I’m up for. I can get through these feelings, even if I do it alone—it’ll just take me a little time.

My friends would be there for me, but I don’t want them to worry, so I haven’t called or returned their calls. Divorced with two children, Mickie has her hands full, and I wouldn’t want to burden her with my problems. Alana and I have been friends since we started working together two years ago. I could call her, but I don’t want anyone at work involved in my private business. She’s trustworthy, but you never know when something might slip, not that the people at work won’t find out eventually.

And there’s Galvin—my very best friend. Last year, he became the concertmaster when he moved to the first violinist chair with the symphony. He’s such a skilled musician and a wonderful person. He brings beautiful music to my life, not only with the music he plays but with his gentle soul. We’ve known each other since college and have shared many fun times and long conversations over the years. Right now, he spends most of his time at the symphony. I don’t want to get him involved in something like this.

I always assume the role of comforter and protector, especially with my family and friends. And, judging by my reaction to the kidnapping, with strangers on the street, too. Sometimes, I just want someone to care for me and be my protector, but I’m not sure I can let my guard down long enough for that to happen.

If only I were more like Nick. He’s an adventurer, out to see the world. His focus is on himself, his wants, and his needs. Having fun and being spontaneous can be exciting, but I can’t just think about what I want all the time. Nick’s selfish and not as compassionate as I would like. He’s fun to be with, but I wouldn’t want to spend my life with someone like him.

I don’t want to see other countries the way Nick does. Dad was in the military and was stationed all over the world. We moved a lot when I was growing up, about every couple of years. The longest we stayed in one spot was four years in Hawaii. I loved it there. Maybe I should go back to Honolulu and set up my practice. I’m not sure I want to stay in Boston anymore, not after this.

Detective Benson sits, arms folded on the table, watching me, studying me, not saying a word. Lost in my thoughts, I notice the detective seems lost in his, too. However, judging by his intense gaze, I’m his subject. I wonder what he’s thinking? We’re both drawn back to the present as Lisa places our order on the table.

“Just let me know if you need anything else,” she says, smiling at the detective.

“This is perfect, Lisa. Thanks,” the detective replies. When she walks away, his eyes follow her across the room until she disappears into the kitchen.

Only then does he return his attention to me.

Detective Benson prepares his chowder, filling it with crackers and pepper, glancing up at me every few minutes. He blows on his chowder to cool it, then, eyeing me, takes his first bite.

“How you feelin’ today, Miss Preston? How’s your head?” he asks between spoonfuls.

“It’s a little sore. Guess I’m not as hard-headed as people think.” I chuckle, knowing how cliche it sounds. After stirring my chowder, I take a small bite. My brows squinch as I think about the kidnapping I witnessed. “I’m just afraid for that woman. I don’t think I’ve been much help in finding her.”

Pushing the chowder out of his way, the detective leans forward in his seat and props his folded arms on the table. “Miss Preston… Ivy, it’s been over twenty-four hours, and so far, no one has reported a woman missing. Normally, someone would have discovered the person was gone by now and contacted the police.”

My mind races, jumping from thought to thought, trying to grasp his implication. Does he doubt me, too? The one person I thought was on my side.

Shaking my head, confused, I ask, “What does that mean? That the woman’s just hanging out somewhere with the guy who took her? That she’s not missing? I know what I saw!”

“No, no, not at all! I don’t doubt you saw someone kidnapped.” Detective Benson takes a deep breath, leans back in his seat, and presses his lips together. Hesitating, he chooses his words carefully. “It’s just that… without a victim, we can’t put someone’s face on the news and call him a suspected kidnapper. Not yet, anyway,” he says, shrugging his shoulders.

What the detective says makes sense. He sounds like he still believes me, but I’m not sure. I breathe through pursed lips and try to calm my thoughts. I have so many questions flying through my mind.

“So, what happens now? The FBI gets involved in kidnapping cases, right? What do they think? Are they working on the case yet? Why haven’t they interviewed me?” Launching an avalanche of questions, I give the detective no time to answer.

Despite all my quizzing, Detective Benson remains calm and unshaken. He takes his last bite of chowder and leans back. “Well‌,” he replies, dabbing his napkin to his mouth. “I spoke with the FBI, but with no report of a missing person yet, that makes it a little more complicated.” He squints his eyes and uses his hand, demonstrating ‘a little’ with his fingers.

My shoulders drop as my spirit falls, and I stare at the pattern on the table. I’m so disheartened and frustrated, almost to the point of giving up. But I can’t give up, and I know it. A woman’s life is at stake, and as far as I know, I’m the only one who saw her get taken.

Noticing how upset I am, the detective leans over the table. “Finding missing people is my area of expertise, you know. I’m no rookie.” He smiles. “But the FBI is available to us should we need them.”

Detective Benson pauses, allowing me time to process all he’s saying. He relaxes, resting his arms on the table, and tilts his head. “I thought we might go back to the alley where you saw the kidnapping, just to see if something else might come to you.” The detective leans back against the booth, watching me closely.

The thought of returning to that place and reliving the event makes my stomach flip. I toss the idea around in my head for a few minutes while I finish my coffee.

“When did you want to go? I have an appointment with Holly Sampler at two.”

The detective rubs his chin, mulling over the options. “I’ll let Holly know you’ll be late. I think it’s more important that we get back to the scene before much more time goes by while things are still kinda fresh in your mind.”

Hesitating, I agree. “Okay, we can go back there, but I’m not sure it’ll help. I told you everything I saw. I don’t know what good it’ll do.” I push the half-eaten bowl of chowder away. Eating is the last thing on my mind.

“Well,” he says, getting up from the booth. “You just never know what little detail might pop into your head when you return to the crime scene.”

Detective Benson smiles as he downs his last bit of coffee and places a twenty on the table for the meal and another ten for Lisa.

Chapter 3

26 Hours 16 Minutes

Wednesday 12:38 p.m.

As we leave the coffee shop, a gust of harsh wind stings my face, sending a tingling sensation through my body. The feeling unnerves me for a second. I have a vague sense that something unpleasant is about to happen.

The detective changes his position, using his body to help block the wind off me. It’s comforting to know he’s trying to protect me, even if it’s just from the wind.

We take the detective’s black Dodge Charger to the Crestview Shopping Center in Monroe, a few miles southwest of Boston. He pulls the unmarked car into a parking space to the far side of Raymond’s Shoes and Geordies, a high-end women’s fashion shop.

Yellow crime scene tape outlines the investigation area in the alley between the two buildings. Two uniformed officers and one other man walk about inside the taped area, talking and pointing at different things. The snow and ice remain frozen in large patches on the pavement. The scene makes me uneasy.

Detective Benson unlatches his seat belt and looks around. “So, is this about where you parked yesterday?”

“I was where the green car is,” I state, pointing to a spot two lanes to the left. “I picked up a birthday gift at Geordies for one of my friends, then cut across the parking lot in front of the alley, heading back to my car.”

“Let’s head that way. We should recreate your exact steps as best we can to jog any memory hiding in that pretty little head.” He smiles, opens his door, and gets out. The hard ice crunches under his boots with every step he takes. It reminds me of the sound the kidnapper’s boots made as he walked away before I lost consciousness.

As the detective opens my car door, I lift myself from the seat. Standing beside the car, all the sounds around me blend with the roar in my ears. My stomach rolls like an ocean tide, and I feel lightheaded. The detective grabs my arm to help steady me, and I sink back into the seat to keep from falling.

“Are you okay, Ivy?” he asks, easing me back into the car. He squats beside the open door. “Do you need something to drink?”

The sick feeling in my head fades as quickly as it came. “I’m okay now,” I say. “I think I stood up too fast, but I feel better. Give me a few minutes to sit here, and I’ll be fine.”

“Has this happened before? Have you ever fainted or fallen without warning or anything like that?”

Baffled, I cock my head to one side, glaring at the detective. Oh, I see where his mind is going. He’s wondering if I could have had a spell like this yesterday when I fell and hit my head. Damn, that makes me mad! Is anyone going to believe me and start looking for that woman? The police are wasting time.

Taking a few deep breaths, I ignore Detective Benson’s question and lift myself out of the car. “I’m good now,” I state. “It may have been the coffee I had—a caffeine rush. I got extra espresso.” Flipping my scarf around my neck, I stare at the detective. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

I sprint toward Geordies with the detective trailing behind. He knows he ticked me off, even if he doesn't know how.

“Okay, okay, slow down a sec!” he yells, hustling to catch up. “I didn’t know short legs could move so fast!” He’s joking, but I ignore him.

“If we’re going to solve this crime, Ivy, we have to talk to each other.” Catching up with me, he shoves his hands in his pockets and lowers his head like a meek puppy. “I’m sorry if I upset you. I was only concerned about your health.”

He didn’t intend to offend me, and I realize it, so I slow down. “It’s okay. I’m a little sensitive today.” I brush my hand across my forehead, push a loose strand of hair out of my eyes, and huff.

“Honestly, I saw a woman getting abducted, and I got shoved to the ground the way I said. I didn’t just fall because I got dizzy.”

Detective Benson leaps in front of me and places both hands on my shoulders to stop my forward motion. His brows arch, and he tilts his head, looking deep into my eyes. “Wait a sec. You need to understand one thing. I'm not your enemy, Ivy. I’m on your side.”

I shift my eyes from his and look at the ground to break his deep gaze, but he moves his head to maintain eye contact. “Ya gotta understand,” he insists, lifting my chin. “I believe everything you said happened. What you saw, you saw. I need your help to find that woman,” he pleads. “Are ya with me on this or not?” His eyes, unblinking, are locked on mine.

Realizing he only wants to help, I see now that I made assumptions about what the detective was thinking when I didn’t know his intent. That’s not something I normally do. I’m off my game today. This kidnapping is getting to me.

“I’m so sorry, Detective Benson.” I look down at the ground. “I’m just…”

“It’s okay, Ivy,” he interrupts. “I can’t imagine how stressed you are. I understand, and it’s okay.” Detective Benson eases his grip on my shoulders. “You’re not alone in this. I’m here with you. I’m going to get you through this, and I’m not gonna stop trying to find the woman you saw.”

Taking a deep breath, I lift my shoulders and shake my head. “I’m truly sorry,” I say once more.

“It’s okay.” He smiles. “I swear, it’s okay.” He scans the parking lot and then looks toward the alley. “Ok, so which way did you go?” he asks, directing our attention back to our purpose for being here.

“I left the store and was going back to my car.” I point toward the parking spaces just beyond the alley. The alley is a small driveway between the buildings, barely wide enough for delivery trucks to drive through when they unload merchandise and supplies on the docks behind the shops.

The detective and I walk toward the officers standing inside the yellow tape. “Tell me at what point you first noticed the man and woman or the car,” he says.

We reach the edge of Geordies, where the sidewalk slopes down. I stop and look toward the alley.

“Here, this is where I was.” I point to a spot about halfway down the area. “I noticed some commotion from the corner of my eye, turned to look, and saw two people: a man, and a woman.” I pause, gazing down the alley. “The man was behind the woman, and he reached up and held a piece of cloth or rag ‌over her face. She struggled as he pushed her toward the car.” Tears cloud my vision.

“It’s okay, Ivy. Take your time.” Detective Benson hands me a white handkerchief.

Dabbing my eyes with the soft cloth, I notice it smells just like the detective, fresh, not perfumy. I didn’t know people still carried handkerchiefs. Hmm… interesting. He’s quite a gentleman.

I picked up on that trait at the police station and again at the cafe when he helped me with my coat and held the doors for me to exit. He even opened the car door for me. You don’t find men like that anymore. I guess chivalry isn’t dead after all, at least in his generation.

“What’d you do next?”

“I yelled at the man and asked what he was doing. Then I dropped my bags and started running toward them, yelling and screaming at him. There wasn’t much else I could do.” I turn toward the detective. “She was clearly in trouble. He shoved her into the trunk and slammed it shut. The car was blue and… it was an old Plymouth. I don’t know the model. He was blonde…”

My thoughts jumble. Everything is so vivid in my mind. It’s as if it’s happening all over again.

“Ivy?” Detective Benson touches my arm gently, pulling me from my thoughts. “What happened then?”

Regaining my composure, I wipe my gloved hand across my face, attempting to clear the dampness from my eyes.

“I got there just before the man closed the trunk. I saw the woman lying inside, just shoved in, sprawled out and not moving.” Moving my hands, I describe how she looked. “Her body was twisted, stretching her neck into an odd position.” I shake my head, grimacing. “I couldn’t tell if she was even breathing.”

My voice cracks. More tears puddle in my eyes. “The man was right in front of me. We were face to face!” I exclaim, placing my hand in front of my nose.

My breathing becomes more rapid. My throat tightens, and I struggle for air. Every moment of yesterday rushes into my mind like a tidal wave. Even now, my screams echo in my ears. The image of the woman in the trunk, the man’s face, and every detail, every microsecond of my falling—all of it—replays in my mind.

“He grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me backward.” I take a moment and close my eyes, trying to control my emotions.

“I grabbed the kidnapper, trying to keep from falling. He grabbed the front of my jacket, pulled me up against him, and… said something, then pushed me off. That’s when I fell, and my head hit the ground.”

My chin quivers, and the tears moistening my eyes flow down my face with each blink.

“My mind is blank after that,” I mumble.

Looking up at the detective, I realize it’s not just tears wetting my face. Snow is peppering down, coating everything around us with another thin sheet of white, a sheet that will thicken and eventually turn to ice. It’s been a hard, cold month, and winter is just beginning.

A gust of wind blows hard against us, forcing our bodies to stiffen and shift to keep our balance. The detective reaches out to help steady me, then glances around the shopping center. The tiny white flakes pour down like rain, and the wind gathers debris from the parking lot, swirling it through the air.

“That’s enough for now.” Detective Benson guides me toward the side of the building, hoping to block most of the wind whipping in from the northeast.

“I don’t know why I’m so emotional. I defend people for crimes like this, many even more horrific, and I’ve never gotten this upset,” I tell him as we walk.

“You’ve never been a witness to a crime before, Ivy, never directly involved.” He looks down at me, his arm around my shoulder to brace me from the powerful gusts of wind. “It’s a lot easier when you’re on the outside looking in than when you’re actively involved in a crime taking place. Trust me, I know.”

It sounds like the detective has been in a similar position. Given his line of work, I’m sure he’s been in many dangerous situations.

“We’ll talk more about what else you remember later. Right now, you stay here. I’m gonna talk to the investigation team for a minute to see if they’ve found anything. I’ll be right back, and we’ll get out of this nasty weather.”

I nod, my teeth chattering as the frigid wind whips the tiny snowflakes across the alley. I’m so ready to go. I stand, leaning against the wall with my hands in my pockets, somewhat protected from the snow by the building and the roof’s overhang.

Detective Benson adjusts his jacket collar to cover his neck and shoves his gloved hands in his pockets. He walks toward a tall, dark-haired man holding a small bag, and they begin to talk.

Unable to hear what they’re saying, I review the kidnapping in my mind, trying to recall every detail I can, anything unusual about the man, what the woman was wearing. Any piece of information I can remember, but it’s no use. My mind’s as frozen as the snow on the ground, so I give up and wait for the detective to return.

I glance around the parking lot. Dozens of people are moving about, some leaving their cars, others putting bags in their trunks, and several entering and exiting the various stores. Most take notice of the yellow taped area and the officers walking about, watch for a moment, and go on about their business.

My eyes wander from the people and their routine activities to the cars in the parking lot. Some are pulled into the parking spaces at funky angles, not lining up in the margins. A dark gold Honda takes up two parking spots, and some SUVs are sitting sideways under the trees near the road. A dark gray Ford Explorer is backed into a space under a tree near the road, directly facing the alley. The driver is sitting behind the steering wheel, wipers flapping. He must be waiting for someone. Since I can’t see him very well through the heavy snow, I look back at the agents investigating the scene.

Leaning against the side of the wall, I wonder why the woman was this far down in the alley. There are no doors on the sides of the buildings; no reason anyone would park behind the stores that I can think of. The man could have lured her into the alley, called to her, or attracted her somehow. I don’t know. It’s strange.

As I glance back at the detective, I hear a loud cracking noise above me. It sounds like the overhang is breaking, so I take a few steps away from the building and look up. Almost instantly, my feet fly off the ground without warning, and I feel weightless, suspended above the icy, snow-covered pavement.

The moment is surreal as crystal white snowflakes slowly dance around my head, brushing my face as they drift by. I feel like I’m floating, frozen in time. If only this moment could last forever! I feel light as a feather, so free, so peaceful—but only for a moment.

BAM!

My body crashes like a boulder onto the hard, cold ground. My head bounces twice before resting in a frozen puddle of sleet and snow. I hear the ice crack beneath my skull, and a dull pain shoots through my head. As hard as I try, I cannot keep my eyes from closing. All sounds fade away.

I lie alone—cold and still, on the hard snow-covered pavement for the second time in two days.

Chapter 4

28 Hours 52 Minutes

Wednesday 3:14 p.m.

“Ivy! Ivy!” A faint voice pierces the quietness. “Ivy! Can you hear me? Wake up!”

The voice grows a little more defined, a little closer. There’s a high-pitched, shrill sound far away. It’s getting louder. My eyes are closed, but I sense someone near my face. Distant voices are becoming more distinct.

“Ivy, wake up. Please, wake up,” the voice begs. I know his voice. “Ivy, open your eyes, please, open your eyes.”

Someone’s stroking my forehead. I open my eyes just a sliver, then press them closed. The light is so bright. I squint and blink multiple times. A few minutes pass, and I open my eyes again, just long enough to see an image near my face. It’s a person, but their face is blurry.

“Open your eyes, Ivy. Look at me. It’s Detective Benson. Please open your eyes.”

My lids feel so heavy, but I force them open again. Through small slits, I see brown eyes close to my face, gazing at me. The man’s silver hair falls forward, the waves framing his face. He smiles.

Magically, the face morphs into the image of a man with curly blonde hair; his eyes are no longer soft and brown but small and icy blue. Tears encircle the blue, but he holds them back, drops his chin, and looks away.

A second later, lifting his head, he stares into my eyes, leans forward, and whispers next to my ear. What? What is he saying? The words make no sense.

“It’s not what you think,” he mutters quickly. “She made me.”