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There's also a note.
The Hunt begins at 7 AM sharp.
The fawn has until then to prepare.
Happy hunting.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat, edging on a sob.
Happy hunting.
Like this is some kind of fucking game, a twisted version of hide and seek with my life—and God knows what else—as the prize.
The money feels like a lead weight in my hands, a bribe and a threat all rolled into one. I start trying to count the bills, the rhythmic practice soothing my nerves a little, but there's too much to count. It has to be around fifty grand, more than enough to disappear, start a new life somewhere far away from here.
But even as the thought crosses my mind, I know it's futile. There's no running from this, no hiding place I won't be found. This asshole has made that crystal fucking clear with his little slideshow of my loved ones, blissfully unaware of the crosshairs trained on their backs.
My gaze falls on the phone, its screen reflecting my face as if it's mocking me. I don't trust it, not for a second. It's probably bugged with some kind of tracking device that will lead them straight to me, no matter what those rules said. But as much as I want to smash it against the wall, to grind it under my heel until it's utterly destroyed, I resist the urge.
If I'm going to survive this, I need to be smart.
I need to play the game.
But on my own terms—and that means not letting them dictate my every move.
I leave the phone where it is and grab the cash and the card, stuffing them into the duffel bag I keep stashed in my closet for emergencies. Clothes, toiletries, a first aid kit, granola bars, all tossed in haphazardly as I move through my apartment like a whirlwind.
I pause in the kitchen, my eyes landing on the knife block. With a trembling hand, I pull out the biggest butcher blade, its weight heavy and foreign in my palm. I wrap it in towels so I don't slice myself open and tuck it into my bag along with a can of pepper spray I keep in my purse for late-night walks home from the library.
It's not much, but it's something. A tiny scrap of control in a situation that's spiraling rapidly out of my grasp.
I reach for the old coffee can on top of the fridge, the one that holds my meager emergency fund. A few hundred bucks, most of the cash wadded up, a laughable amount compared to the stack of bills burning a hole in my bag. But at least I know they're not traceable.
As I stretch up on my toes, my fingers grazing the cool metal, a blinking red light catches my eye. My answering machine, a relic from another era I keep meaning to get rid of but never seem to get around to.
One new message.
My blood runs cold, a sense of dread settling in the pit of my stomach like a stone. With a shaking hand, I press play, my heart pounding in my ears.
"Hi, honey!" My mom's voice fills the room, warm and familiar, and for a moment, I'm transported out of my nightmare and back to pancakes and coffee on lazy Sunday mornings. "I got your text about the last-minute girls' trip to Cancun. I'm so glad you're taking some time for yourself, sweetheart. You work too hard. Have a margarita for me and don't do anything I wouldn't do! Love you."
The machine beeps, the message ending abruptly, but I barely hear it over the roaring in my ears.
Girls' trip to Cancun?
I didn't send that text.
But someone did.
Someone who somehow has access to my phone and my life.
Someone who's thought of everything, every last detail to ensure that no one will come looking for me. That I'll just be another cliché, a young woman running off to find herself in some tropical paradise only to disappear without a trace.
I grab my phone with trembling hands and sure enough, there it is. The text to Mom about Cancun, right there. As if I wrote it myself.
They texted back and forth about it, too, and he did a pretty damn good job emulating my typing style. Even threw in a few kiss emojis and hearts for good measure.
I check my message history. He'd texted Natalie, too, still pretending to be me. They joked back and forth about how she couldn't possibly go on both an impromptu trip to Cancun and her sister's wedding. She was happy for me. Happy I was finally "spreading my wings." And hoped I'd spread my legs, too.
