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29
Roan
The day after my escape,I laid in bed for what seemed like an eternity. Staring at the ceiling while Frankie snored softly next to me, I tried to dredge up the energy to move. I couldn’t. Despite being back in my bed, safe in my house, I slept like shit and it wasn’t because Frankie flopped around all night or kept touching me with her cold feet. That part was actually comforting, reminding me I washereand notthere, wherever there was.
I’d been picked up in one of the suburbs outside Chicago, about halfway between the university and home. But I didn’t know if that’s where I’d been the entire time, or if that was merely the last stop on the crazy train.
I had no idea where the warehouse was.
I had no idea where the motel was.
I was no closer to solving anything in the daylight than I had been at the police department.
It was the lack of answers that finally motivated me enough to get out of bed. Stuffing a pillow under Frankie’s arm in lieu of me, I padded across the room and down the stairs, making my way into Dad’s office.
I didn’t want to believe a fuckingcriminalwas being more honest with me than my own father, but the whole ransom thing wasnotadding up. Someone was lying. I wanted to know who and I wanted to know why.
Sliding into the chair behind Dad’s desk, I turned his computer on and logged in under his profile. Since he auto-saved every password he had, I didn’t have to work too hard to get into his email.
There was a shit ton of email in his inbox, but nothing really jumped out at me. Nothing in Russian. Nothing cryptic. No blaring subject line referencing me or any demands. Just stock quotes and investor bullshit and reminders from Joyce about various appointments.
Similarly, there was nothing in his saved emails either.
Clicking on the deleted folder, I scrolled through a ridiculous amount of junk email and advertising.
Still, nothing.
Closing out of his email, I turned my attention to his actual desk, rifling through the drawers. There weren’t any odd letters, envelopes, polaroids. Nothing.
I pushed the last drawer shut and stood to leave when something caught my eye. There was a flash drive in one of the USB ports. That, in itself, wasn’t earth shattering. The fact my name was written across itwas.
Sinking back into the chair, I moused through the computer windows, pulling up the information from the USB. There was only one folder and it, too, was labeled ROAN.
Double clicking, I held my breath as dozens of other folders opened, each labeled with a date. There werehundredsof photographs of me, if not thousands — at school, at my apartment, performing at my fucking senior showcase, even graduation.
Videos recorded me for days. Weeks! There were clips of me and Frankie, at home and out and about; playing soccer; playing one of any number of instruments; me, just by myself, when I thought I was tucked away in my apartment, in my own happy little bubble. It was like they had cameras everywhere.
Did that mean Sasha was there thewholetime? Was he the one who’d been stalking me? And how the hell didn’t Iseehim? It’s not like he blended in easily.
They even took pictures of meafterI’d been taken. I mean, I guess that was all part of the process. But it was unnerving to see myself like that — unconscious, thrown on a dirty floor in a fucking dog kennel like I was garbage.
Somehow that,thatpicture, cemented the whole experience. It was photographic evidence I wasn’t lying, I wasn’t crazy, this wasn’t some sick ploy for attention. The bruises, the concussion, Sasha — itallhappened.
In the midst of all of the photos, there was only one document.
My stomach twisted violently as the cursor slid over the icon, opening it.
PHILLIP SINCLAIR—
WE HAVE YOUR SON
Oh,God.
I was going to be sick.
Covering my mouth with one hand, I forced myself to keep reading.
IF YOU WANTTO SEE HIM AGAIN CALL THIS NUMBER
