Page 34 of Booked for Kidnapping

While my foot expressed some discomfort with my choice to use it, the experiment worked.

I limped, but I could walk.

Given a few months and a lot of effort, the possibility existed that I might not limp at all.

At a loss of what to think about my situation, I retrieved several more books from near my nest, drew another bath, and soaked in the tub, pretending to read a book. I spent the time attempting to make sense of who would do what my doctors couldn’t. The why also continued to baffle me. Without the answers to either, I was left with one final question:

What did these people hope to gain from me?

It took me less than five minutes to realize that, outside of making use of me as some weapon to kill people, I offered very little to anyone with limited exceptions. I would need to accuse Bradley’s mother of dropping him on his head as a baby. I would deny any accusations of having fallen for my ex-boss, although I’d be called out as the liar I was within moments of the denial leaving my lips.

I missed him, I missed his family, I missed my family, and I missed our friends.

When I considered the possibilities, I was left with few options. As it would take more than an extended captivity to convince me to kill anyone without just cause, I could only assume the killers wanted me out of the way so I couldn’t interfere with their plans.

Why else would anyone want me?

But why heal my foot if the goal was to get me out of the way?

I could understand, in a twisted way, if they believed I would kill without remorse. I couldn’t. I would, but only if pushed into a corner and there were no other options. I’d always wanted to help people rather than hurt them. If somebody showed up, I might be inclined to start hurting somebody, but I’d use non-lethal force as part of my haphazard flight to freedom.

I changed into clean clothes, muttered curses over the illusionist making it so I couldn’t dive out through the hidden window, and retreated to my nest.

If only I knew what lurked beyond the window disguised with magic I couldn’t beat.

Unless I came up with a plan that would let me escape alive and well, all I could do was wait.

Isolation would drive me mad.

Talking to the ever-growing pile of books didn’t help. I longed to hear somebody’s voice. I’d even deal with a long meeting with Representative Kennedys if it meant I could converse with another sentient being. I missed my fluffy goddess, I longed to go hide under a bed—any bed would do, although I’d probably pick the one with the largest stash of car magazines so I could take my foot on a test drive of something pretty, fast, and ready to rule the roads.

To add to the problem, the days of sliding through a drugged haze were over. The pills disappeared from the meal regime, and while I got dosed with fucking knock-out gas more often that I appreciated, they’d taken to providing a cooler with sandwich fixings for several meals and one hot meal, resulting in even longer periods with nothing to do and no one to do anything with.

The novelty of having two working feet lingered, and I alternated between wearing shoes because I could and enjoying pattering around in my bare feet. If I did find a way out, I could only hope anyone observing my activities wouldn’t take notice of when I wore shoes.

My clothing would be an issue, as the wraps did a good job of covering me but left my arms exposed.

The weather would dictate when I could escape, and I’d lost complete track of the seasons.

If the seasons had changed. I suspected they had.

The arrival of new books kept me almost sane, and I tore through them with the same voracity of a starved shark in bloodied waters. Once I read them, I formed book pyramids, made a tunnel, and even, at one point, built a book castle to demonstrate to my captors they had crossed every last one of my lines and threatened to destroy me through boredom.

I loved books, but there were limits to how many books I could read without any other form of mental stimulation.

As I’d established my desperation for anything to do through stacking books together in creative ways, I dismantled my first few projects and began a venture born of desperation, boredom, and curiosity.

Before I’d been given hundreds upon hundreds of books to keep me amused, I’d been unable to examine the walls without drawing unwanted attention to myself. With my book castle building tendencies serving as a front for my more nefarious activities, I began with building an arch along a blank section of wall near my nest. I filled in the bottom with stacks of books to hide my activities, and continued to build my book castle, aware if the damned thing fell, I’d lose life or limb to the crushing weight of paperbacks and hardbacks.

Some risks were worth taking, and while I hesitated to fling myself through an unknown window to my potential death, a crushing defeat from one of my favorite hobbies bothered me a great deal less. I held some chance of general survival, assuming someone monitored my activities. I assumed somebody kept a close eye on me.

Why waste their investment allowing me to die from a castle of books squishing me?

I reserved one of my favorite books from my building efforts, and once I had a series of arches creating a roof, I dragged several pillows and some blankets inside to lead my captors into believing I’d taken complete leave of my senses and read in my new palace.

One of the blankets went over my arches, which somehow held despite their precarious nature, and I positioned my nest so I could read from the light coming in through the castle’s entry. I made a point of enjoying my book for a while before retreating inside, where I removed the books stacked beneath the backmost arch and began my search of the wall.

I found nothing.