Trevor tore open the seal. He unfolded the single page inside, eager for news from his favorite niece, and read:
Dear Uncle Trev,
I enjoyed our brief visit and hope you approve of my roommate, Melanie. (I suspect you do because I saw a new twinkle in your eye.) Although she is a fellow Georgia rebel, she is kind and encouraging. With both of us working, the bills get paid, and we rarely dwell on the life we left behind. You needn’t worry that the landlord will kick me out onto the streets to live as a vagabond.
Now, to a more pressing matter: my father haunts me, even from the grave. I’ve noticed men following me to the point of harassment after I returned home. I assume they think I’m privy to information they want, but they are mistaken. I snapped a photo when they weren’t looking and have included a hard copy in this mailing. I fear for my life, as they are becoming aggressive in their dealings with me. Perhaps you can find out who they are?
It pains me to involve you, as I realize that I have bucked you every step of the way since my father’s passing. Being saddled as my appointed guardian has stretched you to go the extra mile the Good Book requires of you. Officially, your responsibility will shortly be over as I am about to turn the ripe old age of twenty-one.
I’ll close now. I must admit: I feel relieved to chat with you about this, even if only on paper. I should have mentioned it when I visited, but you know – independent me figured I could handle it on my own. It somehow makes me less nervous, knowing you are aware of my stalkers. You were always good to me and the only responsible one in our cracker-box family. I am also going to the police tomorrow to file the complaint legally.
Respectfully, Chrissy.
Trevor bolted to his feet and stared at the picture. He’d seen these men before. His brother had done business with them, and they’d attended his funeral. He stuffed the photo inside the envelope and placed it in his suit jacket pocket. A trip to his city office was the new order of the day; then, tomorrow, off to South Carolina to drag Chrissy home, shouting and kicking if he had to.
A loud burst of air escaped Melanie’s lips, a life-giving breath that jolted her into the land of the living and assaulted her nostrils with a rancid stench. Her eyes opened wide, only to discover her vision impaired by a thick veil of darkness. Terror crept into every inch of her body. She struggled to wiggle free of her prison-cocoon. Melanie’s wrists throbbed against the pressure of the duct-tape, and her legs longed to unroll from the fetal position imprisoning her curled, stiff frame.
The confining material that encased her slipped against her clothes, feeling much like the fabric of a hockey bag – was it hers? She played at the local arena – if you could call her contribution to the team effort “playing.” They’d given her a nickname – Miss Prissy – in fun, not because she hadn’t tried every waking moment to break loose of such branding, but because leaving her pampered past behind was harder to achieve than she’d imagined when she’d run away from home a year earlier.
Melanie shook free of the identity crisis she had brought upon herself, and forced her mind to focus on her dire situation. A sports bag would explain the nasty smell. Melanie’s forehead wriggled against something cold and sharp – was it a zipper? Yes – she was in a sack of some kind, and she preferred the hockey option to the only other possibility: a body-bag. She shuddered and avoided thinking along those lines.
Her panic-driven brain registered another person lying next to her. The body was warm and soft but remained motionless. She poked it with her elbow to see if it would spring to life – somehow, the thought of a fellow prisoner brought a touch of comfort to her predicament. When she received no response to her nudges, all traces of reassurance deserted her. Could the person be dead? The ragged breathing in her ear answered the question. Whoever shared her space was unconscious but still very much alive.
Melanie felt squeamish, and she attempted to push away from it. It? She’d demoted another human being to the category of “it.” She squirmed harder within her tight confines, feeling the terror strangle her throat. Just breathe, she told herself. Eventually, the thunderous pounding of her heart settled into a quick, steady beat. She inhaled deeply and forced her body to relax. This was not the time or place to lose her homegrown feisty nerve. Melanie’s survival depended on soundness of mind, the same as it always had.
She heard gravel crunching beneath tires, sensed the motion of swerving into a slow turn, and the clatter shifted to the sound of breaking twigs. She was in the trunk of a motor vehicle, maybe even her own, considering the hockey bag scenario.
After a short, bumpy ride, the car braked hard, and she rolled forward to hit against something metal. Pain streaked through her skull like sharp knives. The sudden stop jammed the second victim against her back. Melanie felt nauseated and willed herself to breathe once again.
Then, all motion ceased except for the movements of the occupants up front. The mumbling at first,
