Page 4 of Save Me

A lump forms in my throat. A deep, male voice responds that he’s going to check. Footsteps sound in my direction.

In my haste to hide, I knock over a large garbage bin. It doesn’t deter me as I rush through the small alley behind the building, down a few concrete stairs, and to a main street I know well.

I peer over my shoulder several times but don’t see the burly guy following me.

Even if he saw me, there are plenty of people out on this street with whom I blend in. Pain sears through my body as I walk, and I clutch the right side of my ribs. She was right. I should go to the hospital.

Kennedy.

That’s her name. I stop when the ache in my body becomes too much.

Despite the blood on my face and my disheveled appearance, no one on the street asks if I need help. Numerous curious looks are thrown my way, though.

People don’t care, I think to myself.

Then I peer down at the handkerchief still in my hand. It’s white silk, but now it’s stained with my blood. I look it over and stop when I see something stitched in one of the corners.

Initials.

K.T.

Days later, I find out what the initials stand for.

Kennedy Townsend.

A number of online articles mention Aaron Townsend, CEO of Townsend Industries, who was in Seoul for a few days with his family.

The original article doesn’t mention the name of his wife or children.

Does her father hide his family like my father hid me?

The answer is no, since she carries his last name. I find more articles about him, his family, and, most importantly, her.

An article from their home city of Williamsport mentions Kennedy’s participation in a horseback riding competition. An image shows my little warrior, mounted on a horse, holding a bouquet and a second-place ribbon.

I keep the article and picture of her.

This is the first person who’s cared about me in years.

The only person who isn’t related to me who took the time to check on me.

She gave me a reason to believe in something besides my mortality.

Kennedy Townsend gave me a reason to live.

CHAPTER 2

Kennedy

“Why are we even wasting time on this?” Ardie Dixon asks with a roll of his eyes. “The girl was a druggie and probably a low life anyway,” he finishes with obvious contempt in his tone.

I’m in our weekly staff meeting of the full-time investigative reporters at The Regal.

“Because her life had value just like yours and mine,” I sharply reply, staring Ardie in the eyes.

There’s no love lost between either of us. He hasn’t liked me since I started my position here a little over a year ago. And I couldn’t care less.

Sucking his teeth, Ardie rolls his eyes skyward.

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