Page 17 of Jagged Line Paradise

I read the note three or four more times as I sip my coffee, each time hearing Andrés’ voice inside my mind as if he were reading it to me himself. His voice is so smooth and deep, his tone confident and commanding. Listening to him is calming for me—it always has been.

I hear a rumble not so far away, the familiar sound of Andrés’ dad’s truck starting up. He usually drives past around mid-morning on his way to work, and I look over to my right about the time I’d expect to see the red, rusted truck drive by. It shows up when I expect it to, but it rolls slowly to a creeping stop.

Mr. Hernandez looks at me from his rolled down window, hooking his elbow over the side. “You left your sweater last night,” he says.

I’m surprised that he’s stopped and even more surprised that he’s talking to me. I’ve talked to Mr. Hernandez maybe five times since I’ve known Andrés, and we’ve been friends since we were ten.

I startle when he pops open his door, the engine still running, and steps out. “Here, come get it.” He waves me over with his hand, then turns his head to look inside his truck. “Shit, must’ve dropped it on the floor. Come on, girl. I’ve gotta get to work.” He leans inside the cab, bending over, reaching for it, I assume.

I don’t want to be rude, so I set down my coffee, get up, and walk over to him, waiting for him to turn around and hand it to me.

“I can’t reach it. It fell over the back of my seat. Maybe your skinny arms can get in there.” He steps back and motions me forward. “Come on. I don’t have all day. You want the sweater or not?”

I step forward, Mr. Hernandez with his back to the inside of his open door, and I move in front of him to peek inside. And then I remember I didn’t have a sweater last night and I suddenly feel deflated. Andrés must have had some other girl over and it must behersweater.

I turn toward him, now right beside me. “Mr. Hernandez, I didn’t have a sweater last ni—”

He grabs me, spins me, and slaps a cloth over my mouth and nose. I suck in a deep breath so I can scream, but the sound is muffled as he presses the cloth painfully hard over my face.

What is he doing?

What’s happening?

“Shh, shh,” he says, his mouth against my ear as his body hugs mine from behind. “You’ll be asleep in seconds, little girl.” He chuckles and the sound is pure evil. “Stupid bitch.”

I’m in shock.

I struggle against his hold, pushing down on his arm lassoed around my waist, kicking my foot back against his shin. I manage to get in a good strike that makes him groan, but it doesn’t weaken him.

Color is fading to black.

Sound is drifting to silence.

My consciousness ebbs, and before I know what’s happening, I fall asleep.

My consciousness gradually sneaks out of a dark, dreamless sleep. I quickly remember that something was wrong when I fell asleep, but my mind is fuzzy and trying to recall is nearly impossible. My eye lids are heavy, and I know I need to get them open, but it takes me too long to remember why I’m so anxious.

Andrés left me a note…

Something abouta sweater…

Mr. Hernandez and his truck…

My eyes open and widen to see that’s exactly where I am. The top of my head is pressed against the inside of the passenger door where I lay sideways across the bench seat. My body is tucked and curled in the fetal position. My feet are shoved against something firm, but pliable. I angle my chin downward toward my chest and see that my bare feet are pressed against Mr. Hernandez’s thigh, who’s driving the truck.

I lift my head to look out the window, but all I can see is blinding sunlight. My mouth is dry. I swallow, but my throat is scratchy and when I try to lick my dry lips, I realize I can’t. A piece of fabric is shoved inside my mouth, digging into the corners of my lips, and drawn around my head, tied tightly in place.

My heart punches painfully against my ribs and my pulse makes the same whooshing-whirring sound it did earlier, only now it’s not from excitement, but from pure fear. Tears begin to fall before I can even make sense of my situation. The only thing that makes sense right now is how scared I am.

I lift my hands to my lips with an instinctual need to remove the gag and find that my wrists are bound. A white plastic cable tie wraps around both of my wrists, which are held together painfully, bone mashed against bone.

I cry.

I don’t know what’s happening.

I don’t know where he’s taking me.

I don’t know anything and all I can do is cry.

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