Iâm lying in the back of the painterâs van, with my arms zip-tied behind me.
Itâs extremely uncomfortable, because Du Pont isnât driving carefully. Several times when heâs taken corners too fast, Iâve gone rolling over, slamming into the wheel well, or the ladders, buckets, and bags heâs keeping back here.
Heâs taped my mouth, but I wouldnât talk to him anyway. Itâs irritating enough listening to him hum while he drives. His humming is atonal and repetitive. Sometimes he taps the steering wheel with his long fingers, not exactly in beat with the humming.
It stinks like paint and other chemicals back here. Iâm trying to breathe slowly and not cry, because if my nose gets stuffy again, Iâm afraid Iâm going to suffocate with this tape over my mouth.
I heard Du Pontâs conversation with Dante. He wanted me to hear it.
It seems like some kind of sick joke. I canât believe he actually intends to let me loose, just to shoot me.
I donât understand why heâs doing this. I didnât have any part in his cousinâs death. I wasnât even in the same country at the time.
Though, of course, thatâs not why he kidnapped me.
He wants to torment Dante.
And he thinks the best way to do that is through me.
He doesnât know we just had a fight. Thank god for that. My body shakes as I realize that if he knew about the fight, if he knew what we were talking about . . . he would have kidnapped Henry instead. He doesnât know that Henry is Danteâs son. Thatâs the only thing I can be grateful for right now. The only thing helping me to hang onto a semblance of calm.
I donât actually know where Henry is . . . but I have to believe heâs safe, either with Dante, or somewhere in the hotel, in which case heâll find his way back to my parents again. Wherever he is, itâs better than the back of this van.
God, Iâve got to get out of this. I canât let this psychopath kill me. Henry needs me. Heâs so young, still. Heâs already lost Serwa, he canât lose me, too.
I look around wildly for something I could grab. Something I could use to escape. A knife, a box cutter, anything.
Thereâs nothing. Just paint-splattered tarps and the duffle bags that I canât hope to unzip without Du Pont noticing.
Then he takes another corner, and I hear a rattling sound. A screw rolling around on the bare metal floor of the van.
Itâs difficult to reach it. I try to squirm in that direction an inch at a time so Du Pont doesnât see. I have to back toward the screw so I can grab it in my hands. Meanwhile, it keeps rolling away again, right when Iâm about to reach it.
Du Pont starts fiddling with the radio. I take the opportunity to push against the wheel well with my feet, shoving myself back in the direction of the screw. My fingers skate over it, numb from being twisted up behind me and bound too tightly with the zip ties. I grab the screw, drop it, then grab it again. I clutch it tight in my fist, glancing nervously up at Du Pont to make sure he didnât notice.
He finds his station and sits back in his seat with a sigh of satisfaction. Billy Joel pours out of the radio, loud and eerily cheerful. Du Pont starts to hum along, still off-key.
I grip the screw between my thumb and fingers. Twisting my hand as best I can within the bounds of the zip tie, I start to saw at the edge of the plastic, slowly and quietly.