The Year of Second Chances (A Sunnyvale Novel Book 3) by Jessica Sorensen Page B

What’re you going to do to me?” I ask, a few tears escaping my eyes.
    He doesn’t answer as he pats my pockets and steals my car keys. Then he grabs my arms, yanks them together, and winds a piece of wire around my wrists. Not very tightly, though.
    When the guy’s fingers leave my arm, I hear a door roll shut, like the door of a van. I lie on the floor, panicking, my chest heaving with each terrified breath I take. Silence engulfs me, and my mind races with questions. Am I in here alone? Should I try to get up? Will they hurt me if I try? Is this person Jamison’s killer?
    The last thought strikes me hard and knocks the air out of my chest.
    I need to get out of here. Now!
    Just as I move to get my legs underneath me, a door creaks open.
    “Just get in.” The pissed off voice sounds like it belongs to a woman. “We need to go. Now. Or we won’t get this done in time.”
    “I am getting in,” the guy replies. Then a door slams shut. “Now drive.”
    They grow quiet after that as an engine roars to life, and the car begins to move. No one utters a word for most of the drive, and the soft sound of the classic rock radio station fills up the quietness.
    We drive for miles and miles before the car finally comes to a stop, and the engine shuts off. Doors open. A light breeze blows in.
    “Get Isabella out,” the woman hisses, her voice sounding a bit familiar, “while I unlock the door.”
    Doors slam. Silence. My heart thunders in my chest.
    Where am I? What are they going to do to me? Will anyone find me? Who are they?
    I tremble as the door near me glides open again. Strong hands snag me by the waist and guide me across the carpet then out of the vehicle. I stumble forward as my feet plant against the ground. I struggle to regain my balance and then take off in a mad sprint, blindly running forward where I can make out the outlines of lofty trees.
    “Oh, no, you don’t.” The guy snags me by the back of the shirt and draws me back against him. “You’re not going anywhere.”
    I grunt as my back collides with his chest, and a whimper escapes my lips.
    “This’ll all be easier if you quit fighting,” he says quietly as he steers me by the shoulders. “No one’s going to hurt you.”
    “Easy for you to say,” I seethe. “You’re not the person tied up with a bag over your head.”
    He grows quiet as he leads me up a short flight of stairs and into a sheltered area where the cool breeze no longer nips my skin.
    “Sit her down in the chair,” the woman instructs. “Then let’s go.”
    Go? Wait a second. They’re leaving me here?
    Should I panic or not? On one hand, they’re obviously bad people. On the other hand, what if they take off and leave me here to starve to death and rot?
    Before I can work up too much of a fuss, hands land on my shoulders and force me down into a chair.
    “Please, just let me go,” I whisper. “I promise I won’t tell anyone what happened.”
    No one says a damn thing, which both scares me and kind of pisses me off.
    “Let me go!” I shout as I writhe to get free.
    “Never.” One single word, but the ominous impact hits me square in the gut.
    Moments later, he ties my legs to the chair, then walks away. A door shuts. Quietness fills the air, laced with my heavy, erratic breathing. The wind howling outside makes threatening promises of being the last noise I’ll ever hear.
    “Hello?” I utter. “Is anyone there?”
    Silence.
    I should be scared out of my damn mind, and in a way, I am, but I think I’ve reached a sedated state of shock.
    Numb. I literally feel numb from the inside out. Part of me is relieved I can’t feel much of anything, while the other part of me is worried I’m broken. But broken how?
    The longer I remain in the chair, overanalyzing my thoughts, the more my mind goes down a darkly twisted road.
    What if I can’t feel anything because my mom really is a killer, and I’m just as messed up as her? What if there is actually something