Chapter 1
Eliza
My heart is pounding so fiercely that it keeps time with the blaring music, which vibrates and rattles everything around me. My spiraling thoughts stagnate under the pressure in my head. Swallowing hard, I struggle to breathe, the ragged gasps tearing through my chest at a rapid pace.
You’ll hyperventilate if you don’t stop...
Inhale. Three short counts through my nose. Exhale.
I exhale in hiccups. The black silk hood flutters against my skin as the last breath escapes. My arms tense, trying to rip the silk away. The metal bites harder into my skin.
I clench my eyes tightly, willing my brain to ignore the claustrophobia that is clawing at my chest. The silk already clings in the wet places from my tears, plastering against me like a second skin.
I remind myself—I couldn’t have been more cautious. I’d paid attention to my surroundings...
Memories pour in, disjointed and chaotic. Eyes followed me as I walked. My keys hit the ground when they grabbed me. The bell chimed all night—orders ready for pickup.
I hiccup a breath and try to focus through the fear. I grit my teeth and forcefully breathe in for four counts through my nose. The stench that assaults my senses burns. The chemical stench tells me precisely what it is—vodka. The cheap kind that smells like cleaning supplies and regrets.
I cough out the smell and twist, trying to escape. Wetness soaks into my clothes and skin. I don’t know if I broke the bottle or if the erratic driving did. Bile rises as Mamá’s voice echoes with the unintelligible lyrics of the music.
The vehicle has stopped squealing around turns—speed increases, relentless and smooth. The rhythmic thumping of infrastructure replaces the upbeats. Bass rattles my teeth. I hear laughing and cheers—meaningless words, drowned out.
My mind races—who are these people? What do they want with me?
I shift, trying to get my face away from the nauseous scent that is now absorbing into my clothes and the carpet of what I assume is a trunk. I can’t sit up or roll over; there isn’t enough room.
Panic rises. What if they take me out of the country...
A sob rips from me as memories of devil horn tattoos explode through my mind, and I shake uncontrollably. The cuffs around my wrists dig into my flesh, and my thumbs have gone completely numb. Pins and needles are creeping down my pointer finger on my right side.
I choke on the next sob, forcing myself to still. The silk hood presses against my mouth with each struggling breath. I shake, grinding my teeth.
Stop. I have to stop... I try to force myself to listen.
I hold my breath as long as I can, forcing my body to focus on its needs, not the fear. When I gasp for air, I take one gulp and hold it again.
Metal. Hard. Cool.
I stagger a breath and then continue naming aspects of what I feel.
Carpet. Rough. Silk. Soft. Cool.
The next breath comes easier, and I move on.
Bass. Beat. Voices. Laughter. Rapping. Tires. Spinning.
The next breath comes easier. Deeper.
Inhale... count to three, then hold it. Exhale...
With the next breath, instead of counting, I recount the night. Putting the random thoughts into order.
The walk from the diner to the apartment was short. Tonight, every step felt like a trap. Streets were dead at two in the morning. A sleek sedan waited. Its blacked-out windows weren’t unusual here. Brand new, though? That was different. As I rushed by, I felt eyes on me.
I was just arriving at my apartment. Key in hand. Strong arms wrapped around me. Dark hair. Light skin. Then a silk bag slammed over my head.
The thoughts are coming smoother, and I breathe deeper and focus harder.
I was getting off from my second double in three days. My feet throbbed, my back screamed for relief. The diner’s pay wasn’t much. Hal lets me work as much as I want. Free food during shifts? That was a selling point.
Most importantly? No one looked twice at my paperwork when Hal hired me. It may not be glamorous, but I’ve done a lot worse for a lot less.
I don’t even know who they are. I got a glance at their faces. I keep listening for them to use English—I don’t think it’s their native language. The accents are thick. The blood pounding in my ears, I haven’t heard any—only gibberish.
Learning Spanish was a given growing up in New Mexico. My mom hated that Abuela wouldn’t speak English with me; they’d fight about it all the time. I’ve gotten so accustomed to being able to pick apart what anyone was saying around me. I can’t understand anything the men who took me say. There aren’t any common words—nothing at all to cling to.
Tears come to my eyes, and I sniffle, trying to hold them back.
I’m a nobody, a ghost from a small border town no one will miss. Eventually, my roommate might realize that no one has been feeding her iguana, but it can go weeks without eating. It doesn’t help that my shifts are so irregular that Sylvia rarely knows when I will be home. Sometimes, we can go days without seeing each other.
I grit my teeth and sniffle.
I’m a survivor, damnit! I may have followed in Mamá’s footsteps and dropped out of high school when I was seventeen, running away from home. I survived that. I made it to Seattle after years of struggling from one town to the next. I’m a survivor.
The car stops moving, and the breath stills in my lungs. I hear them getting out, their deep voices loud and rumbling now that the music has stopped. When the trunk pops, it sounds like a gunshot. My jaw locks on instinct, biting my tongue.
The cuffs around my ankles are moved roughly, making me whimper softly before being dragged out of the trunk. I’m utterly disoriented. I don’t know how long we were actually driving; it felt like an eternity when in reality it was perhaps three hours.
There’s nothing that immediately tells me where I am. The bag lightens slightly. I don’t even hear any birds, just an eerie silence until we start walking. Then I hear the sounds of boots echoing on hard floors.
They continue to bark orders at me, their words brutal and guttural. I try explaining that I don’t understand them, that I’d comply if I knew what they wanted. I’m dragged around by my arm, almost sidestepping because of the angle. When I stumble, I’m half dragged, half carried up a short set of steps.
The only reason I don’t face-plant onto the ground is because of the hand gripping my arm tightly. After a few minutes of my feet fumbling over themselves and falling into an armchair, the seat is soft and supple under me. My fingers twitch, brushing the soft leather under my fingertips.
