Chapter 2 - The Red Number
Melissa stood before I could ask anything else.
Her face changed instantly.
Mocking again.
“Try not to choke on your own self-pity.”
Then she walked out.
I heard the bathroom door close.
Not lock.
Ryan trusted the chain.
The phone pressed against my hip beneath loose fabric.
For several seconds I did not touch it.
This could be another game.
Ryan had tested me before.
Left a key where I could almost reach it.
Put food beyond the chain.
Pretended to leave the house, then waited in the hallway to hear whether I moved.
Hope made excellent entertainment.
Melissa knew that.
Maybe she had designed this one.
I kept breathing slowly.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Voices downstairs.
Ryan arguing.
Nate saying:
“I swear it was private.”
Maureen:
“What if somebody recorded it?”
Ryan:
“Shut up.”
That sounded real.
I slid the phone out.
The screen was still active.
A live video.
I could see my own face.
Pale.
Split lip.
Hair tangled.
Pregnant stomach beneath a gray T-shirt.
The chain crossing tile.
In the corner:
12.8K.
Then 13.1K.
Viewers.
I nearly dropped it.
My first instinct was to end the broadcast.
Privacy.
Dignity.
Hide.
Then I remembered nine days of Ryan telling me nobody would believe me.
The phone did.
I turned it slightly.
The bathroom.
The chain attached to the floor anchor.
The disabled sink valve.
The empty food tray.
I did not speak.
My voice might bring him upstairs.
The screen moved quickly with comments I could barely process.
CALL 911.
IS THIS REAL?
LOCATION?
SOMEONE FIND HER.
I searched the interface.
Battery thirty-two percent.
Wi-Fi connected.
No cellular service.
Ryan had apparently removed the SIM or the phone was an old device.
Could still message through internet if unlocked.
It was.
Melissa had given me an unlocked phone.
I opened emergency calling.
No cellular.
Wi-Fi calling unavailable.
Back.
The live feed continued.
Then a direct message appeared from an account with a verification symbol.
FEDERAL INVESTIGATOR. IF THIS IS AMELIA CARTER, NOD TWICE.
I stared.
Federal?
I almost laughed.
Another trap.
Then another message:
DO NOT SPEAK IF UNSAFE. SHOW LEFT HAND IF YOU NEED IMMEDIATE MEDICAL HELP.
I looked at my hands.
Could be anyone.
But if thousands were watching, somebody real had already called.
I raised my left hand.
Then lowered.
Twice.
The account replied:
WE HAVE YOUR LOCATION.
My breath left.
How?
Do not ask.
Does not matter.
Then:
HELP IS MOVING. KEEP FEED ACTIVE IF SAFE.
My eyes filled.
No.
Do not cry.
Ryan loved tears.
I positioned phone against the bathtub, angled toward the room.
Then hid most of it beneath a towel while leaving camera exposed through a gap.
Footsteps.
I tucked my body in front.
Ryan entered.
He was holding the blue folder.
My entire system went cold.
“You finally ready?”
I looked down.
He threw folder onto floor.
Pages slid toward me.
“Sign.”
“No.”
He smiled.
“Wrong answer.”
Behind him came Maureen.
Then Nate.
No Melissa.
Ryan squatted.
“You know, I tried doing this nicely.”
I looked at him.
“Did you?”
He slapped the folder with the back of his fingers.
“Three pages.”
“What are they?”
“You already know.”
“I don’t.”
He leaned closer.
“Stop.”
There.
The word he used whenever I asked specifics.
Stop.
As though clarity were aggression.
He opened first page and pointed.
“Signature.”
The heading was partly visible.
CARTER HOME RECOVERY SERVICES.
BOARD COMPLIANCE RESOLUTION.
My stomach tightened.
I knew that company.
Too well.
I had worked there.
I had signed documents there.
And I knew enough to understand Ryan did not need his chained wife signing legitimate board paperwork on a bathroom floor.
“What does it say?”
“That you approved the corrections.”
“What corrections?”
His jaw tightened.
“Sign it.”
“No.”
Nate made a disgusted sound.
“She likes this.”
Ryan glanced back.
“What?”
“Attention.”
Maureen agreed.
“She always has.”
I stared at them.
Nine days and they had already invented a version where captivity was my personality.
Ryan turned back.
“Your name is already all over the company. This keeps you from making things worse.”
My pulse jumped.
Company.
Name.
Worse.
I had been trying not to think about work because every time I did, fear became bigger than the bathroom.
Three months earlier, numbers stopped matching.
Claims.
Patient visits.
Vendor payments.
I had asked questions.
Ryan told me pregnancy had made me paranoid.
Then my laptop disappeared.
Then my access was suspended “for maternity leave.”
Then Ryan began asking what I had sent outside the company.
The chain came later.
I looked at the page.
“Who wrote this?”
“My attorney.”
“Which attorney?”
He grabbed my hair.
“Enough.”
The live camera saw.
I hoped.
He pulled my head back.
“Sign.”
“No.”
His face changed.
Not rage.
Fear.
That frightened me more.
“Amelia, there are people who can take everything from us if you keep being stupid.”
There.
People.
Not relatives.
Not bank.
Something else.
I whispered:
“Who?”
His grip tightened.
Then from downstairs:
“RYAN!”
Melissa.
Urgent.
“WHAT?”
“Your office line. It’s the bank.”
He let me go.
“Tell them I’ll call back.”
“They said compliance hold.”
Ryan froze.
For one second, every person in doorway stopped breathing.
Compliance hold.
I knew exactly what those words could mean.
Ryan grabbed the folder.
Then looked at me.
“What did you do?”
I almost smiled.
“Apparently nothing.”
He stood.
“You contacted somebody.”
“No phone.”
“Before.”
I said nothing.
He kicked the empty cup across room.
“Who?”
No answer.
Ryan stormed out.
Maureen followed.
Nate hesitated, staring at me.
Then left.
I waited.
Melissa appeared ten seconds later.
She did not enter.
She looked toward hidden camera.
Then mouthed:
KEEP IT ON.
I barely moved.
Downstairs, Ryan started shouting into a phone.
Then something happened outside.
A low sound.
Distant.
Heavy engines.
Not one vehicle.
Several.
The verified account messaged again.
STAY LOW.
My entire body began shaking.
Then another message.
WE ARE TWO MINUTES OUT.
For nine days, I had repeated one sentence:
Nobody is coming.
It had kept me realistic.
Kept me from wasting strength.
May you like
Now I stared at the red number climbing past twenty thousand.
And for the first time, I allowed myself to believe that sentence might finally be wrong.
