Out of Her Mind

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Out of Her Mind Page 5

by Ragan, T. R.


  Don’t think like that. You’re smart and clever.

  That’s what Mom had been telling her since the day she was born. She needed to stay focused and think of a way out of here.

  The room smelled old, musty, like it hadn’t been used in a while. Riley rubbed her thigh where the crazy lady had poked her with the needle. At least she hadn’t bonked Riley over the head with a crowbar. She looked around the room, taking it all in. To her right was a square oak table with lots of scratches and discoloration. Across the room was the nightstand with five drawers where the woman kept all her goodies: instant camera and film, markers, and who knew what else.

  There was one window in the room. It looked as if it had been tinted like the ones in her brother’s car. Gauzy white curtains hung over each side. On the wood floor was a red, blue, and yellow oval braided rug. There were also two closed doors.

  Hoping one of the doors might lead to a bathroom, she slid off the mattress, surprised by the heaviness of the chain around her ankle when it hit the floor. She looked at the red shoes and thought about clicking her heels together, but this wasn’t Dorothy’s make-believe world. This was real life. A lump formed in her throat.

  Don’t cry, Riley!

  The chain rattled and pinched her skin as she yanked the shoes from her feet and tossed them across the room. The relief was instantaneous.

  On wobbly legs she shuffled her feet across the room so she didn’t have to lift the chain with every other step. Her stomach gurgled. She was starved. The first door she tried to open was locked. The other door opened into a bathroom. She used the toilet, then washed her hands before taking the time to look around. The cabinet was filled with toilet paper and soap. Most of the drawers were empty except for the top one that was filled with colorful rubber bands and a toothbrush and toothpaste.

  Her reflection in the mirror above the sink caught her attention. She leaned closer, her stomach resting against the tiled countertop. The red-marker smile made her look like a bad imitation of the Joker. Using soap and water, she scrubbed at the marker until it was nearly gone. Her skin tingled from her efforts.

  She stared at her reflection. What now? What am I going to do?

  Crying for Mom and Dad wouldn’t help. Crying was for sissies, and she was all cried out anyway. She needed to find a way to escape. She needed to think. Plunking down on the cold tile floor, she examined the metal cuff around her ankle. There was a keyhole. That gave her hope. She’d watched Dad pick a lock one time when they were stuck outside the house without a key. She pushed herself to her feet again and went through the bathroom drawers and cupboards once more, reaching way in the back, making sure she hadn’t missed anything the first time. The toothbrush was too big to be of any use. She needed a hairpin or a paper clip.

  That gave her an idea.

  Dragging the chain along with her, she exited the bathroom and made her way to the stack of books and school supplies that the crazy lady had left for her. Inside a small plastic bin she found a ruler, an eraser, and a sharpened pencil. She shoved the pointed end of the pencil into the keyhole and fiddled around, trying to get a feel for the locking mechanism. The lead tip snapped off.

  Crap.

  After looking through the stack of books, she opened the cooler. There were two water bottles, a plastic spoon and a yogurt, an egg salad sandwich, potato chips, and a cookie. She gobbled down the sandwich first.

  It didn’t taste too bad.

  She opened the chips and brought the bag with her, munching as she explored the rest of the room. The chain kept her from reaching the dresser. The window was closer. If she stretched her arm out she could brush the tips of her fingers against the windowpane. The glass had definitely been tinted. She yanked the curtain to one side where she saw part of the tinting had flaked away.

  She could see the neighbor’s backyard. There was a swing set and toys littered about. How old were the kids? she wondered. Had they already started school, or was there a chance they would come out to play and she could somehow get their attention?

  If they did show up, how would she do that?

  She could throw something at the window. But what? She looked around. The cooler might be heavy enough to crash right through the window, and then she could clink the chains against the floor. It was early, though. If the kids next door had school, they might not come out to play until later. She thought about tossing the cooler at the window right this minute, but what if no one was home? What then? The woman might move her to another room without windows. Patience is what she needed if she planned to escape.

  Her gaze followed the chain around her ankle. It disappeared under the bed. She went that way, got down on all fours, and crawled under the bed, where she could see a metal pole where four chains connected. The other three chains were in neat little piles. One for each leg and arm.

  She pulled on the chain attached to her ankle, hoping it would break free.

  Nothing happened.

  As she lay beneath the bed in the semidark, faceup, feeling defeated, she noticed a tiny hole in the mattress. She pushed her finger inside, wriggled it around until she was poked by a metal coil.

  If she could somehow break one of the coils loose, she might be able to use the wire to pick the lock around her ankle. She managed to tear the fabric enough to get her thumb and forefinger inside the mattress. The wire was thick and difficult to bend, but she knew she had to keep trying. She kept at it, bending the wire to the left and then to the right until her finger and thumb throbbed where she could feel an indentation in her skin. “Patience,” her mother’s voice whispered. “Patience always wins the day.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sawyer parked at the back of the hospital’s lot. As she walked toward the entrance, she noticed several media vans double-parked out front. Reporters and cameramen were huddled outside the emergency room.

  The hospital’s doors slid open automatically as she approached. A silver-haired woman sitting at the front desk told Sawyer she was only allowed to give patient information to family members. Sawyer walked away and headed through the lobby, looking around at the people waiting to get help. She stopped when she overheard two women talking about Vicki Addison.

  Family members?

  “Vicki is doing better,” the woman wearing a yellow dress said. “Her condition has gone from serious to fair.”

  “Thank God.” The other woman had to be six feet tall. She glanced Sawyer’s way, prompting Sawyer to pull out her phone and pretend to make a call as she eavesdropped.

  “What exactly did they tell you?” the taller woman asked.

  “They said her vital signs are stable and she’s conscious, but she won’t be able to have visitors for a while.”

  “You would think they would allow her own sister in to see her.”

  Sawyer put her phone away, then approached the two women and held up her lanyard. “Hi, my name is Sawyer Brooks, and I’m with the Sacramento Independent.”

  Both women stared at her, but neither said a word.

  “Mind if I ask you a couple of quick questions?”

  “Go ahead,” Vicki Addison’s sister said.

  Sawyer found a pen and notebook. “Your name is?”

  “Sara Croche.”

  “Are you and Riley close?”

  “Yes. Of course. She’s my only niece.”

  “When was the last time you saw Riley?”

  “Um, last week when I stopped by my sister’s house to bring her some persimmons.”

  “Can you tell me a little bit about Riley?”

  Silence.

  “Does she have any hobbies, likes or dislikes, things like that?”

  “She’s a straight-A student. Talented too. She plays the piano and the flute. She loves to read and help her parents in the garden.” Sara Croche’s smile was tinged with sadness. “I don’t think there’s anything that girl can’t do.”

  “So she’s happy?”

  “Of course.”

  “Never t
alked about running away?”

  The woman frowned.

  “Does she have a boyfriend?” Sawyer asked.

  “She’s only twelve! Of course not.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m simply trying to—”

  The taller woman grabbed Sara’s arm and pulled her away, muttering something about reporters all being heartless.

  Sawyer exhaled. Asking for detailed information was part of her job. If she was going to write about Riley Addison, she needed to know as much about her as possible. But Sawyer realized too late that she’d come on too strong, too fast.

  Back inside the used black Toyota Camry Sawyer had found on Craigslist after her Honda Civic died, she looked up the telephone number for Patrick Addison, Riley’s father, and made the call. After three rings, a robotic voice said to leave a message after the beep. Sawyer stated her name, letting Patrick Addison know she worked for the Sacramento Independent and she wanted to help. She left her number and told him to call anytime. She then looked through her file for Paige Owens’s address, the girl who had escaped her abductor, and plugged the information into the navigation system. The Owens lived seven miles away, off La Riviera Drive in Carmichael.

  On the way Sawyer found herself thinking about Derek. Despite what he’d said, she missed him. Everything about him: his voice, his jokes, the way his eyes lit up when he looked at her.

  She was definitely into him.

  Some people overanalyzed their relationships. She tended to do the opposite. But she thought of Derek all the time. For instance, last week she’d seen what looked like a drug deal going down right outside her apartment, and her first thought had been to call Derek. But she hadn’t. A few days ago she’d heard a gunshot that turned out to be a car backfiring, and again she’d thought of Derek. And what about the time she saw an elderly couple holding hands and wondered what Derek was up to? She thought about Derek constantly, and yet she hadn’t called him. Why?

  Her hands tightened around the steering wheel. She knew exactly what her problem was. Ever since returning home from River Rock a month ago, she’d been apprehensive, constantly worried that something bad would happen. She’d always known Mom and Dad were selfish and neglectful. But nothing had prepared her for the shock of discovering that they were monsters.

  Sawyer couldn’t think about her parents without feeling numb inside. It wasn’t surprising that her anxiety had ramped up a notch after she returned home to Sacramento. Everything freaked her out these days. Whenever her heart raced, she found herself wanting to call Derek. But if she did that, she would appear needy. She liked to think she was independent and didn’t need anyone else, and maybe that was partially true. Maybe she could live her entire life all alone. But was that what she wanted?

  She drove up to the front of the Owens’s house on La Riviera, pulled out her cell phone, and left Derek a text: I need to talk to you. Please call me back.

  Pushing thoughts of Derek away, she reached for the manila file on the passenger seat where she’d put her notes and a copy of the police report Rene Owens had filled out five years ago. Most of the report had been blotted out using a black marker, rendering it useless.

  Sawyer stepped out of the car and made her way toward the house. If not for the colorful blooms lining the walkway, the box-shaped house would have looked like a clone of every house on the street—one story with four small windows and a single-car garage.

  Sawyer knocked and waited.

  “Who is it?” asked a female voice from the other side of the door.

  “Sawyer Brooks with the Sacramento Independent. I was hoping I could talk to Paige Owens.”

  “What about?”

  The door opened a couple of inches, enough for Sawyer to see the woman’s thick dark hair interweaved with wiry gray strands. Her lips were pressed into a straight line. “Are you Rene Owens?” Sawyer asked.

  “I am.”

  “I was hoping I could talk to you and Paige about her near abduction five years ago.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Every time another little girl goes missing, you people come knocking on my door. We have nothing to say to you. Leave us alone.”

  Sawyer caught a glimpse of a young girl in the background. The dark eyes framed by thick lashes and the heart-shaped face told her it was Paige. She’d hardly changed from the picture Sawyer had seen online from five years ago. “I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t important,” Sawyer said.

  Rene Owens snorted. “Ratings and personal glory is all you people want.”

  Sawyer didn’t back down. Although it might be a stretch to think this newest abduction was related to what happened to Paige Owens, Sawyer wanted to know more about every girl on her list and see where it led, if anywhere. “As you might have seen on the news, a young girl named Riley Addison went missing,” Sawyer said. “Maybe someone saw something and yet they’re afraid to come forward. Your bravery in talking to me could help authorities find her.”

  “Mom,” the girl said. “Let her in. We should help if we can.”

  “I’m sorry,” the woman told Sawyer. “We can’t help you.”

  Sawyer placed a hand on the door to stop Rene from shutting it so she could hand her a business card through the gap. “Take my card, please. If you change your mind, please call me anytime.”

  The woman took the card and promptly closed the door in Sawyer’s face. More than one lock clicked into place.

  Sawyer exhaled. Rene Owens knew she was one of the lucky ones. Her daughter was home, safe and sound, and Rene planned to keep it that way. As Sawyer walked back to the curb where her car was parked, she scanned the neighborhood. Paige had been eleven when she was walking to the bus stop. Exactly what happened after that wasn’t yet clear.

  Her phone vibrated as she slid into her car. There was a text from an unknown number: This is Paige Owens. Meet me at Starbucks on Rosewood Avenue in fifteen minutes.

  A jolt of excitement shot through her. Eager for the chance to talk to Paige, Sawyer looked toward the house and saw Paige’s mother through the front window, most likely waiting for her to drive off, so that’s what she did. When she was far enough away, she pulled over and looked up the Starbucks address and logged it into her navigation system.

  Twenty minutes later, Paige walked into the coffee shop where Sawyer had been waiting.

  “Sorry it took so long,” Paige said as she plopped onto the seat across from Sawyer. “I had to wait until Mom calmed down.”

  “Not a problem,” Sawyer said. “Thanks for meeting with me. Can I get you anything?”

  “No. I don’t have a lot of time. My mom is a good person,” Paige said, not wasting any time. “She wants to help, but she’s scared.”

  “What is she afraid of?”

  Paige’s shoulders dipped. “White vans with tinted windows, shadows . . . the dark. Everything, I guess. Mostly she’s afraid of the woman who tried to take me.”

  “Most of the police report has been blacked out. How old would you guess the woman to have been at that time?”

  “Gosh, about forty, at least,” Paige said. “The police were skeptical of the person being a woman.”

  “Why?”

  Paige shrugged. “I just remember my parents getting angry when the police asked me over and over if I was sure there wasn’t someone else in the car. At one point I started crying because I could tell they didn’t believe me.”

  Earlier Sawyer had read about profiling criminals, including child abductors, who tended to be single men and social outcasts.

  “Mom thinks that the woman who tried to take me has been watching us all these years.”

  Sawyer’s skin prickled. “Does she have reason to believe that’s true?” Sawyer asked. “I mean, has she seen someone?”

  Paige’s eyes narrowed. Her gaze fixated on Sawyer’s backpack. “You’re not recording this, are you?”

  “That would be illegal unless I asked you for permission. But the answer is no. I’m not recording our conversation.” Sawye
r opened her backpack and showed her in hopes of gaining the girl’s trust.

  Paige peeked inside, then nodded.

  Sawyer sipped her coffee. “Do you think the woman who tried to take you that day is watching you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  The girl was fidgeting, clearly uncomfortable. Sawyer waited.

  “In the beginning,” Paige explained, “right after the incident, we would find dead birds and rodents on the pathway to our house. Dad thought it was pranksters, but it scared Mom, and she was convinced the driver of every white SUV was the woman who tried to take me.”

  “Did you ever see her again?”

  “I saw a similar car parked outside the house a few times, but the vehicle never stuck around long enough for me to get a look at the driver.”

  “That would be unsettling. Has your mom always been easily frightened?” Sawyer asked.

  “Not until after I was almost taken. She changed after that. My parents started fighting all the time because Mom wouldn’t let me out of her sight. They ended up getting divorced.” She swallowed. “Everything changed after that day.”

  “Do you still remember what happened?”

  Paige’s eyes watered. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget. But it’s weird because after it happened I thought I remembered every little detail. Like what I ate for breakfast and Mom saying I should get going so I wouldn’t miss the bus.” Paige fiddled with the button on her shirtsleeve. “I was excited about a history test because I knew I would ace it.” Paige met Sawyer’s gaze. “I even remember what the woman was wearing. I mean, I can still see it in my head.”

  “Mind if I take notes?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Sawyer found pen and paper in her bag. “What was she wearing?”

  “Those plastic shoes. Crocs! Red, with holes in them. And a jean skirt, white top, and a red button-down sweater with little ladybugs. The weird part is that I didn’t remember the red sweater until months after it happened.”

  Sawyer lifted a brow. “It just popped into your head suddenly?”

  Paige shifted in her seat. “Yes. I was sitting in the cafeteria, eating lunch with a group of people, when my best friend joined us. She was wearing jeans and a red sweater. Hers didn’t have ladybugs or any design at all, but all of a sudden, I saw the woman standing on the side of the road with her arm in a sling. The red sweater stood out. Every button. Every ladybug.”

 

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