The Thinnest Air

by Minka Kent

  He’s gone.

  I’m afraid to open my eyes, afraid my instincts are wrong . . . that he’s standing over me, testing me.

  So I keep them closed awhile longer.

  The clinking of pots and pans in the kitchen a few minutes later confirms my suspicions. He left me alone, my feet untied. I can’t begin to imagine how I’m going to free myself at this point, my hands still bound and useless. But I’m sure as hell going to try.

  Seconds turn into minutes, all of which I count in a feeble attempt to keep myself busy and awake, and when the cabin rattles and the front door slams, I listen for the sound of his truck.

  One, two, three, four . . . I continue to count, hoping I’m right. Praying he didn’t run outside to grab something.

  The cabin is cloaked in cool silence.

  Until it isn’t.

  The gentle rumble of his truck engine clatters through the boarded windows above the bed. My throat burns, squelching a happy cry. I’d be crying tears of joy if I weren’t so desiccated. I wait for the sound to grow distant, farther away, before opening my eyes.

  Rolling to my side, I slide one foot on the floor, followed by the other. The soles of my feet tingle, and I bump into a tin bucket I hadn’t realized was there. He must have left my feet unrestrained so I wouldn’t piss myself again. I imagine he wants to keep the bodily-fluids mess to a minimum. Insanity and intelligence aren’t mutually exclusive.

  Yanking my wrists from the headboard, I twist my body, contorting it any way I can and trying half a dozen different positions before realizing none of them is going to be viable.

  Stepping off the bed, my body bent over the mattress, I manage to squeeze myself between the wall and the back of the iron bedposts. Sucking in a deep breath and fueled by adrenaline, I begin to kick.

  My bare feet ache with each kick, but eventually I feel nothing. I’m a caged animal, clawing my way out of here. I’ll die trying if I have to. It’s freedom or death. Life with this deranged psychopath isn’t an option.

  I’m not sure how long I’ve been kicking when one of the iron spindles loosens. There’s a small gap between the top of the spindle and the top of the headboard, an exposed sliver of sharp metal almost glimmering in the dark. Sliding my right wrist to the top of that rod, I hold my breath until I manage to pass the plastic cuff through.

  Moving on to my left wrist, there’s no time to bask in this tease of freedom. Kicking harder, faster, I manage to nick the bottom of my heel, but the spindle refuses to budge.

  Resting, I realize my vision has adjusted to the blackness, and I’m able to make out the outline of a desk lamp. Stretching my body as far as it’ll reach, I search for a string and give it a tug.

  The room is illuminated.

  My eyes sting at first, squeezing tight until the sensitivity subsides, but when I’m finally able to take a look around, I find myself in the company of a tall dresser, an old wooden desk, and a double-door closet.

  Pushing with everything I have, I scoot the bed from one part of the room to the other, reaching the dresser. Rifling through drawers, I find nothing but men’s flannel shirts and faded thermal pajamas.

  Moving toward the desk, I tug each drawer open, searching for anything. A knife. A gun. Anything.

  But it’s nothing but papers.

  Old bills, yellowed greeting cards, all of them addressed to a man by the name of Jack Howard.

  Checking the final drawer at the bottom, I fish beneath a stack of papers, my heart jolting when my hand comes across something hard. Pulling it close to inspect it, I sigh. Upon first glance, it appears to be some kind of walkie-talkie. Flipping it over, I hold the label closer, making out the words NORTH STAR SATELLITE COMMUNICATIONS.

  “Oh, my God,” I whisper.

  It’s a satellite phone.

  Pressing the power button, I expect nothing. For all I know, this thing’s been sitting in here for months with a dead battery. Only the screen lights green, the display filling with a tiny logo and the words SEARCHING FOR NEAREST SIGNAL, PLEASE WAIT.

  A million moments pass before the message disappears and is promptly replaced with READY.

  My fingers shake as I try to decide if I should call Greer or Andrew first.

  I imagine both of them have been working closely with the Glacier Park police, and who knows, maybe there’s an officer hanging out at the house twenty-four seven in case anything happens.

  If I call them and tell them Ronan took me and that I have no idea where I am, Ronan will catch wind of it. He’s a clever man. He’s connected. He’s probably listening to scanners every second of every day when he’s not here, keeping his nose to the ground. He’ll know before they have a chance to assemble a search party or put out an APB. He’ll be forced to run, which means he’ll either take me with him or he’ll take my location to his grave.

  I take a seat on the edge of the bed, and my left arm throbs. I press the phone against my forehead, trying to go over my options. I’m sure my mother’s with Andrew. I don’t have Allison’s phone number memorized—or anyone else’s for that matter.

  Except Harris.

  We haven’t spoken in months, our last conversation not going too well. He was angry with me for staying with Andrew, accusing me of wasting his time all those months. I saw his point, but I couldn’t swallow my pride.

  We ended the call and subsequently terminated the odd little pseudofriendship thing we had going on. It’s been radio silence ever since.

  If there’s one person I can count on to be away from the media frenzy, away from the shit show in Glacier Park, it’s Harris.

  I punch his number into the phone, the thick buttons lighting with each press.

  My heart beats in my ears, whooshing between each ring. Biting my lip between my teeth until I taste blood, I’m 99 percent certain he’s not going to answer. For all I know, it’s four in the morning in New York, and he’s sound asleep.

  “Hello?” His voice crackles over the line. He sounds far away—fitting, I suppose.

  “Harris.” I clamp my hand over my mouth, afraid to smile, afraid to get my hopes up too high. “Oh, my God. Harris.”

  “Meredith?” His voice is clearer now, louder. “Where are you? The whole fucking country’s—”

  “I don’t know.” My voice shakes. “Ronan took me. Ronan McCormack. He was a detective in Glacier Park. He took me, and I have no idea where I am. I woke up in this cabin. He tied me up. The windows are boarded. I—”

  I realize how simultaneously hopeless and insane my situation sounds the second I breathe life into those words.

  “Stay on. I’m going to call the police,” he says.

  “No. Don’t. He’ll know. He’ll move me. Or he’ll run. And he’ll never tell anyone where I am.” My words ramble on, frantic and frenzied. “I’m sure he’s watching everything going on in Glacier Park. That’s why I didn’t call Greer. He’d know. And I don’t want to put her in danger.”

  “Okay, let’s calm down here,” he says. I imagine him sitting up in his bed, sliding his glasses over his perfect nose and flicking on a nearby light. “We’re going to get you out of this; we just need to figure out how the hell to get to you. Is there anything you can tell me about this cabin?”

  Exhaling, I glance around the room. “It’s small. Dated. I think it’s an old hunting cabin? I can’t see the outside. All the windows are covered. My wrist is tied to the bed, so I can’t leave the room. I found this satellite phone in the bottom of a desk drawer.”

  “There’s a desk?”

  “Yes.”

  “What else is in there?”

  “Oh, my God.” I sit up straighter. “Mail. There was a bunch of mail addressed to a Jack Howard. Maybe he owns the place?”

  “Get me an address.”

  Sliding off the bed, I return to the dresser, rifling through stacks of old paperwork. “There are dozens of addresses. It’s like this guy never sat still. There are probably at least ten of them.”

  “Read th
em to me.” Paper rustles in the background.

  “What now?” I ask after I’ve read them off.

  “I’m going to find you,” he says.

  “We have to keep this quiet. Don’t tell the police. Don’t tell Greer. If Ronan so much as suspects, this isn’t going to work—”

  “Mer, don’t worry.” His voice soothes, even if only for a few seconds, and it’s like our falling-out never happened. “I’ll be on the next plane. I’m going to find this Jack Howard and go from there. Just . . .”

  He doesn’t finish his thought. Maybe he’s realizing for the first time that he doesn’t know everything about everything.

  “I don’t know if I’ll be able to call you again,” I say, glancing around the room and realizing what I’ve done to it. I’m going to have to put this back together and pray to God Ronan doesn’t realize a single thing is out of place.

  “Don’t worry about it. Stay safe. Do what he tells you to do. I’ll find you, I promise.”

  I don’t want to end the call. I want to bask in his voice, the promise of freedom.

  “Get some rest, Mer,” he says. “I’ll see you soon.”

  Harris ends the call before I get a chance to respond, and I delete the call log from the phone before returning it to the bottom drawer, beneath the stack of papers. Moving the bed back, I flick off the lamp, crawl beneath the covers, and slide the cuff of my free hand back over the spindle.

  I’m exhausted, but I couldn’t sleep if I tried.

  I’m getting out of here.

  CHAPTER 44

  GREER

  Day Eleven

  I’ve never seen a gun up close, and I never imagined the first time would involve the cold metal of the barrel pointed between my eyes.

  I brace for the inevitable, imagining the boom in my ears, the smoky stench of gunpowder, the bright flash, and the subsequent darkness that follows—not that I would likely be conscious for any of that.

  Only Ronan lowers his piece, his ear pricked toward the door.

  Then I hear it, too.

  Someone’s knocking at the front door—stiff, attention-demanding strikes.

  Thump, thump, thump, thump.

  “Don’t say a fucking word,” he says, his voice low and controlled. “You make one sound, and I promise your sister will die cold, alone, and hungry.”

  I nod, heart leaping in my throat. Whoever this is, he wasn’t expecting them.

  Tucking his gun behind his back, he exits the room in silence, pulling the door closed. A minute later, the click and unlatching of the front door is followed by voices. A man, maybe two?

  Silence comes next.

  Then gunshots.

  The house rattles—the walls, the windows, the doors on their hinges.

  I count six, maybe seven altogether. But all it takes is one to kill a man.

  Someone’s dead. I know it.

  I envision a local or a park ranger who happened upon a truck at an abandoned property and maybe wanted to check on it, only to be met by a psychopath wielding a semiautomatic weapon.

  I also imagine a scenario in which the police somehow tracked him down, pinned Meredith’s disappearance on him, and were quick on the draw the second they saw his weapon.

  Only there’s one problem with both of those scenarios. If Ronan lives? I die.

  If Ronan dies? No one knew I was with him. I hadn’t told a soul. No one would know to look for me here, behind a door hidden by a tapestry.

  Looks as though I’m going to die either way.

  CHAPTER 45

  MEREDITH

  Two Days Ago

  “Meredith.” He wakes me with a kiss, my name a whisper in this dark room. “I’m going to be gone for a couple of days.”

  Ronan takes a seat beside me, dragging his hand over his face.

  “Your sister,” he says, rolling his eyes, “has decided we should be looking for you in Vermont of all places. Don’t ask why. It’s a long story. I’m just going along with it because . . . well, it’d look odd if I didn’t.”

  He trails his fingertips down the inside of my arm, smiling.

  “We’re so close,” he says. “So damn close.”

  The hope that’s been burning inside me the last few days is nearly extinguished. I thought Harris would be here by now. I thought he’d find me. Every part of me believed I’d be a free woman, and yet here I am, still tied to this bed, smiling at everything Ronan says, professing my love for him, my excitement for a lifetime spent off the grid with him.

  Ronan hasn’t drugged me the last couple of nights, and he hasn’t noticed the broken spindle on the headboard. Had he not locked the door from the outside, I might have been able to escape by now.

  I managed to dig out the satellite phone last night after I was sure he’d left, and I tried to call Harris, only it went straight to voice mail.

  Wherever he is, I just hope he’s okay.

  “These are for you.” Ronan points to a nightstand covered in bottles of water, towels, and granola bars. Three buckets rest by his feet. “This should get you through the next couple of days. It’s not ideal, I know, but we have to make it work.”

  Dragging his fingers through my snarled hair, he gathers it into his fist, tugging gently as his mouth lifts at the corners. He looks at me the way he did before, the same look that used to send a swarm of butterflies circling my middle.

  He was so normal then.

  Now I know it was all an act.

  “I’m going to miss you, Meredith,” he says, bending forward to kiss my mouth. The familiar taste of his spearmint chewing gum lingers on my lips, and I want to be sick. “But I’ll be back for you soon.”

  Ronan leaves, removing the knob from the inside and latching the door from the outside.

  Two days.

  Harris has two days to find me.

  CHAPTER 46

  GREER

  Day Eleven

  Exhaustion blankets my body, but adrenaline keeps me on edge. Footsteps shuffle outside the door, and after that a man’s whispered voice. My heart gallops, heat creeping up my neck as I straddle the line between two very different futures.

  Ronan’s warning plays in my mind . . . if I make a sound, my sister will die.

  And I believe him.

  I believe him because crazy and determined make for a desperate man.

  The shuffle of feet grows louder, heavier. Whoever it is must be on the other side of the wall.

  My voice rests at the bottom of my throat, words choking as I fight the urge to scream for help.

  “Did you check in here?” a man’s voice asks.

  A door opens.

  It isn’t mine.

  The squelch of a police radio fills the empty house.

  “In here!” I yell, my body shifting in the metal chair as I attempt to make as much noise as I can. My heart races and I’m breathless, but I manage to yell once more. “Hello? Can you hear me?”

  My pleas are met with silence.

  CHAPTER 47

  MEREDITH

  One Day Ago

  I can’t stop thinking about Greer today.

  The thought of Ronan spending two days with my sister has been eating me alive, my mind obsessing over every possible thing that could go wrong, every possible thing he could do to her.

  He’s not stable.

  And he’s not one to let anyone stand in the way of what he wants.

  All that time I spent with him in the past, he seemed so harmless, so benign. Never in a million years would I have thought he was capable of something like this, and if he’s capable of kidnapping me, he’s capable of anything, especially getting rid of the one person who knows what he did.

  I can’t stop shaking as a cocktail of powerlessness and anxiety takes over.

  The windows rattle, which I’ve learned almost always coincides with the opening and closing of the front door.

  He’s back.

  Lying in the dark bedroom, my arms tingling and asleep, I stare at the water-stain
ed ceiling, my body sinking into the mattress. The pungent stench of bodily fluids fills the thick, stale air.

  I shouldn’t have placed all my hope in Harris. He’s just an Ivy League–educated coffee shop owner from New York, not a superhero.

  Ronan moves around the house, his footsteps shuffling from room to room, quickly, as if he’s looking for something. I listen until they grow louder and then stop altogether.

  A second later, the latch on the outside of the door slides, and the door swings open.

  I don’t look at him.

  I can’t.

  “Meredith.” The man’s voice doesn’t belong to Ronan.

  Lifting my aching neck, I squint toward the dark figure in the doorway. When he steps closer, his face comes into focus. The glasses. The dark hair. The smug smirk permanently etched on his face.

  “Told you I’d find you,” he says, calm as ever. Reaching into his pocket, he grabs a tactical knife, sawing the plastic restraints until they snap.

  My hands are asleep, but I manage to shake them until the feeling returns.

  “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.” Harris glances toward the door.

  “Where is he?” I ask.

  He shrugs, examining the cramped room I’ve come to know too well. “Not sure. Not planning on sticking around long enough to find out either.”

  Wrapping one arm around my shoulder and hooking his hand around my elbow, he leads me outside, toward the glowing headlights of a running Toyota.

  I don’t know what day it is.

  I don’t know what time it is.

  And I don’t ask.

  “Harris.” I stop when I see a man sitting in the front seat of the car.

  “That’s my driver,” he says with a wink. Only Harris Collier can make rescuing a kidnapped woman seem like an ordinary event. “You know I don’t have a license. How’d you think I was going to get around?”

  He helps me in the back seat, fastens the seat belt, and hops in front.

  “Is there a park ranger station nearby?” he asks the man up front before turning back to me. “There’s literally no cell service out here. We’re going to have to find someone and tell them you’re safe, and that Ronan took you.”