Savannah pivoted, broke away, and ran out of the frame. I gasped when she suddenly fell back into view, her body unnaturally stiff, toppling over like an axed tree.

“Taser,” my dad muttered to himself.

For a moment, I saw Savannah’s pale face as she landed hard, her head bouncing. Her hat was already gone. Then she went limp. A man’s hands entered the frame and grabbed underneath her arms. And then they dragged Savannah away from the camera’s view.

A few seconds later, a white van drove past the camera and out of the lot. It must have been parked in the far corner, where the security camera didn’t reach. And I realized that Savannah had to be in the back of that van.

My dad slowed down the video, moving the footage back and forth, until he found the spot where the license plate was the most visible. Even then, the van was at an angle, so that only part of the plate showed, and it wasn’t in focus.

My dad finally spoke. “Yesterday I interviewed Tim Hixon, Savannah’s mother’s boyfriend.” He ran his tongue over his front teeth, his face scrunching up as if he were tasting something disgusting. “He’s a mechanic. He dresses like that guy on this tape. Coveralls, boots.”

“Where do think he took her?” My heart felt like it would beat out of my chest. “Do you think she’s still alive?”

Dad took a flash drive from his pocket and slid it into the computer. “I’m going to go talk to Mr. Hixon and try to find out,” he said as he copied the file. “I’d like to hear what he has to say about this.”

JENNY DOWD

When we had heard Sir coming back, Savannah and I froze, barely breathing, waiting for the door to open. We measured Sir’s progress toward us by Rex’s barks and Sir’s occasional guttural commands. Savannah’s knuckles turned white as they tightened around my fishnet tights, ready to smash the can into his head. I stood with my open hands in front of my face, elbows in, mentally trying to rehearse all the kung fu moves she’d just shown me.

While I’d been hitting the pillow, I’d felt confident and strong. Every time I heard Savannah grunt when I landed a blow or watched her stagger backward under my assault, it had given me a false sense of security.

But as the moment crept closer when I was going to have to actually try my moves, I started to realize how ridiculous it was to believe that I could damage Sir. Hurt the man who could fill me with fear with just one look from his icy blue eyes.

“Hier! Fuss! Platz!” Sir ordered. He sounded inches away. Suddenly the metal and plastic wall separating us from him seemed as insubstantial as cling film. My stomach bottomed out as I waited for the chain to rattle as he unlocked it. My pulse slammed in my ears.

The next sound was the crunch of gravel, but it wasn’t on the other side of the door. Instead it came from underneath our feet. I stared into Savannah’s wide blue eyes, as puzzled as mine. We were both panting soundlessly through open mouths. I realized I must look like her reflection in a fun house mirror.

And then from somewhere under our feet came the rush of water.

We were still frozen, too scared to move, when the sounds reversed. First the water stopped. Then the gravel crunched under us. Followed by footsteps receding, accompanied by Rex’s barks and Sir’s commands.

“What did he do?” Savannah demanded in a whisper as Rex’s barking faded.

Part of me already knew the answer, but I still hoped I was wrong. After putting the glass under the kitchen faucet, I turned the handle. The first second the faucet gushed solid water, but then it hissed and fizzled as the stream became more and more air-filled. And when the glass was only about three-quarters full, the water stopped altogether.

When I turned, Savannah had her hand over her mouth. Her eyes told me she understood. I resisted the sudden urge to toss the water in her face. If she hadn’t caught Sir’s eye, if she hadn’t resisted when he took her, maybe he wouldn’t have done it. Wouldn’t have taken the water away.

With a shaking hand, I set the glass down on the counter.

“There’s probably still some water in the shower,” she said. “And I’ve heard you can drink the water in the toilet tank.”

And there was milk and orange juice in the fridge, and it wasn’t summer, so we weren’t sweating as much. But the truth was that none of that would ultimately matter. I shook my head. “All that means is it’s going to take a little longer.” I sank down on the couch and put my face in my hands.

Savannah stayed where she was, the useless can still dangling down her back. “That’s it, isn’t it? Your face is scarred, and my wrist is broken. Neither of us is what he thought he was getting. I bet he’s just going to leave that door locked, and he won’t come back for weeks. He won’t come back until he’s sure we’re dead.”

How many days could you live without water? Was it three weeks without food but only three days without water? Or maybe it was some other multiple of three. Thirty hours without water?

Ever since I’d been taken, I’d been afraid that something would happen to Sir, a heart attack or an accident. And because no one knew I was here, I would starve to death in this RV.

But I had never dreamed that he would actually choose to let me die.

I didn’t know if Savannah was right about why he was doing it, but she was right about what was eventually going to happen.

This trailer would soon become our tomb.

LORRAINE TAYLOR

When the doorbell rang, I ran to it, hoping it was news about my daughter. About Savannah.

Instead it was a dark-haired woman. “Lorraine? I’m Amy.” She held out a business card. On one side was In Trevor’s Memory, and the other, Amy Dowd, Volunteer Victim’s Advocate.

“Can I come in and talk?” she asked.

After a second, I stepped back. Was I doing the right thing? And would Tim mind? He’d gone into work, putting in some overtime. He said he didn’t see the point of sitting around the house if there wasn’t anything he could do to find Savannah. Besides, he needed the extra money to fix his car.

Amy seemed only a few years older than me, but she might as well have been a different species. A show dog next to a mutt. I could tell her black pantsuit was expensive, and it sure hid her extra weight way better than my wrinkled scrubs with a drawstring waist.

“In Trevor’s Memory is affiliated with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. It was started by the family of Trevor Strider. Maybe you remember him?”

The feeling of unreality was so great that it was like I was watching myself nod. Anyone alive twenty years ago knew who Trevor Strider was. Six-year-old Trevor had disappeared from his front yard in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. He’d never been found.

“Can I sit down?” After I nodded, Amy took Tim’s recliner, and I sat on the couch. Tim’s sweatshirt was thrown over the chair. The coffee table was covered with mail, dirty plates, and an open pizza box that still held a curling slice. I looked for judgment on Amy’s face. But all I saw was barely concealed pain. And somehow that was worse. This was the life I had made for myself, for me and my daughter.

“Anyway,” she continued, “I’m here to help, if you want. I’m not law enforcement, although I’ve worked with them many times, and they’re the ones who notified us. I’m not a counselor, but I’ve been to counseling and learned a lot from it. I’m mostly just here because I’ve been in your shoes. My daughter, Jenny, disappeared nearly a year ago.”