Left for Dead: A gripping psychological thriller Read Online Free

who owned them. Clearly I would need to change that assessment.
    The effects of the stupefying solvent were lessening and my thinking was getting clearer. I tell myself that I must log details, for later, for when I escape. Ten things. Just focus on ten things.
    First my surroundings. The car. Mint-colored Capri. Wood-beaded driver’s seat cover. Kermit the Frog on the rearview. In the center dash, reusable coffee cup encased in a purple rubber rim with a Hawkins oil refinery logo on it. Squeaky spring under my left hip. Striped mocha-colored upholstery. Everything shiny and pungent from Armor All. No trash, apart from a single fluttering receipt on the floorboard next to the dog collar.
    I wonder if Moonboot is one of those guys who vacuums and waxes his car every Sunday, if he has a house without a thing out of place, if he likes everything just so and flies into a rage at the slightest sign of dust. Strangely, it’s more worrying that he isn’t a slob. You’d expect someone who abducts a woman from a parking lot in broad daylight to be a rambling, disorganized nut job. Moonboot is none of these things. He is different. Confident. Together. Maybe even smart.
    I glance at the receipt and I’m thinking it would be a big help down the road to show what he bought, the time he bought it, the store he bought it from. Maybe it would lead to a name on a credit card or a face on a camera. But if I reach for it now he will undoubtedly see, so I bide my time and decide to wait until later when I get a chance.
    Then there’s him. I tilt my head and squint through the mask to study his profile. He has a good nose, not too large or small, but perfectly proportioned. Strong jaw line, brown hair graying at the temples, so he is probably older than I initially thought. Early fifties, skin the color of nutmeg. Muscular, as if he works the land, healthy, except for his mind, there’s nothing healthy about that. His movements convey a casual self-assurance, like he is in control, like he knows he will not get caught, like he’s done this before.
    I shut my eyes and test myself. Like the game I used to play as a kid with my brother, when Mom would put a selection of items on a tray and we had to memorize as many as we could before Mom finished counting to five and covered the objects back up again. Then my brother and I would scribble furiously for twenty seconds writing down everything we could remember. I always won, which would infuriate my brother and send him stomping off to his room.
    In law school I honed my technique and used a trick to help me recall the hundreds of cases I needed to know for exams. I would make up little stories. Marbury v Maloney was Maloney on his owny. Doyle v Ohio was Doyle shot Mike Loyal. The trick was to picture an actual scene like a movie. Maloney on his own in a playground as a kid because his mother had abandoned him. Doyle at home drinking with his friends before an altercation with his irate, meth-addicted friend, Mike Loyal. It worked like a charm. Even now, ten years later, I can still recall the mailbox rules off the top of my head. And there’s a story here, for sure, a vivid nightmare of a story that I won’t forget soon. This time the lead character isn’t Maloney or Doyle, it’s me.
    *
    It feels like we are heading north. It’s difficult to tell because we’ve been driving for what seems like days, in different directions. But north is my best guess, north into Oregon, maybe even as far as Washington State.
    There’s a change in the air. It gets fresher. Goosebumps strike along my bare thighs. The sun seems further away. The sounds are different too, closer. No longer the open spaces of fields but something else. I angle my head back. Trees—tall, substantial, the smell of pine.
    We leave the sealed road and I feel roughness beneath the tires. The suspension screeches and gravel pings.
    Moonboot clatters inside the glove box. A few moments later the stereo bursts into life. Neil