Left for Dead: A gripping psychological thriller Read Online Free Page B

bothered.
    Instead he declares, “That’s it, fighter, we’re here.”
    And the car rolls to a stop.

9
    I used to think my father was the smartest man in the world. When I was little I would find him in his attic study, glasses perched on his nose, pouring over rolls of technical drawings. He was an engineer. He designed bridges and was known for inventing a new kind of strut called the Beverly Strut (named after my mother) which helped bridges avoid collapsing during earthquakes. He had this little model of the Golden Gate Bridge on his side table. He’d frown whenever I touched it.
    He was always in his study working with his rulers and protractors and pens and charts. I knew it was important that he get it right, that cars and buses and motorcycles and people crossed bridges every day and they had to be safe.
    Sometimes if I hung around long enough, he would give me a sheet of paper and a pencil and show me how to draw a simple plan for a birdhouse or go-cart or jewelry box. When I became too much of a pest, my mother would arrive and usher me out. Your father needs to work now, Amelia Jane, give him some peace and quiet. When I’d protest, he’d reach into the tin of fruit candies he kept in his top drawer and drop one into my palm and tell me he’d come and play later. I would go outside in the backyard and wait on the swing set or ride my bike around the yard with my brother. Sometimes I would look up at the study window and see my father standing there staring at us, smoking the cigarettes he wasn’t supposed to smoke.
    I didn’t know it then but he wasn’t interested in bridges anymore. He was planning his escape, visualizing a new future, a different life without us. Then one day he left and never came back.
    I used to ask my mother if he left because of me and she would say through wobbling lips that my father loved me very much and that nothing was my fault. I didn’t believe her because when my father was at work I would sneak up the stairs into his study and spin in his squeaking chair and pretend to smoke and mess about with the Golden Gate Bridge. He found out and didn’t like it and he left.

10
    The car stops and Moonboot turns and looks at me for the longest time.
    Finally, I break the silence. “I won’t say anything if you let me go.”
    It’s laughable. I know this when I say it, but it’s all I’ve got.
    “Won’t you?” he says.
    I can’t tell if he’s angry or amused or just indifferent.
    He stares at me awhile longer then gets out and opens the passenger door and lifts off the blanket and cuts the ties to my ankles and the pulse returns to my legs.
    “Get up.”
    My heart beats wildly because I know this is bad, this is the reason for the long journey, the blindfold, Johnny Cash.
    “Do as you’re told,” he commands when I don’t move.
    I sit up.
    “What’s your name, sir?” I say, reaching.
    “Stop talking.”
    “I was spelling bee champion in the third grade and voted most likely to succeed in sixth grade. I love animals and banana splits and my grandmother. I had my first kiss when I was twelve and collected for the blind foundation and one day I want kids. One of each. Or both the same, I don’t care as long as they have ten fingers and ten toes.”
    I’ve gone too far because his hand grips my upper arm like a vise. He swivels me around so I’m sitting on the edge of the seat and takes off my boots.
    “Walk,” he announces, lifting me up by the elbow.
    “You won’t get away with this. My husband will be out looking for me right now. I’m a lawyer. You’re going to go to prison for a very long time. Unless you let me go. Let me go and I won’t tell anyone. Before things go too far. Think about it. I don’t know who you are. You could just leave me here and simply drive away. I can find my own way back.”
    He pushes me along. Pine needles and stones prick the soles of my feet. I can’t see much through the mask because it’s dark apart from the headlight