Taken Hostage. Jordyn Redwood

it down, Regan, slow it down. Stop thinking like this.

      It wasn’t the first time an evening call went unanswered—but it was rare.

      As the garage door rose, Polina’s battered navy blue Chevy Cavalier was where it should be. Regan parked her rental car, grabbed her purse and exited the vehicle, but froze when she saw the door that led into her kitchen. It stood open—all the way. The interior of the house was as dark and deep as a water well. The garage light flickered off and Regan’s heartbeat raced as blackness and fear enveloped her.

      It was quiet—too quiet.

      “Olivia? Polina?”

      A stillness like no human presence remained. Regan pulled out her phone and activated the flashlight, approaching the wooden steps that led into the house with measured caution. Her heart galloped in her chest.

      As the light traveled up the door frame, a smudge of blood jumped out in deep contrast to the white. When Regan crested the top step, heavy black marks and chipped paint gave the door a distressed look that had not been present before. As Regan entered the mudroom and eased the door closed behind her, she nearly tripped on bottles of laundry supplies that sat scattered on the marble tile. The box of laundry detergent had turned over and spilled. Soapy white crystals spread out like a blizzard had raced through the room. On the backside of the door, dusty footprints marred the white paint in several areas, almost as if someone had planted feet there to prevent the door from being opened. They were too large to be Olivia’s. The tread marks seemed characteristic of the athletic shoes Polina often wore.

      Regan stepped farther into the house, throwing on every light switch as she briskly walked by, flooding the darkness to keep her evil thoughts at bay. The desk in her kitchen had been ransacked. Her papers, bills and notes were scattered all across the floor. A few more steps and she crossed broken glass from strewed dinner dishes. She wasn’t sure at first glance if the red liquid splashed against her refrigerator was spaghetti sauce or blood.

      Rushing up the tan-carpeted stairs, Regan headed straight into Olivia’s room.

      And there was the bed, perfectly made.

      “Olivia!” she screamed, her sobs the only answer.

      She rushed across to hall to Polina’s room and was met by another neatly made bed. Regan crossed to the center of the room, looking for any clue that would explain their disappearances, her briefcase still clutched in her hand, her breath strangled by invisible pythons wrapping and tightening themselves around her chest.

      Regan’s phone pinged—an incoming text. Her vision blurred from the onslaught of tears. She brought her phone to her face.

      Whatever you do—don’t call the police. Go downstairs. You’ll find what you’re looking for.

      Regan’s hands shook and she tumbled to her knees. Whoever had Olivia was watching her. Had they followed her home? Were there cameras? Or were they merely watching her shadow travel through the windows to determine her position in the house? Did they sickly observe and relish the fact that her life was changing forever? Were they here? Inside her home? She didn’t want to go downstairs. Had she missed them? Were Olivia and Polina’s bodies lying somewhere downstairs and she had run past them, hoping to find them sleeping peacefully in their beds?

      Terror crystallized every functioning cell in a wintry ice Regan didn’t believe she’d ever be free from. Should she call 9-1-1? Was the text instructing her not to because the assailants were waiting downstairs? Her heartbeat echoed in her ears like a scream in a canyon. Who could she reach out to? Her career caused isolation. Her parents believed her ex-husband’s stories that Regan’s study of medicine had caused the demise of her marriage, and so they didn’t stay in touch, not even for Olivia’s sake. Sadly, Regan didn’t know much about Polina’s family, or if they could help her grope through this shock to find help.

      Regan took several deep breaths to abate the tremor stealing the strength from her legs. She stood, shaky, and took the stairs back down, leaning heavily against the banister to stay upright.

      As her feet hit the landing, she almost dropped to her knees again—the terror quickly leaching the strength from her muscles. Retracing her steps, she entered the kitchen, seemingly Olivia and Polina’s last stand, and found a card lying on her granite island—the bawdy fluorescent green almost mocking.

      It was Olivia’s handwriting on the back of the envelope. Mommy.

      Regan crumpled against the counter, pulling the envelope toward her. She slid her blood-drained finger under the envelope’s flap, ripped through the paper and removed the card.

      A ransom note.

      We have your daughter. In order to get her back alive, we need you to do the following...

      * * *

      Colby stood on the sidewalk in front of Regan Lockhart’s home. A mix of emotions hazed his thoughts. One, he was angry she hadn’t showed up for Sam’s surgery this morning. Two, he was disappointed because he had been looking forward to seeing her again. But, overwhelmingly, he was worried. Did the events of yesterday have anything to do with today? Had they been a precursor to a bigger event? A crime even?

      In hunting fugitives, starting at home base was often the first step. Then Colby would check friends and criminal cohorts. There was always a place to start.

      Time to find out what the doctor was hiding.

      It hadn’t taken long to find Regan’s house. It was not as he’d expected it to be...a smallish, refurbished Craftsman home, not five minutes from the hospital. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. Above all else, she had to open the door—even if it took a ruse to do it. He jogged up the steps and pounded three times on the black door.

      “Dr. Lockhart!”

      Colby quickly stepped back from the door. His plan was to put his foot in the crack as soon as she opened it, and if she didn’t quickly agree to return to the hospital, he was going to throw her over his shoulder and carry her there himself.

      But as soon as the door opened and he began to advance, two metallic barbed instruments of torture hit Colby square in the chest and every muscle in his body contracted.

      A Taser.

      It felt like he’d just hit his funny bone, the feeling multiplying with lightning speed through every nerve in his body. He fell straight forward onto his face, his nose punching into the cement and blood popping from broken blood vessels. He inhaled the coppery-tasting fluid down the back of his throat as he struggled to open his mouth to breathe. Closing his eyes against the vertigo seemed like his only option.

      “Mr. Waterson! What are you doing here?”

      He felt Regan’s hands at his shoulder and waist as she pulled him over to his back, quickly plucking the darts from his chest. She was stronger than he’d imagined.

      Did she really have to ask, considering the plight she had left Sam in? Colby tried to answer but the dizziness, even with his eyes closed, had him about to toss his breakfast onto Regan’s lap.

      She laid a calming hand on his chest. “I’m sorry. It’s just that you scared me. Why didn’t you just tell me it was you?”

      What could he say? I’m so mad about Sam’s surgery being canceled that I want you arrested and held until you can do said operation. I didn’t know if you’d even remember me. If you’d still trust me enough, considering what happened yesterday, to open the door.

      “Can you sit up?”

      Colby held up a hand to stop her, still afraid if he opened his mouth he couldn’t control what might happen next—both by his body or his language. Worsening his nausea was the blood he was swallowing. He looked up, focusing on the sky and the gray fall clouds brewing black with another threat of rain. Breathing slowly, he felt the dizziness abate and he placed his hands behind him and pushed up. Blood from his nose began to drip onto his shirt.

      Regan reached forward and pinched his