15 Hours 2 Minutes
Wednesday, November 30 1:34 a.m.
My mind skips from thought to thought, replaying each moment of the day. I can’t stop the images from creeping into my head when I close my eyes. Every detail of her face is vivid, reflecting each emotion she experienced during those moments. I see the fear in her eyes when he placed the rag over her nose and mouth, and she realized what was happening. From the moment she lost consciousness until the second he slammed the trunk, her body twisted on the carpeted floor—I see it all.
In my mind’s eye, her face becomes his, their features twisting, merging into a nightmarish ripple. As he lifted her limp body into the trunk, fear and sadness filled his icy blue eyes, not hate and anger.
I tried to stop him from taking her, but he was too strong. I still feel the pressure of his hands on my shoulders, shoving me backward. In my dreamlike memory, I watch myself fall in slow motion, my head smashing a frozen mixture of sleet and snow on the pavement. I hear the ice pop and a hard pain explodes through my skull. Slowly losing consciousness, everything fades to black.
Since I witnessed the kidnapping yesterday morning, the two faces haunt my thoughts. The images won’t leave me alone, not for a second.
Sitting on the window seat, I stretch out my legs. A shiver weaves through my body, so I wrap the blanket next to me around my arms and tuck my legs underneath.
Gazing into the dark, dreary Boston sky, I’m mesmerized by the soothing sounds surrounding me. The enchanting violin solo, Ashokan Farewell, one of my favorite pieces, is playing low. The rhythmic clink of the frozen rain battering the windowpane accompanies the violinist.
Seeming to get louder and louder, the clock above the mantel in the adjoining room drowns out the sound of the clinking rain.
The clock is ticking, tick, ticking, and with each tick, another precious minute goes by.
I’ve always heard the first forty-eight hours are the most critical. If it’s true—she’s running out of time.