Chapter 1

Undisclosed Location

I didn't plan to fall in love with an accused serial killer. Nevertheless, my wrists and ankles are bound to a chair, and I can blame only myself.

I'm in a nondescript white room with fluorescent lights and gray carpeting lined with geometric shapes. Across from me there's a window that reveals that it's still daylight and that I'm somewhere above ground level but gives no clues of my overall location. The ropes chafe where I strain, rubbing my skin raw. My bladder is regrettably full. If I'd known that I was going to find myself in a kidnapping situation, I would've used the bathroom.

"Hello?" I cry out.

I suspect that no one can hear me, because my mouth remains uncovered and I was not put here by a stupid man. My suspicions are verified when no one arrives.

"Please, I have to use the bathroom," I say.

The silence is more disturbing to me than anything else.

I'm not as frightened as I should be, though I am frightened, which is a relief. I always appreciate when I feel the emotions I'm expected to feel in any given situation, like when I bake a cake and it looks like the picture from the recipe when I pull it out of the oven.

Beneath the fear is undeniable excitement. If I wanted to be kind to myself, I would identify it as adrenaline that I need to help me survive, but I'm not sure that I deserve kindness. Even as I'm afraid, there's something thrilling about being tied to a chair, like a scene from a movie. There is no question about who the protagonist of this story is.

I'm worried that when my body is discovered, I will be found undeserving of mourning. That's the catch of martyrdom on social media. First, they lament your death, and then they count all the reasons why you deserved to die.

I want to believe that I'm a good person. I vote in every election and care about the environment. I have a Black Lives Matter sticker on the back of my laptop and send money to various groups whenever there is a national tragedy.

All of these things will be outweighed by the great wrong that I've committed in falling in love with an accused serial killer.

"Don't tell me you didn't want this," Meghan would say if she could see me. "No one does what you've done if they don't find being tied up and about to die at least a little hot."

Meghan isn't wrong. I find no pleasure in the prospect of death but enjoy picturing the mourning of the masses. I want my name remembered, unlike the hordes of other women who have been brutally murdered and then forgotten. At the very least, I want a podcast in my memory.

I hear a noise outside the door.

"Please! Help me!" I call out.

Despite the urgency of the situation, I can't fully believe that my death is inevitable. What is the world if I'm not in it?

Too late, I realize that the sounds are not those of a would-be rescuer and instead are the familiar footsteps of the man who brought me here. I strain at the ropes again, a futile act. I take a deep breath and prepare to die.