. E M E R Y C O R L I S S .
âEmily?â
âMommy!â A small girl jumped up from the corner from where she had fallen asleep, nearly falling flat on her face from trying to run after crouching for so long. She rushed up to the older woman and hugged her legs, a small, half-cautious smile on her lips.
âHappy birthday.â Her face was tired, dark circles under her blue eyes, her gray and tan clothes wrinkled and dishelved. She handed her a plastic grocery bag, which the little girl took eagerly. âIâm sorry we couldnât get you a cake. Iâll get you one for your sixth birthday.â The girl shook her head, pulling out a stuffed rabbit with great finesse.
âItâs a bunny rabbits!â she misspoke, grinning widely and hugging the pink plushie to her thin body. âThank you mommy! Thank you!â The toy smelled sharply of plastic and cigarette smoke, but she didnât care. She smiled, hugging the woman around the skinny jeans she was wearing. She didnât have to ask about her daddy. She already knew he wasnât in the houseâhe always left to a âdrinking placeâ after fighting with mommy. Her birthday had not been an exception, which had actually been yesterday. But she didnât care about that either. Her mommy had gotten her a presentâit didnât matter to her that she was off by a day.
Her mother smiled, though it didnât quite reach her eyes. Even her smiles looked tiredâeven her hair, thinning with stress and limp at her shoulders looked tired. âI have to go out, okay honey? Play with the bunny while Iâm gone.â
Emily smiled back at her mother, already twirling around her bare room with the toy held high in the air. âOkay, mommy. Bye-bye.â But her mother was already gone, leaving her alone in the house. She looked down at the plushie rabbit in her hands and resumed prancing around with it.
âLittle Bunny, turn around,
Little Bunny, touch the groundâŠâ
She half sang-half chanted as she herself acted out the movements.
ââŠLittle Bunny, wiggle your nose,
Little Bunny, touch your toes.
Little Bunny, rest your head,
Little Bunny, jump in bed!â
Emily leapt at the mattress that was sagging next to the wall, in time with the last line of the song. She bounced off the mattress and she lost her balance, knocking her head hard against the dry wash wall. She shrieked as stars exploded in front of her eyes, throwing her to the carpet. She landed with a thud, staring at the unnamed rabbit plushie before blacking out.
--
Emily. Wake up, Emily, itâs time for school.
âItâs Emery,â she muttered hoarsely to the faint voice. âIâm not Emily.â Her vision swam as she opened her eyes, that sickly-sweet smell of chloroform swamping her. She coughed, her hand twitching and slowly moving to her headâit pulsed and ached like that time. That time she had hit her head on the wall the day after her fifth birthday. She almost half-expected to see the tattered pink bunny next to her, the way she had found it next to her when she had regained consciousness. But there was no plushie. In fact, there wouldnât have been to begin with, because she should have woken up in her mint green room, the one with the white striped curtains fluttering around the window that framed the view of the bustling city. Her room was never quiet because she lived in New York, and New York was never quiet. But to be honest, she liked it like that.
All of a sudden she realized that she did not hear the common city noises; the blaring horns, the sound of cars, the chatter of the people. It wasâŠquiet. She bristled, trying to bolt up from her bedâŠthat was not her bed. Her head spun and she leant heavily against the wall. A plain white, not her peaceful light green. Not her black metal wire daybed, but a wooden one. Not her pastel sheets and cover, but a somewhat faded yellow. Not her room. Not her room. Emery clutched at her head, trying to concentrate. It was too quiet to concentrate. She opened her mouth to make noise, her throat dry and tasting like the same sickly sweet chemical. Her mind wasnât even that clear yet, but the fear and memories that came with the silence had to be turned away.
âAlas, my love, you do me wrong, to cast me off discourteously,â she started out, her voice weak and still scratchy. Greensleeves, thought to be written by the famous King Henry the Eighth⊠There, her voice was filling the dimly lit room. Emery attempted to clear her throat, almost gagging. ââŠFor I have loved you well and long, delighting in your companyâŠâ She had to keep singing, as rough her voice was, it would keep the silence away.
âGreensleeves was all my joy
Greensleeves was my delight,
Greensleeves was my heart of gold,
And who but my lady greensleeves.â
The longer she sang, there clearer things began to be. She could make out the lamp with the slightly cracked corner and the dresser painted white in the far corner. Her wits also began to gather; so where was she? This was not New York, for one thing. It was much too quiet, as she had noticed with some fright. But she did not stop her singing, but only continued, her voice growing in strength and smoothness. Emery slowly went through the things she had done until she had woken upâshe had eaten cereal for breakfast, watched her foster mother Lynette go to work and gotten ready to go babysit for the Torrigans. They had two boys, three and one; named Daniel and Christopherâshe had been walking to their apartment four blocks away.
The quickest route was crossing through the maze-like alleys of the city, the ones that her foster father Stephen always worried about her walking through. She had been singing another one of her songs when a rag had been shoved over her nose and mouthâand that was all she remembered. So she had been abducted. The realization did not stop her singing, because she knew that singing comforted her through the roughest of times. This certainly was not an exception.
She didn't know what was going to happen to her. But right now it didn't matter so much, because she could singâsome might think it ridiculous, but it was very much a fact to her.
âThou couldst desire no earthly thing,
but still thou hadst it readily.
Thy music still to play and sing;
And yet thou wouldst not love meâŠâ
So she sang on.
---------------------------------
. A Y D E N J A C O B H A R C O U R T .
Ayden rested his chin on his palm, watching the Russian womanâs distress with faint amusement. Or perhaps blatant amusement. Either way, he was trying not to let it show, because he knew she would not take so kindly to his reaction and perhaps punch him in the face. And she did not punch like a girl.
âCalm down, or shitâs going to start flying,â he told her, though it was not as if he was without frustration. Ayden grinned in amusement at her incorrect grammar; one of the reasons she was fun to be around. âAnd if Chief Benson tells me to go along with you to interview, I will punch face,â he mimicked her grammar, slow smirk on his face. She was irritated by the way this case was going, and Ayden could not help but agree. It was like chasing after a phantom; the abductions happened and sometimes bodies were discovered.
He put on a more serious face, giving her his own analysis. âThe victims arenât badly treated when their bodies are found, and the periods that were taken for vary with each person. Though most kidnapping victims have less than 48 hours to live, that hasnât been the case with these; ransoms are not asked for, either.â He tapped his well-kept nails on the surface of the table.
âWhat we need is for him to mess up,â he said, leaning back into his chair. âUnfortunately, he hasnât messed up so far. Heâs meticulous. And for him to mess up, we need more victims.â He furrowed his brows, flipping through the files and information they had gathered so far. The files was pathetically thin and the information inside was vague at best. How the hell did they think they could catch someone without information?
âThe press is all over this now,â he muttered, his own expression darkening. More press coverage meant that people could be warned, but it made their job for stressfulâpeople looked for things they could blame. And because they didnât know who âMidasâ was, they blamed the agents working on the case. Namely, them.
He made a face and downed his coffee, which was already rather cold. It had not even an ounce of extra sugar in there, black and bitter. It wasnât as if he liked bitter food, but coffee was the one thing he had to have black. No cream, no sugar. It left bitterness on the tongueâand to be honest, it was fitting of his job. It was always a joy when a case was successfully closed; the victim rescued and returned to the family, the culprit behind bars, but that was sadly not always the way things worked out.
If they ever caught the son of a bitch, he was going to have to keep himself from beating the shit out of the guy. His sister, Monica, was just around the victimsâ ages. He knew that it was unwise to make things personal, as that would influence him emotionally, but by God, it was hard not to.
âEmily?â
âMommy!â A small girl jumped up from the corner from where she had fallen asleep, nearly falling flat on her face from trying to run after crouching for so long. She rushed up to the older woman and hugged her legs, a small, half-cautious smile on her lips.
âHappy birthday.â Her face was tired, dark circles under her blue eyes, her gray and tan clothes wrinkled and dishelved. She handed her a plastic grocery bag, which the little girl took eagerly. âIâm sorry we couldnât get you a cake. Iâll get you one for your sixth birthday.â The girl shook her head, pulling out a stuffed rabbit with great finesse.
âItâs a bunny rabbits!â she misspoke, grinning widely and hugging the pink plushie to her thin body. âThank you mommy! Thank you!â The toy smelled sharply of plastic and cigarette smoke, but she didnât care. She smiled, hugging the woman around the skinny jeans she was wearing. She didnât have to ask about her daddy. She already knew he wasnât in the houseâhe always left to a âdrinking placeâ after fighting with mommy. Her birthday had not been an exception, which had actually been yesterday. But she didnât care about that either. Her mommy had gotten her a presentâit didnât matter to her that she was off by a day.
Her mother smiled, though it didnât quite reach her eyes. Even her smiles looked tiredâeven her hair, thinning with stress and limp at her shoulders looked tired. âI have to go out, okay honey? Play with the bunny while Iâm gone.â
Emily smiled back at her mother, already twirling around her bare room with the toy held high in the air. âOkay, mommy. Bye-bye.â But her mother was already gone, leaving her alone in the house. She looked down at the plushie rabbit in her hands and resumed prancing around with it.
âLittle Bunny, turn around,
Little Bunny, touch the groundâŠâ
She half sang-half chanted as she herself acted out the movements.
ââŠLittle Bunny, wiggle your nose,
Little Bunny, touch your toes.
Little Bunny, rest your head,
Little Bunny, jump in bed!â
Emily leapt at the mattress that was sagging next to the wall, in time with the last line of the song. She bounced off the mattress and she lost her balance, knocking her head hard against the dry wash wall. She shrieked as stars exploded in front of her eyes, throwing her to the carpet. She landed with a thud, staring at the unnamed rabbit plushie before blacking out.
--
Emily. Wake up, Emily, itâs time for school.
âItâs Emery,â she muttered hoarsely to the faint voice. âIâm not Emily.â Her vision swam as she opened her eyes, that sickly-sweet smell of chloroform swamping her. She coughed, her hand twitching and slowly moving to her headâit pulsed and ached like that time. That time she had hit her head on the wall the day after her fifth birthday. She almost half-expected to see the tattered pink bunny next to her, the way she had found it next to her when she had regained consciousness. But there was no plushie. In fact, there wouldnât have been to begin with, because she should have woken up in her mint green room, the one with the white striped curtains fluttering around the window that framed the view of the bustling city. Her room was never quiet because she lived in New York, and New York was never quiet. But to be honest, she liked it like that.
All of a sudden she realized that she did not hear the common city noises; the blaring horns, the sound of cars, the chatter of the people. It wasâŠquiet. She bristled, trying to bolt up from her bedâŠthat was not her bed. Her head spun and she leant heavily against the wall. A plain white, not her peaceful light green. Not her black metal wire daybed, but a wooden one. Not her pastel sheets and cover, but a somewhat faded yellow. Not her room. Not her room. Emery clutched at her head, trying to concentrate. It was too quiet to concentrate. She opened her mouth to make noise, her throat dry and tasting like the same sickly sweet chemical. Her mind wasnât even that clear yet, but the fear and memories that came with the silence had to be turned away.
âAlas, my love, you do me wrong, to cast me off discourteously,â she started out, her voice weak and still scratchy. Greensleeves, thought to be written by the famous King Henry the Eighth⊠There, her voice was filling the dimly lit room. Emery attempted to clear her throat, almost gagging. ââŠFor I have loved you well and long, delighting in your companyâŠâ She had to keep singing, as rough her voice was, it would keep the silence away.
âGreensleeves was all my joy
Greensleeves was my delight,
Greensleeves was my heart of gold,
And who but my lady greensleeves.â
The longer she sang, there clearer things began to be. She could make out the lamp with the slightly cracked corner and the dresser painted white in the far corner. Her wits also began to gather; so where was she? This was not New York, for one thing. It was much too quiet, as she had noticed with some fright. But she did not stop her singing, but only continued, her voice growing in strength and smoothness. Emery slowly went through the things she had done until she had woken upâshe had eaten cereal for breakfast, watched her foster mother Lynette go to work and gotten ready to go babysit for the Torrigans. They had two boys, three and one; named Daniel and Christopherâshe had been walking to their apartment four blocks away.
The quickest route was crossing through the maze-like alleys of the city, the ones that her foster father Stephen always worried about her walking through. She had been singing another one of her songs when a rag had been shoved over her nose and mouthâand that was all she remembered. So she had been abducted. The realization did not stop her singing, because she knew that singing comforted her through the roughest of times. This certainly was not an exception.
She didn't know what was going to happen to her. But right now it didn't matter so much, because she could singâsome might think it ridiculous, but it was very much a fact to her.
âThou couldst desire no earthly thing,
but still thou hadst it readily.
Thy music still to play and sing;
And yet thou wouldst not love meâŠâ
So she sang on.
---------------------------------
. A Y D E N J A C O B H A R C O U R T .
Ayden rested his chin on his palm, watching the Russian womanâs distress with faint amusement. Or perhaps blatant amusement. Either way, he was trying not to let it show, because he knew she would not take so kindly to his reaction and perhaps punch him in the face. And she did not punch like a girl.
âCalm down, or shitâs going to start flying,â he told her, though it was not as if he was without frustration. Ayden grinned in amusement at her incorrect grammar; one of the reasons she was fun to be around. âAnd if Chief Benson tells me to go along with you to interview, I will punch face,â he mimicked her grammar, slow smirk on his face. She was irritated by the way this case was going, and Ayden could not help but agree. It was like chasing after a phantom; the abductions happened and sometimes bodies were discovered.
He put on a more serious face, giving her his own analysis. âThe victims arenât badly treated when their bodies are found, and the periods that were taken for vary with each person. Though most kidnapping victims have less than 48 hours to live, that hasnât been the case with these; ransoms are not asked for, either.â He tapped his well-kept nails on the surface of the table.
âWhat we need is for him to mess up,â he said, leaning back into his chair. âUnfortunately, he hasnât messed up so far. Heâs meticulous. And for him to mess up, we need more victims.â He furrowed his brows, flipping through the files and information they had gathered so far. The files was pathetically thin and the information inside was vague at best. How the hell did they think they could catch someone without information?
âThe press is all over this now,â he muttered, his own expression darkening. More press coverage meant that people could be warned, but it made their job for stressfulâpeople looked for things they could blame. And because they didnât know who âMidasâ was, they blamed the agents working on the case. Namely, them.
He made a face and downed his coffee, which was already rather cold. It had not even an ounce of extra sugar in there, black and bitter. It wasnât as if he liked bitter food, but coffee was the one thing he had to have black. No cream, no sugar. It left bitterness on the tongueâand to be honest, it was fitting of his job. It was always a joy when a case was successfully closed; the victim rescued and returned to the family, the culprit behind bars, but that was sadly not always the way things worked out.
If they ever caught the son of a bitch, he was going to have to keep himself from beating the shit out of the guy. His sister, Monica, was just around the victimsâ ages. He knew that it was unwise to make things personal, as that would influence him emotionally, but by God, it was hard not to.