Chapter 2: The Girl in the Box

The sight made my legs give out—I collapsed to the ground.

My knees hit the gravel, scraping skin, but I barely noticed. The girl was curled up inside a cardboard box, her wrists and ankles bound with duct tape, her eyes wide and terrified above a strip of tape across her mouth. She whimpered softly—a muffled, desperate plea that twisted my insides and made my vision swim with nausea.

The girl’s hands and feet were tied, her eyes and mouth taped shut. She whimpered softly, her body shivering in fear as she tried to inch away from the light.

She looked about fifteen or sixteen, her school uniform rumpled and dirty—the pleated skirt bunched up, white blouse stained, a faded school crest barely visible on the collar. She could’ve been anyone’s kid sister, just trying to survive another Monday. Her sneakers were scuffed, one sock missing, knees scraped raw. I wanted to look away, but her haunted gaze pinned me in place.

It was obvious she’d been kidnapped—her uniform, the bindings, the terror in her eyes. The implications hit me in a wave of panic.

It hit me all at once: this wasn’t some mob movie prop, some fake-out. This was real. I’d always thought the things people delivered to my boss were just bribes. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect they’d deliver a person—let alone a kidnapped underage girl!

My first instinct was to set her free and call the police. But how could I possibly prove I wasn’t the kidnapper? I never saw who delivered her, the car was mine, and my boss would deny everything.

The panic set in. My fingerprints were all over the trunk, the box, everything. If I called 911, who’d believe my story? I pictured myself in an orange jumpsuit, my parents getting the call, my name on the evening news. I was in way over my head. My mind flashed back to a friend’s warning: “Don’t get mixed up in other people’s dirt, Eddie. It never ends well.” I thought about calling my dad, but what could he do?

Besides, with his power, he could have me killed before I even reached the police station.

Mr. Nolan had friends everywhere—cops, lawyers, even a cousin on city council. I’d seen what happened to people who crossed him. Accidents, disappearances, careers ruined overnight. I wasn’t ready to risk my life for a stranger, no matter how innocent she looked.

I’m not Liam Neeson—not some hero. I’m just a struggling driver trying to get by. I wished I could be the guy who kicked down doors, but my hands were shaking so badly I could barely stand. My pulse roared in my ears, my breath coming in short, shallow bursts.

Hell, I didn’t even own a gun. I paid my rent late half the time. I kept my head down and tried to avoid trouble. This was Chicago, not the movies.

The smartest move was to act like I knew nothing.

I took a shaky breath, wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans, and forced myself to close the trunk. I tried to convince myself that there was nothing I could do—that I had no choice. I kept repeating, “You’re just the driver, Eddie. Just the driver.” But deep down, it felt like the worst lie I’d ever told myself.

So I closed the trunk, got back in the car, and checked my surroundings through the rearview mirror, making sure no one was watching.

I scanned the empty street, the dark windows of the apartments above. Not a soul in sight. My heart hammered in my chest as I put the car in drive and pulled away, headlights off for the first block just to be safe.

Once I was sure the coast was clear, I drove straight to the underground garage of my boss’s luxury apartment building in downtown Chicago.

The place was all glass and steel, the kind of high-rise with a view of Lake Michigan and a doorman who sounded straight out of the South Side. Valet parking, security cameras on every floor. I flashed my access card at the gate and slipped into the private garage. My hands shook as I parked next to his Mercedes, the trunk still heavy with secrets.

He was already waiting in a bathrobe. He told me to open the trunk, then struggled to carry the box with the girl inside. I offered to help, but he quickly refused and told me to go home and get some rest.

He barely looked at me, just grunted and hefted the box with surprising strength. The hallway was silent, the marble floors echoing his footsteps. I stood there, useless, until he barked, “Go home, Eddie. You’ve done enough for tonight.” His voice was flat, but his eyes flicked over me with a look I couldn’t read—something cold, maybe even threatening.

Back in my rented apartment, guilt gnawed at me all night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that girl’s helpless, terrified face.

I couldn’t sleep. I kept replaying the scene—her eyes, the way she flinched when I opened the trunk. I paced my tiny living room, the city lights flickering outside my window, the distant honk of traffic and the hum of the old fridge filling the silence. I tried to drown it out with music, but nothing worked.

I kept refreshing the local news, hoping to see a report about a missing girl, but nothing turned up.

I scrolled through every alert, every neighborhood watch post, every Amber Alert. Nothing. It was like she’d vanished without a trace. I wondered if her parents were out there, searching, praying, just like mine would if I disappeared.

I was tormented with worry until dawn.

The sun came up, but I didn’t feel any better. My phone buzzed with work reminders, but all I could think about was the box in my trunk and the girl who might never go home again.