Chapter 4: The Girl Returns

After taking the money, my boss asked me to drive him somewhere. I agreed without hesitation.

I didn’t even ask where we were going—just grabbed my jacket and keys, ready to follow orders. The money still burned in my pocket, making me feel both invincible and sick to my stomach.

I brought my Chevy around, and before getting in, he inspected the bumper. Satisfied I hadn’t lied, he got in.

He ran his fingers over the scratches, nodded, and slid into the passenger seat. He smelled like expensive aftershave and coffee—sharp, almost intimidating. I tried not to wrinkle my nose.

I asked where we were headed. He said we’d go to his house first.

He barely looked up from his phone, just muttered, “Home first, then I’ll tell you the rest.”

So I drove back to the fancy high-rise I’d visited the night before.

The valet recognized me, waving me through with a knowing smirk. I parked in the same spot, engine idling as my boss gathered his things.

He told me to wait in the car and went inside.

I watched him disappear into the elevator, the lobby lights reflecting off the marble floors. My mind raced—was the girl still alive? What was I about to get dragged into?

I wondered—did he kill the kidnapped girl last night to silence her? Transporting a living person was one thing, but if he wanted me to move a corpse, no amount of money would be enough.

I pictured myself on the news again, this time as an accomplice to murder. I promised myself that if it came to that, I’d run. No job was worth that.

A few minutes later, he came down with someone—the girl from last night!

She walked beside him, head down, arms folded tight across her chest. She wore new clothes—jeans and a hoodie two sizes too big. Her hair was brushed, but her eyes were empty, haunted, like the life had been drained out of her.

She was wearing new clothes, her eyes empty and lifeless. She looked utterly lost.

She didn’t even glance at me, just shuffled to the back seat. My boss patted her shoulder, called her “sweetheart,” and told me, “Take my niece home. She’s had a rough night.”

He said she was his niece and asked me to take her home. I pretended not to know anything and nodded.

I forced a smile, played along. “Of course, Mr. Nolan. I’ll make sure she gets home safe.” My hands trembled as I started the car.

As I drove her out of the complex, I kept glancing at her in the rearview mirror. She stared out the window, silent except for giving me her destination.

She mumbled an address in Lincoln Park, voice barely above a whisper. I punched it into my GPS, sneaking looks at her. She seemed so small, so lost. I wanted to say something—anything—but the words caught in my throat.

I couldn’t imagine what she’d endured the previous night. I wanted to comfort her, but didn’t know how to start—and I was afraid she’d realize I’d turned a blind eye to her suffering.

The silence in the car was thick. I fiddled with the radio, then turned it off. I kept thinking, “Say something, Eddie. Don’t just sit here.” But I was afraid of what she’d say back.

So I tried to lighten the mood: "Hey, are you really Mr. Nolan’s niece? You two don’t look alike."

I forced a laugh, hoping it would break the ice. But the moment the words left my mouth, I regretted it. Her shoulders shook, and she let out a choked sob.

Unexpectedly, she broke down, crouched in the back seat, and sobbed.

She hugged her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks. I fumbled for a box of tissues, passing it back without a word.

She told me her name was Marissa, an art student and a somewhat popular TikTok streamer. She’d been living on campus for portfolio prep, but one night after going out for a late-night burger, she was knocked out. When she woke up, she was tied up and thrown onto Mr. Nolan’s bed.

Her voice was raw, shaky. “He took my phone, my backpack—everything. I didn’t know where I was. I thought I was going to die.”

"Luckily, my period started yesterday. That monster thought it was bad luck, so he didn’t touch me. But he took photos and threatened me—if I told anyone, he’d get my parents fired and ruin my art school applications!"

Her words tumbled out in a rush, like she’d been holding them in for hours. I clenched the steering wheel, rage simmering beneath my fear. I wanted to promise her it would all be okay, but I couldn’t lie to her—or to myself.

I can’t stand to see girls cry, especially someone as beautiful as Marissa. Her tears almost broke my heart.

I glanced at her in the mirror, feeling helpless. I wished I could go back and do something—anything—to change what happened. But I just kept driving, knuckles white on the wheel.

But I didn’t dare report my boss for her. First, I didn’t have hard evidence. Second, his connections were terrifying—his threats to Marissa weren’t empty.

I’d seen what happened to whistleblowers in this city. They ended up jobless, blacklisted, sometimes worse. I wasn’t brave enough to risk it all—not for someone I’d just met.

Besides, I had my own selfish reasons. I wanted to stay on Mr. Nolan’s good side, make more money, buy a house, and maybe settle down.

I told myself I was being practical, not heartless. But the truth was, I was scared.

I comforted her: "Don’t call the police yet. Let me try to help you delete those photos so he can’t threaten you."

I tried to sound confident, like I had a plan. She looked up, hope flickering in her eyes. I couldn’t let her down—not now.

I asked if he took the photos with his iPhone. She nodded.

She wiped her nose, whispered, “Yeah. He kept it locked the whole time.”

Someone as cautious as my boss would never upload the photos to a computer or the cloud—there should only be one copy on his phone.

I explained that if he was really paranoid, he wouldn’t risk leaving digital trails. “If I can get his phone, I might be able to wipe the photos for good.”

If I could crack his phone, I could delete the photos without anyone knowing!

I was already running through code in my head, thinking about exploits and bypasses. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was possible.

But breaking into a phone takes time, at least a few hours to crack the password, and my boss never lets his phone out of his sight.

She looked at me, desperate. “Can you really do it?” I nodded, hoping I wasn’t lying.

A plan started to form in my mind.

I dropped her off at her apartment, promising to call if I had any news. She lingered on the sidewalk, watching me drive away, her silhouette small against the city lights.