Chapter 7: Marissa’s Trust

She asked to meet at a coffee shop.

Her voice was small, barely above a whisper. “Can we talk? Please?” I couldn’t say no.

I arrived at the agreed spot. Marissa was sitting by the window, wearing a white coat, red scarf, and a plaid beret.

The place was a little indie joint—espresso machine hissing, indie music playing softly, and the low hum of conversation filling the air. She looked out of place, like a lost kid in a grown-up world. I spotted her instantly—she was hugging a mug of tea, staring at nothing.

She managed a small smile. "Sorry to call you out so late. I just wanted to ask how things are going…"

Her voice trembled. I could see the exhaustion in her eyes—dark circles so heavy, even makeup couldn’t hide them. She probably hadn’t slept well in days.

She played with the hem of her scarf, waiting for me to speak. I felt a pang of guilt, knowing I was about to disappoint her.

I’d wanted to make up an excuse not to come, but here I was. Maybe because she really was beautiful.

Or maybe because I saw something of myself in her—someone trapped, just trying to survive.

Ashamed, I hedged: "It’s not that I don’t want to help, but this is really tough. I just need more time…"

I stared at my coffee, avoiding her gaze. My voice sounded hollow, even to me. My throat tightened, and I fidgeted with the rim of my cup.

If she’d been older, maybe she’d have read between the lines. But Marissa just looked at me with trust: "I understand. Take your time. I believe in you."

That “I believe in you” hit me right in the heart. I couldn’t look her in the eye, afraid I’d give myself away.

She smiled, small and sad. I felt like the world’s biggest coward.

To change the subject, I asked if the boss had contacted her or made any new threats. She shook her head.

She took a shaky breath, glancing at her phone. “No calls, no texts. It’s been quiet.”

No wonder—his wife was back from a business trip. As long as she was home, he wouldn’t dare act out.

I remembered the stories about his wife—tough as nails, ran her own business, never put up with his crap. Marissa was safe, for now.

But his wife traveled a lot for work. Who knew when he’d strike again? If he threatened Marissa and forced her to give in, what then?

I pictured her alone in her dorm, jumping at every sound. The thought made me sick.

I thought hard and came up with an idea.

If he used photos to blackmail Marissa, why couldn’t she get something to hold over him too?

I leaned in, lowering my voice. “Maybe we can get something on him—something he can’t explain away. That way, you’ll have leverage too.”

If both sides had leverage, they’d be able to keep each other in check.

I explained the idea—if she had proof, he’d think twice before coming after her again.

As for what to use, I figured we needed to find out who kidnapped Marissa in the first place.

If we could expose the whole operation, he’d lose all his power.

I asked if she remembered anything about her abductor. She shook her head.

She squeezed her mug, eyes distant. “He came up behind me. I never saw his face.”

"He attacked me from behind. I didn’t see anything…"

Her voice was barely audible. I could tell she was replaying that night over and over in her head.

She said she rarely left campus because of her studies, but her roommates took turns going out for Starbucks. She never expected that in just that short time, she’d be targeted.

She looked at me, desperate. “I thought I was safe. I never thought something like this could happen to me.”

I reasoned that the kidnapper couldn’t have acted on a whim—holding someone hostage is a huge risk. They must have known her schedule and acted when the buyer was ready.

I jotted down notes on a napkin, drawing a little timeline. “Someone had to know your routine. Someone close.”

Could the kidnapper be someone she knew?

I watched her face, looking for any flicker of recognition. Nothing.