My point is, in Casablanca, the main character Rick says, “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world. She walks into mine.” 

I can’t explain why, but this guy from St. Andrews makes me think of that moment in the movie. 

Which I know is stupid.

First off, this isn’t a gin joint; it’s an ice cream shop. But mainly, Rick says that about Elsa, the love of his life. The woman who dumped him and broke his heart. 

This guy from St. Andrews is not my Elsa. Or my Rick or whatever.

My love of Bridgerton aside, I am way too practical to swoon over some random guy who wanders in for ice cream. Still, while he eats, I sense the guy watching me the whole time. Assessing me. As aware of me as I am of him. I know he’s waiting for me to get off work.

Except, when I go to the back to get a clean towel, I come out, and he's gone.

It doesn't surprise me, not really. The guys from St. Andrews are known for their wealth and charm—not their attention spans.

Besides, I have other things to worry about, like my mother's strange behavior.

He left his trash on the table, despite the kitchy "Your mother doesn't work here" sign over the trashcan that's right beside the door.

I grumble as I walk over to his table and grab the empty paper cup and crumpled napkins. Except beneath the napkin, there's something written on the table. His handwriting is straight-up horrible. I can barely tell his sevens from his ones, but I think it reads 1-317-170-4061.

His phone number.

I try not to be flattered. St. Andrews guys usually lose interest at the slightest discouragement. They like their conquests eager.

Is this guy actually interested in me? Brush-offs and all?

I tap down the fluttering feeling inside when I remember that crooked smile and those mysterious hazel eyes. I stand there for a long moment, nibbling on my lip and staring at the number.

I rush through the rest of the closing routine—putting all the ice creams in the deep freezer, putting all the toppings away, wiping down the counters, and giving the bathroom a cursory cleaning. 

When I’m done with everything else, I get out the ice cream I made earlier for Mr. Saunders. Looks like it's one of those poor-time-management nights for him.

Figuring he must be running late, I open the front door and set the ice cream in the snow a few feet from the door. He'll be by later to pick it up.

I jot a quick note to him.

I left your ice cream in the snow, where it would stay cold. Look to the right of the door. Enjoy the Good Intentions. I added in extra caramel, like you like. See you tomorrow! <3

I fold the note in half and write his name in big letters on the outside.  Then I open the note back up and add a hasty

Keep warm!

I glance down the street in case Mr. Saunders is already on his way, but he’s nowhere to be seen, so I tape the note on the door where he can't miss it.

I duck back into the shop long enough to turn off the music and grab my bag. Nine-oh-eight.

Record time.

I give the shop one last look, locking it up behind me, and head out into the night.

The square is relatively empty. Other than the ice cream shop, there are only a handful of other restaurants on the square. Only the diner is open, and there’re no cars in the parking spaces in front.

At the corner, I turn off Main onto Acorn and head north, up the big hill to the mid-century bungalow where we live.

Away from the distraction of the music and the routine of closing the shop, all my worries come flooding back. In my mind, I flip through them like they're cards in the ancient Rolodex my dad still keeps on his desk at home.

The unnerving phone call I can't remember.
My impulsive lying to Talia.
The guy from St. Andrews.
The strange text from my mother.

I need to go home. I need to figure out what's up with my parents. It all mixes together in one big knot of anxiety, driving my steps forward.

Maybe I’m being silly, but the drive to just be at home pushes energy into my steps. Away from the noise and lights of the square, the streets are blanketed in snow and silence. The scarce moonlight reflecting off the snow is the only source of light. I pass a streetlight that's out. Then another. 

‍That's not a coincidence. The lights were on yesterday.

Except, then I see him. A man coming toward me. There is nothing overtly dangerous about him, but he doesn't look away when our eyes meet. He keeps looking. 

‍This guy is watching prey to make sure it doesn't bolt. We’re the prey.

‍My heart rate picks up until I hear it in my ears, as loud as my footsteps in the snow. Panic grips me. I’m almost home. Only three houses away. But this stranger is between me and safety.

I feel myself drifting toward the surface of sleep, barely awake and then asleep again. Sleep is warm and comforting, luring me closer to oblivion. 

‍Wake up!

But I don’t want to wake up. Sleep is so much easier. The warmth and comfort of the water laps at awareness.

‍Wake up! Now! 

‍No. I try to roll over, to sink back into sleep.

‍God damn it, you lazy bitch! If you don’t wake up right the fuck now, I swear I will—

Then there’s water in my nose, burning in my sinuses. I jerk awake, flailing, sputtering, and coughing up water.

My arms pinwheel, I try to grab onto the sides of the tub, but they're too slick. My hands slip out from under me, and I slide back into the water. I push my legs out, forcing myself to sit up.

Blinking against the bright light overhead, I scrub a hand down my face.

What the hell?

How did I get here?

I'm in my bathroom tub, but I have no memory of how I got here. I blink again, shaking my head.

How did I get here? I scrub a hand down my face, pushing hair and water out of my eyes. That’s when I see it.

Swirls of red drifting in the water, slowly sinking. My gaze darts around the room. It’s not just in the water. There are splatters of red on the tile. The rim of the tub. The shower curtain. 

Horror dawns within me as I slowly turn over my wrists. Right beneath my hands, ragged cuts slash across my wrists.

Oh, God. 

Oh, God.

What is happening?

I didn't do this. I know I didn't. I can't remember what happened or how I got here, but I know I didn't do this. 

I feel a panicked scream gurgling up in my throat, but some instinct clamps it down.

‍No. Quiet!

I nod to myself as if answering some unspoken command. Yes. I can be quiet. But I have to get out of the tub. I have to stop the bleeding.

‍Yes. Finally. Get the fuck out of the tub. The warm water is making the tissue around the wounds dilate.  Slowing coagulation. So move!

I reach a shaking arm up toward the towel hanging off of the rack but can't quite reach it. I try to get my feet under me, but my legs wobble out from under me. In the end, I roll myself out of the tub, landing with a near-silent thud on the bathmat. 

Something tumbles to the ground, landing by my hand.

It's a box cutter. The kind with the orange plastic handle. 

I don't know how much blood I've lost. Enough that I'm afraid. Deeply afraid. If I pass out again, I could bleed to death before I have a chance to wake up. 

Yeah, that is not going to fucking happen.

I need to get the bleeding stop. I need to bandage these wounds.

Then look for more.

I need water. Maybe a transfusion. Hopefully not, but maybe.

With every throb of pain, with every shuddering breath, a new question slams into me.

What is happening?

How did I get here?

I know I didn't do this to myself.

I did not try to kill myself. I would never.

Certainly not with a box cutter and a tub of water. 

I have a catastrophically severe peanut allergy on top of asthma so bad I carry an inhaler with me at all times. If I wanted to off myself, all I'd have to do is eat a Snickers outside on a spring day. 

No. Someone else did this to me. But why?

What's the last thing I remember?

The ice cream shop. I was walking home. Because my mom was acting weird. She couldn't come get me, so I was walking home by myself.

And that's when I was grabbed. 

That's the last thing I remember. Being grabbed, having something jabbed into my neck.

I curl further into a ball, suddenly shaking with cold. I pull the towel onto my body as wave after wave of cold crashes over me.

These men who grabbed me off the street, why would they bring me home? Why would they strip me naked, slash my wrists, and dump me in the tub at home? That doesn't make any sense. Girls who are abducted are raped, murdered, their bodies dumped into ravines in the wilderness.

Or they're held captive in small sheds or basements only to escape years later. Or they're sold as sex slaves in distant countries. 

I lower one hand to the sensitive flesh between my legs. I don't feel tender or bruised. So I don't think I was raped, even though I’m naked.

So why did they grab me?

This must have something to do with my parents, but where are they now?

My mom was acting so weird earlier. Something must have happened, but what?

Are my parents criminals? In the mafia?

Are they spies?

Where are they?

I know for sure they aren't here because they would never, never let this happen to me.

Wherever they are, I'm on my own, at least for now. What I want is just to lay here, crying, waiting for them to save me. Wherever they are, whatever they're doing, they'll come back for me. I know it.

‍Stop worrying about them. Get up. Get clothes. A weapon. Anything. Move!

‍I suck in a deep, shuddering breath and slowly let it out. 

Slowly, I uncurl my body, stretching muscles that are impossibly cold and achy. Muscles that are still shaking so much I can hardly move.

I need clothes. I need to get warm. 

I push myself up on my hands and knees, then grab another towel. With trembling hands, I dry off my still damp, still-bloody skin.  

Disgust rolls through me at the thought of them handling my naked body, but I don't have time for it. I don't want to leave the safety of the bathroom until I have something on.

Under the sink, there's a laundry chute leading down the first floor. Sometimes clothes get stuck in the cabinet and don't fall through.

Kneeling on the ground, I open the cabinet and dig. I find a pair of jeans, underwear, and a tank top, but no bra and no socks. My head still feels light. My stomach like it may sink right out of my body. So I dress on the floor, squirming into my clothes like a worm.

When I'm dressed, I grab the edge of the sink and pull myself to standing. I am steadier on my feet than I thought I would be, but my heart is still racing to pump the blood I have left.

I wait several heartbeats with my hand on the doorknob while my brain maps out my next move.

Once I leave the bathroom, I risk being found. If I stay here, I have no weapons. No defense. No way to protect myself.

I glance back across the bathroom to where the box cutter lies on the floor, my blood caked on its blade. Suppressing a shudder of disgust, I cross back over and pick it up. I wipe the gummy blood on the damp towel, retract the blade into the handle and tuck the box cutter into my back pocket.

Then, as silently as I can, I turn the doorknob, ease the door open, and listen.

Whatever is waiting for me outside this room, I’m ready to face it.