Page 218 of The Art of Almost Losing It
It’s not goingto be fine.
By the time my afternoon meetings roll around, everyone in the office is talking about the video.
It’s starting to trend on social media.
Even one of the VPs made a joke about it at the beginning of a sales report call—while I sat there and laughed along with everyone else while secretly screaming inside.
I am trying notto obsessively watch the video on a work computer, in case the FBI is watching, but now that everyone in the office has seen it, it would be suspicious not to, right?
I feel sick as I watch myself fighting and getting dragged into a car that is, thankfully, screened by the cat. Before the cat moves completely to cover the camera, I watch myself fall on the pavement and hands grab me. Then the cat completely blocks the camera.
I watch and rewatch the clip, studying the footage, trying to pick out anything that could identify me. Thank God I’m not a fashionista. My shapeless business-casual Costco clothes make it so you can’t really tell what size I am. Maybe no one will be looking for a girl on the heavier side.
Like my mom told me when I was going through my anxiety phase: “Who would want to kidnap you?”
“Don’t worry, miss, we’ve been briefed by the NYPD. They’re putting extra officers out. We won’t let anything happen to you or your friends.”
I shriek and jump in my seat.
“Sorry to scare you,” the security guard apologizes.
“Oh, that’s all right. I’m on edge,” I chatter, because what do you mean the NYPD is involved?!
“I’m making cookies to bring in later this week. Do you know if Kraig is going to be back on his regular schedule?”
“Oh, you didn’t hear? Kraig is gone. I’m not sure what happened, but they told the head security office to get rid of him. Sounds like an order from…” He gives me a knowing look and points above him to the upper floors, where the Svenssons have their exec offices.
“Oh, right. Well, I’m sorry to hear that.” I clear my throat. “Do you have a favorite cookie or other baked good?”
Graham looks certifiably unhingedwhen I return to the penthouse laden down with baking supplies a couple of days later, and he just paces in the kitchen.
Over the past few days, the story has been picked up by the late-night shows, then the news.
Girl gets kidnapped. Who is she? Where is she?
The anchor on the news drones on in Graham’s living room.
“We have Agent Thomas Hale from the FBI on the case here with us after the break…”
“Let’s turn this off.” I grab the remote.
Graham’s head snaps toward me. He is not sleeping—just paces the hallway along the bedrooms in front of the windows at night.
“I’m baking thumbprint cookies,” I tell him. “They’re German shortbread with chocolate. Walnuts on the outside. They’re pretty good. You might like them.” I start unpacking the ingredients.
“Dani, let’s leave. Let’s run away,” he begs me. “We have to get away from here.”
“Graham.” I wipe my hands and go over to him.
He wraps me in his arms, squeezing me tightly to him. “I can’t lose you. They’ll send me to prison, and then I’ll never see you again.”
“My boyfriend is not going to prison,” I tell him firmly. “I told you, my mom won’t have it.”
“Your parents will hate me. They won’t want you with me.”
“Don’t you worry. My parents will make all sorts of allowances for grandchildren.”
“You’re not taking this seriously, Dani!” he shouts. He picks up the lamp next to me and hurls it against the wall.
