The Ransom Note

It’s been a year now that she’s been gone. It certainly doesn’t feel like it.

I’ll never forget that day, the day she left us.

I was out getting my hair done at Raoul’s. Cindy was throwing one of her famous bashes that weekend and of course I just needed to look amazing. Raoul himself was doing the last of the touch-ups when Barry called on my cell and gave me the news – Rebekah hadn’t come home from school.

“She probably went to a friend’s house or something, what’s the problem?” I said.

“She knows she’s supposed to call us if she does something like that! She knows how we worry!”

“You mean she knows how you worry. She’s fine, she’ll most likely have an ‘oh shit I forgot to call’ moment in a few minutes and let you know where she is.”

But she didn’t.

The ransom note arrived the next morning, delivered by a courier. It was one of those notes made by cutting letters out of magazines and pasting them onto a sheet of blank paper. Nothing very original. It read “We want $100,000 or we will kill your girl. Instructions to follow.” Barry nearly lost his mind and collapsed sobbing onto the couch. It’s a good thing I’ve always been the one with the cool head. I called the police of course. They checked out her friends and investigated some of the teachers at her school but discovered nothing. There was nothing else we could do but wait until we were contacted again they said. Two days later another note arrived. On it were instructions where to wire the money. The police didn’t want us to do it, but what choice did we have? We sent the money.

And waited.

A week passed without any word. Then another. We went on TV and made a plea to the kidnappers for our daughter to be returned. We didn’t care about the money, we just wanted our little Becky back, no questions asked. The police were baffled since there were no leads and the wire transfer was untraceable. After a month of inactivity the media got bored with the story and it faded from the front page into obscurity.

Barry never lost hope though. It’s a year later and he’s sitting across the room right now, going over the ransom note for the millionth time, looking for some clue that the police might have missed. I don’t need to see it to remember it. I don’t think I could ever forget what it says or how it looks.

After all, I wrote it.

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