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KIDNAPPED

T he Next Day

We go for a drive down to the Point—the legal road part—and Timmy seems upbeat, almost hyper. It’s one of those days where he’s just happy to be alive. He’s joking, telling me stories about his childhood, sharing memories that make him seem so innocent and carefree—as if all the darkness is gone. For a while, it’s easy to forget the other side of him.

We pull over at a beach. The sky stretches wide and cloudless, the water sparkling beneath the sunlight. I breathe in the salty air, trying to anchor myself to the present moment, to hold on to the parts of this relationship that still feel good.

“I love you,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around me from behind. His chin rests on my shoulder as we both stare out at the horizon. “I want us to be like this forever.”

My heart softens, and I lean into him. This is the version of Timmy I love. The one who’s sweet and present, who wants to build a future with me. This is the man I moved here for.

We’ve been bickering a bit, but there haven’t been any severe incidents since his most recent outburst. More just day-to-day, me spending all my energy trying to get him out of bed to be productive while also trying to keep my author business going.

It’s exhausting, and I feel like a hopeless hamster on a very unsatisfying wheel. It feels a bit like living inside a snow globe—everything looks picturesque from the outside until it’s suddenly shaken up, chaotic, fragile. Timmy alternates between apologies and excuses, leaving me grasping at every thread of normalcy, trying to pull us back to where we were before things fell apart. And, for a moment, I let myself believe we’ll get there.

Every day feels like walking on a tightrope, balancing between fleeting peace and the inevitable crash. His apologies now feel more like band-aids on a broken bone—temporary, flimsy. I want to believe he means them. I need to believe it. But there’s this persistent throb in my gut, a warning that the worst is yet to come.

It’s a pleasant surprise when I get a message from one of my childhood friends, Charlie, saying she’s in town. It’s been years since we’ve seen each other, and she’d love to catch up. We quickly make plans, and as far as I know, it’s just going to be her, her kids, and Timmy and me, meeting for lunch. It sounds like a nice way to break us out of our routine and see some new faces. And a nice opportunity for Timmy to meet another of my friends.

Right before we’re supposed to meet, Charlie casually mentions there will actually be a larger group joining us. I don’t think too much of it—just a bigger table, right? But when we arrive at the restaurant, my heart sinks a little at the sight of the large party waiting to be seated.

The staff has to join a couple of smaller tables together to accommodate the entire group. Charlie greets me warmly, giving me a tight hug, and I try to relax as I take in the sheer number of people—her husband, her kids, some stepchildren, and a handful of family friends and their families. It’s overwhelming, but everyone seems friendly and laid-back, which helps me exhale a little.

“It’s so nice to see you again after all these years!” I tell Charlie, holding onto the nostalgia of our shared past .

“Likewise!” she beams. “And here, of all places! What are the chances?”

As we settle in at the long table, conversation flows easily. Memories of childhood adventures resurface and, for a while, it feels like no time has passed at all.

At our end of the table, Timmy hits it off immediately with Charlie’s fourteen-year-old son, Jackson. They’re deep in conversation, discussing the nuances between rugby and football, their voices animated and full of excitement. I watch the two of them with a small smile. Timmy’s good with kids when he’s in the right mood—his playful energy and love for storytelling make him a natural magnet.

“They’re getting along really well,” Charlie observes, glancing toward them with a smile.

“Yeah, like a house on fire,” I agree. It feels nice—wholesome, even. For once, things seem to be going smoothly.

As lunch wraps up, Charlie mentions they’re planning to head to a nearby beach for the afternoon. Timmy and I offer to show them to one of our favorite hidden spots—a quiet, secluded stretch of sand just up the road.

“We have extra beach chairs and towels if you need them,” I tell her.

“That’d be amazing! Thank you,” Charlie replies.

After lunch, we swing by our apartment to grab the beach gear. Jackson tags along in the truck with us—he and Timmy are getting along so well that it feels natural.

Once we drop off the chairs and towels at the beach, Timmy turns to me with a grin. “Hey, why don’t we take Jackson for a little drive around the neighborhood?”

I hesitate for a second, but it seems harmless enough. Timmy is in a good mood, and Jackson is clearly enjoying himself. I don’t see the harm in giving the kid a little tour before they hit the beach.

“Sure,” I agree, shrugging off the small flicker of hesitation.

Jackson settles into the back seat, and Timmy shifts the truck into gear with a little more force than necessary. The engine hums, and I notice Timmy’s foot lingering on the accelerator a little longer than usual, but I tell myself it’s just his excitement spilling over.

At first, the drive is easy and relaxed. Timmy launches into his usual stories—self-aggrandizing tales of wild adventures, always casting himself as the star. I’ve heard most of them before, but they’re relatively harmless. Jackson listens politely, occasionally throwing in a comment or two.

He even plays a few Kiwi songs for us, which Timmy seems to get a real kick out of.

But gradually, the stories begin to shift. Timmy’s words become louder, more boastful, as if he’s trying to impress Jackson by pushing the boundaries of what’s appropriate.

“Once, I threw a beach party that got so wild the cops had to shut it down,” he says with a laugh, glancing in the rearview mirror to see Jackson’s reaction. “There were so many people there we blocked the whole street. They couldn’t even get the squad car through.”

Jackson chuckles politely, but his body language shifts—he leans away slightly, as if sensing that things are about to take a weird turn.

Timmy speeds up, the truck weaving slightly as he accelerates around a corner. I glance at him nervously. “Timmy, slow down a little.”

“We’re fine,” he says, brushing off my concern with a grin.

Then, without warning, he dives into a new story—one far darker than the harmless party tales.

Timmy grips the steering wheel, one hand loosely draped over it while he weaves down the road. His other hand gestures wildly as he launches into the story, as if it’s the most entertaining thing in the world.

“So, these two chicks were in my car,” he says with a grin that makes my stomach churn. “Both of them were hot, and I knew they wanted me. I was trying to decide which one to fuck.”

I stare at him, horrified. “Timmy, stop.”

But he’s lost in his own narrative, ignoring me. “And one of them—man—one of their pussies smelled so bad. So I kept pretending I needed to mess with the stereo, leaning down to figure out which one it was.” He laughs, his voice high-pitched with amusement. “But I couldn’t tell, so I aborted the mission.”

The words hit me like a slap, leaving me stunned.

“That’s fucking disgusting, Timmy!” I snap. “Why would you say that in front of me? Or Jackson?”

He shrugs, utterly unbothered by my reaction. “What? It’s just a story. It’s what happened.” His grin widens, full of boyish glee.

“Telling that to me —your partner —that’s gross. And to a 14-year-old kid ?” I glance at Jackson, who’s shifted uncomfortably in the backseat, staring out the window like he wishes he were anywhere but here.

Timmy howls with laughter, practically gasping for air. “Ahahaha! You’re so uptight, Margaux.” His eyes sparkle, delighted by the way I’m squirming. He’s enjoying this—feeding off my discomfort, knowing he has an audience.

I swat his arm, a light tap meant to signal that he needs to cut it out. “Stop! That’s not funny.”

Timmy’s reaction is instantaneous and dramatic. His eyes widen, and he gasps as if I’ve physically assaulted him. “Oh my god! You hit me!” He turns to Jackson, outrage smeared across his face. “Did you see that? She hit me!”

“You know I didn’t hit you,” I say through gritted teeth, my patience evaporating.

“Un-fucking-believable.” He shakes his head, scowling at me, condescension dripping from his words. “That’s not okay, Margaux.”

“Timmy, cut it out,” I say through gritted teeth, feeling my patience wear thin.

He laughs again, and I notice his foot pressing harder on the gas. We’re speeding now, and the road is narrowing.

“Timmy, seriously, slow down,” I plead, my heart racing.

He ignores me, lost in his own manic energy.

The truck swerves around a corner, the tires skimming the edge of the road. My pulse quickens as the landscape blurs past us.

I glance out the window, trying to steady my breathing, and my stomach drops. We’re miles from home. The familiar streets and landmarks are gone, replaced by endless stretches of highway heading toward the city. I’ve been so focused on Timmy’s vile commentary, I didn’t notice how far we’d driven.

“Timmy, we’re way out of the neighborhood. We need to go back.”

He shrugs, nonchalant. “I’m showing Jackson the island. It’s a special tour.”

“His mom didn’t say you could take him this far,” I say, my voice sharp with warning.

“She’ll be fine.” He waves me off, as if the rules don’t apply to him.

Timmy’s words blur into another inappropriate story—something about an old hookup—and I feel like my brain is starting to short-circuit. He just won’t stop.

“Timmy, enough!” I snap, my voice cracking with frustration.

“You’re so fucking uptight,” he hisses, his grin twisting into something uglier. “Always pinching and hitting me, nagging me. Jesus.”

“Stop saying disgusting things!” My voice rises, teetering on the edge of panic.

Jackson leans forward from the backseat, trying to play mediator. “Dude, what you said wasn’t cool. And she barely tapped you. You’re overreacting.”

For a moment, Timmy’s face darkens, his playful grin vanishing like a switch has been flipped. His expression contorts into something feral—his features tightening with rage.

“Please, Timmy,” I plead, my voice softening in desperation. “Just stop. You’re not okay right now, and you shouldn’t be driving.”

My words seem to ignite something inside him—a fire that burns too hot. With a sudden growl, Timmy slams his foot on the accelerator, and the car surges forward.

I grip the seat as Timmy speeds through another turn, barely missing an oncoming car. My heart slams against my ribcage, and I glance back at Jackson, who looks equally alarmed.

“Timmy, stop!” I yell. “You’re driving too fast!”

His grin twists into something darker, and he slams his foot on the accelerator even harder.

He’s too far gone, his jaw clenched, his knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel. He’s driving like a madman, swerving between cars, tailgating so close I can practically see the fear on the drivers’ faces ahead of us.

“Timmy, please!” I beg, panic swelling in my chest. “You’re going to kill us!”

His only response is to laugh—a manic, high-pitched cackle that sends chills down my spine.

The car barrels down the road, veering dangerously close to the edge of the lane. My fingers dig into the seat, my entire body tensing as I brace for impact.

“Fuck you!” he explodes suddenly, his voice thick with venom. “You two are trying to sleep together! I knew it all along!”

Jackson and I exchange horrified glances.

“Um, no. That’s disgusting,” I say, incredulous. “I’m an adult, Timmy, and he is a 14-year-old boy. And I’m engaged to you . What the hell are you even talking about?”

“Timmy, chill,” Jackson says, trying to keep his voice calm. “Nobody’s trying to do anything. You’re being weird, man.”

But Timmy’s rage only escalates. He swerves dangerously close to the edge of the road, the truck lurching as he jerks the wheel.

“Timmy, pull over!” I scream, panic rising in my chest.

When we finally reach the city, Timmy’s rage hasn’t abated. If anything, it’s intensified. He screeches into the parking lot of a gas station, the tires screaming as the car jerks to a violent stop, throwing us forward in our seats.

We all scramble out of the car, and I slam my door behind me as if that alone could shield us from Timmy’s madness.

“You’re a fucking stupid bitch and I fucking can’t stand you, you abusive cunt!” Timmy screams at me. “I fucking hate you, you ugly bitch!”

Shocked, Jackson snaps into action. “Leave her alone! Stop talking to her like that!” he roars.

I run between them, horrified at what Timmy might try to do. It looks like they’re about to have a fist-fight .

Clenching his fists, his jaw tight, Timmy gets into the truck and slams the door.

“Get the fuck away from me!” Timmy roars, his voice hoarse with fury. “Leave me alone, you fucking cunts!”

Without another word, Timmy peels out of the parking lot, the tires screeching as he disappears into the dusk, screaming something unintelligible out the window.