A Long Way From Home

Chapter 1: In which we meet the characters

Bowden Residence: Buffalo, New York—Monday, 2:40am


“Don’t do it!”


Layla stopped suddenly, one outstretched arm inches from the glass of milk, the other holding the carton in the air.


“What?” she asked the phone clamped between her ear and shoulder. “You want me to starve?”


“Don’t you remember?” Trina asked accusingly. “I told you this morning!”


Layla put down the carton and hoisted herself onto the counter next to the glass. “Yeah, at, like, three. Let me guess… another ‘vision,’ right?”


Ever since kindergarten, Trina would tell Layla about her dreams. She called them “visions” because she said they predicted the future. And though Layla never lost an opportunity to scoff at them, sometimes she had to wonder. Because even if they were rarely spot-on, they had a somewhat convoluted way of coming true.


Like in third grade when Trina had dreamt about a TV exploding in the classroom. Layla had laughed and told her it wasn’t true: purposely sitting close to the TV in the corner of the room to spite her friend. But when a light had exploded above the set, even Layla had to admit it was strange.


“All right, what’s the theory this time?” she asked, pushing a strand of brown hair out of her eyes.


“I told you, there was broken glass all over the place, and then you started picking it up. And you just kept picking and picking and picking and then you got cut, but you didn’t even bother to look at it: you just kept going. I was yelling for you to stop, but you didn’t listen to me!”


“You know it’s just a dream, right?” Layla said, inching away from her milk. “Anyway, I’ll be late for school, so I’ll talk to you then, okay?” She hung up and stared at the glass for a while. Maybe she’d opt for plastic.


There was a note on the kitchen table. Something about a meeting and coming home late. Again. Both Layla and Trina’s parents worked early as often as they worked late, so the girls made it a habit to call each other in the morning to make sure they made it to school on time. Grabbing an apple, Layla ran out the door, hugging her favorite denim jacket around her, intent on catching the bus.


By the time she reached the school, Trina was already at her locker, partaking in her pre-homeroom ritual. The hot-pink of her bra popped out from beneath her white tunic as she leaned close to the poster glued to the locker door. A gold apple swung from a long chain around her neck.


“Good morning, Viktor!” she said with the happiness of a puppy seeing its master in the morning. Layla crept up behind her.


“Good morning, darling. I must say that you look stunning today.” Trina whirled around.


“Very funny, Layla,” she pouted, turning back to the guy’s image. Layla just grinned as she opened her own locker, empty save a spare box of guitar picks and a book of failed compositions. Trina was absolutely obsessed with some washed-out Canadian singer named Viktor. Never mind the fact that no one else in the entire school knew who he was. Never mind the fact that he was at least ten years older than her. Still, Trina insisted that he was extremely popular in Canada and that he was the most gorgeous being on the planet. Layla couldn’t help but agree that the dark curly hair and fair skin was a deadly combination on the guy, but she was far from obsessed. She was too mature for idol singers. He was cute though…


“Come on,” she said, tugging on her friend’s arm. “We’ll be late for class.” Trina finally turned around to look at her properly.


“Layla,” she said, with the patience of one explaining to a two-year old. “What have I told you about black and brown?” Layla was confused.


“Eh? What about black and brown?” Trina sighed dramatically and gestured towards Layla’s black pants and brown cowboy boots.


“You’re the one who bought me these, these—” Layla struggled to pinch the fabric shrink-wrapped to her thighs. “These black skinny jeans. You said they were ‘Trina-approved,’ didn’t you? And you liked the boots last time I wore them.”


Trina shook her head sadly. “Last time you were wearing them with blue jeans. Black pants and brown shoes never go together, okay? That’s just sloppy.” She glanced briefly at the worn blue t-shirt and green hoodie and sighed. “Someday, you’ll get it, okay?” Layla just nodded. To be perfectly honest, matching her clothes was the last thing on her mind.


Despite Trina’s abnormal obsession over glass and Layla’s clothes, the rest of the day was calm and bloodless. It was on her way home that it happened.


She had accompanied Trina up to the intersection by the drug-store, and the two split up. Trina turned left up to her house, and Layla continued past the store towards the elementary school. Their house was right across the street.


As she passed the school parking lot, some movement in the corner caught her eye. A little boy was playing on his Game-Boy, no doubt waiting for his mom, but a man in a white van was beckoning to him from the parking lot. The van didn’t have any license plates, and the boy didn't seem to know who the guy was. Very suspicious.


Finally, the little boy sidled over to the van. Layla paused. It was possible that this was just a creepier-than-average uncle, but she wanted to wait and make sure. From the van, she could hear a few snippets of conversation. “…lost my dog…” Was this guy seriously a kidnapper? She jogged up to the van.


“Can I help you?” She asked.


“Uh, no. Just picking up my little boy.” The kid suddenly looked up.


“You’re not my—” The man covered the kid’s mouth with his hand. Layla grabbed the boy’s arm.


“Lay off him, or I call the cops,” she said sternly, looking the creeper in the face.


“I told you he’s my—”


“Move your hand,” she said, not backing down. Her eyes focused on the man’s face, not wavering as she pulled a cell phone out of her pocket. The man dropped the boy’s arm.


She watched as the kid ran back into the building, then turned and began to run. Waiting until she was out of earshot, she dialed.


“911, Operator speaking, what is your emergency?”


“Hi, I’m by Hillcrest Elementary, and some guy tried to kidnap some elementary schooler.”


Mansion: Toronto, Canada—Monday, 7:00pm


Ding-dong.


Fingering the last two buttons on his dark magenta dress shirt, Viktor threw open the front door. There, standing on the front steps in a gold sundress, was Clarice.


“Didn’t we agree to meet at the restaurant?” Viktor hissed, glancing furtively around for the tell-tale glare of paparazzi lenses. Clarice stepped past him onto the varnished oak floor.


“I’m tired of hiding. I’ve told you that before.”


Viktor ran a hand through his dark hair. Today was supposed to be special. No last minute “surprise” interviews, no paparazzi runs, and no arguing over the same old thing.


“Ok, ok. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable on the couch? I’ll get you some coffee.” Clarice nodded, clearing the single step leading to the white-carpeted sitting room. Barely glancing around, she sat down on the mustard-yellow couch.


“What time are the reservations?” she asked, smoothing the gold fabric in her lap. “Shouldn’t we be leaving about now?” Viktor shrugged.


“We’ll be there on time. The reservations aren’t for another half-hour." He handed her a steaming mug. "Why don’t you enjoy your coffee, I’ll be back in a sec.” He climbed the wooden staircase back to the safety of his bedroom, wiping his sweaty palms on his dark dress pants. A couple puffs of cologne later, Viktor was back in the living room—twice as nervous as before. "Let's get going."


The restaurant was owned by a family friend of Viktor’s: one who knew not to talk. The rest of the restaurant was empty, as it should have been. Viktor had booked the entire restaurant a month in advance.


He wrestled his way through the appetizer, sweated through the main course, and had nearly died by the time dessert finally rolled around. Every argument they’d ever had battered his senses, from boxers versus briefs to the more heated dispute over going public. What if she said no?


“Clarice,” he managed to choke out. She looked up in surprise. He cleared his throat, realizing that his message was not best delivered in the voice of a parched old man.


“Clarice,” he moved over to her side of the table and took her hand in one of his. Then, kneeling before her, he brought out the ring.


“Will you marry me?”


There was a long pause.


Abandoned Storage Facility: Buffalo, New York—Monday, 4:00pm


Popping another acid-reflux pill into his mouth, Frank paced the length of the concrete storage unit. He’d spent the past five years cultivating the contacts for this job and it was ruined by a teenager.


The plan had been simple: he’d kidnap the child and sell it, making enough money to buy himself a nice little retirement condo in Florida. As long as he sold a child every few years, he’d be fine. And if he was really good, some of the most exclusive international mafias would be knocking on his door. And not to kill him, either. Sure, he'd never done it before, but how hard could it be? Kids were supposed to be ridiculously stupid.


Frank scratched his massive neck with a hand larger than most people’s feet. The worst part about the whole thing was that he’d let the girl get away. He should have warned her first: if she called the cops, she’d be dead. Or worse. Sure, she’d only seen him in disguise, but what if she saw through it? And besides, heightened security would only make his job harder. He picked up the phone.


“Don? I need you to find someone.”