The Taking (The Taking 1)

Gritting my teeth, I turned to stare out the window. It was dark outside, so there wasn’t much to look at, but it was better than catching my father’s hopeful glimpses staring back at me.

I heard him sigh, and then there was a silence—not long and not short either—and then he added, “I don’t know why the two of you think you have to go to college together.”

That was it. He’d definitely found my hot button. “It’s not your decision,” I snapped as if I hadn’t said this a hundred times before. “We’ve already decided where we’re going. I don’t know why you keep talking to these scouts. Stop encouraging them.”

“Oh for chrissake, Kyra. College doesn’t have to be a ‘we’ thing. It doesn’t have to be a joint decision. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if you and Austin went to different schools for a few years.”

My fists clenched in my lap. “You and Mom went to Central Washington. It’s a good school. Why do you have such a problem with this?”

“Your mom and I didn’t go there together; we met there. And I don’t have a problem with the school. It’s just that you can do so much better.”

I met his eyes now, daring him to lie to me. “Are you talking about the school, or about Austin?”

He held my gaze for only a split second before turning back to watch the black ribbon of road that stretched out ahead of him. “Both, I suppose.” Before I could let the gravity of his words sink in, he tried to explain. His voice was softer now. “It’s not Austin. You know I like him. Hell, he’s practically family. It’s just that you’ve known him your entire life, Kyr. You’ve never had a chance to meet anyone else. To know any different.”

This was new, this argument against Austin and me. It was no longer about my education; he was talking about my future . . . my real future. The one Austin and I had been planning forever.

I blinked hard, not wanting him to know how betrayed I felt by the sting of his words. “Stop the car,” I stated, and hated the way my voice cracked when it finally cleared the barrier of my throat.

“Kyra . . .”

“I mean it. Stop the car!”

We were in the middle of nowhere, on Chuckanut Drive, still miles away from Burlington. My dad slowed but didn’t stop, his tires crunching on the gravel on the side of the road. “You’re not getting out. There’s nothing out here.”

“I’ll call Austin,” I insisted. “He’ll pick me up.”

The car was still moving, but only barely, as his words tumbled into the darkness, finding me in the backseat. “I just don’t want you to settle. I want you to experience the world. To go big.” It was one of my dad’s catchphrases: “Go big or go home.”

Only this time he was wrong. I didn’t want “big.” I didn’t want to live a catchphrase at all, none of them. I wanted to live my life.

And I wanted out.

Opening the car door was easy, and even though the Prius felt like it was moving in slow motion, the road I stared down at looked as if we were racing in the Grand Prix. I thought of what breaking my ankles might mean to my dad’s precious full-ride scholarships, and suddenly I didn’t care about scholarships or scouts or full rides.

“I said stop!” I yelled at my dad, and when I heard the screech of the Prius’s tires skidding to a complete stop, I leaped out of the car.

By the time my feet hit the ground I was already running, but I was moving too fast, and I was crying now too. I couldn’t see where I was going, and I tripped on the unforgiving asphalt.

I barely registered my dad’s voice coming from behind me, and I definitely didn’t feel pain, at least not yet. But I knew from years of sports’ injuries that adrenaline could mask the initial discomfort, and you would always feel it later.

I was still getting up, brushing away bits of rocks and gravel from my uniform, and from my hands, which had taken the brunt of the skidding part of my fall, when everything around me went white.

White, like blinding white.

It came in a flash, all at once, from somewhere that seemed both far away and right on top of me at the same time. In that moment I couldn’t see anything, but I heard my dad.

He was screaming this time. Screaming and screaming. My chest felt tight, and my eyes burned as I tried to find him, tried to see through the light that scorched my retinas.

All I knew was that one moment I was in the middle of a deserted stretch of highway, arguing with my dad about scholarships and boys, and the next minute my limbs were tingling and I felt weightless and dizzy.

Then . . .

. . . nothing.

CHAPTER ONE

Day One

MY HEAD WAS POUNDING. BUT NOT LIKE A HEADACHE. More like someone was using it as a basketball against the pavement. Or for target practice.

That was it, I realized, prying my eyes open at last. Something was hitting me.

There was still too much light to make out anything clearly, but after blinking several times, I was at least aware of shapes around me. I dug my fingers into the ground beneath me and recognized the gravel and sand and asphalt at my back. All around me the smells of oil and gasoline lingered with something sickly sweet—like the smell of warm rot—sparking my gag reflex.

Another hard thing pegged me in the side of the head again, and I flinched, lifting my hand to try to shield myself from the assault.

This time I heard a sound. A giggle, maybe?

I squeezed my eyes, blinking harder, willing them to focus.