Free Girl, Stolen by April Henry Page A

the house so that she could find a phone. He let the silence stretch out long enough that she would appreciate how much she was asking of him. “Okay,” he finally said, “but I’m going to have to tie you to the couch. And if my dad comes in and starts yelling, you have to promise to be quiet and follow my lead, okay?”
    “Promise,” she said, and made a gesture like she was crossing her heart.
    He untied her ankle and then held on to the cord as he took her elbow and walked her into the living room. Once Cheyenne stumbled when she tried to take a step longer than the cord would allow. “Sorry,” he said, grabbing her elbow just in time to prevent her from falling over the coffee table. It was actually a giant wooden spool that had once held wire cable. He maneuvered her so that the couch was just behind her knees. “You can sit down.”
    Griffin tied her ankle to one of the clawed feet of the old couch, glad she couldn’t see the stains on the cushions. As a safety measure, he reached over and unplugged the phone from the wall. Then he sat on the couch, picked up the clicker, and punched in the number for one of the local stations.
    After a commercial for some kind of incontinence pad – Griffin most definitely didn’t want to get old – the female announcer appeared on the screen, looking somber. Above her left shoulder a little box showed a photograph of yellow crime-scene tape. “In tonight’s top story, the parents of a girl taken today from the Woodlands Experience shopping center have made a heartrending appeal for her safe return. Channel Eight’s Tami Engel spoke late this afternoon with Nick and Danielle Wilder, the parents of sixteen-year-old Cheyenne Wilder.”
    The TV cut away to a man with a tan face and dark hair that was silver at the temples. Beside him was a blond woman with what Griffin thought of as an expensive haircut, spiky at the edges, with lighter and darker streaks mixed in. They were seated on a dark brown leather couch. Behind them was a rustic stone fireplace, and next to the fireplace towered a huge Christmas tree, decorated all in silver. Griffin figured it was the Wilders’ house, but he wondered if it was such a good idea for them to be filmed there. The whole place screamed “money.” And if Roy saw this – when Roy saw this – he would probably double Cheyenne’s asking price.
    When Mr. Wilder started speaking, Griffin felt Cheyenne jump.
    “I will do anything that’s necessary to get my precious daughter back,” Mr. Wilder said. “People can call me twenty-four hours a day if they know something.” The camera zoomed in on his face, wet with tears. The tears and the tan didn’t go together. “We need to bring my little girl back home right away. Just imagine how terrifying it is for her. My daughter is blind!”
    The blond woman laid a hand on her husband’s arm. “Cheyenne is a strong person. I’m sure she’ll get through this.” Then she sighed heavily. “I feel so guilty. I insisted she not take her guide dog with her. I just thought it would be easier. Now I keep thinking, ‘If only she had had Phantom with her, this would never have happened.’” She covered her face. From behind her hands came a strangled noise.
    “Is she crying?” Cheyenne asked.
    “Yeah. So’s your dad.”
    For the second time in a single day, Griffin thought of his own mom, something he seldom allowed himself to do. How would she have reacted? Would she have cried? Or would she have looked out for herself, the way she had seven years earlier?
    Cheyenne said in a voice that seemed more for her own ears, “I’ve never seen Danielle cry before.”
    The camera switched back to Mr. Wilder. “Cheyenne is very sick,” he said to the reporter, who nodded sympathetically. “She was diagnosed with pneumonia right before she was kidnapped, and she needs to be on antibiotics. I’m begging these people to let her go immediately. How can they take a girl like that, a helpless