Free Stealing Faces by Michael Prescott

the pictures looked like to him—the silly poses struck by her friends, the sliced watermelon and paper airplanes and big, goofy smiles.
    “As long as your car isn’t found in one piece,” he was saying, “no one will have any reason to look for you at all. You’ll have vanished, and no one will even know it.”
    The photo album went into his satchel also. He shut the second suitcase. He was done.
    “It’s what you’ve wanted, Kaylie. Isn’t it? To disappear completely? Never to be sought, and never found? Why, it’s a dream come true.”
    The smile he showed her was so bright with malice, she actually shrank back into the chair.
    “Now,” he went on casually, “we’d better be going. I’ll return later for your car and luggage. There’s no hurry about that. Right now I want to get you out the door and on your merry way. But first ...”
    From his pocket he withdrew a long strip of black fabric.
    A blindfold.
    “First I need to be sure you won’t run. I’ve been awaiting our reunion for a long time, Kaylie. I would hate to see it cut short.”
    He took a step forward, and she knew this was her last chance. Once her eyes were covered, she would be helpless, and Cray could do anything. Anything.
    In that moment she remembered how much she hated this man, hated him more than he could possibly hate her, and a flash of raw fury jolted her out of the chair and straight at him with no thought, no plan of action, only the senseless need to attack.
    Lightly, with one hand, he shoved her backward. She fell across the bed, and before she could lash out with a kick, he was on top of her, smiling, God damn him.
    “There’s that fight-or-flight instinct I warned you of,” Cray said.
    Her hands thrashed inside the jacket’s nylon sleeves, and behind the gag she was screaming, but the screams were only stifled sounds that nobody would hear.
    The blindfold came down, her sight blotted out in a fall of darkness, and Cray slapped her, the leather glove stinging her cheek.
    “No more of your nonsense now,” he said sternly. “If you struggle, if you give me any trouble at all, I’ll hurt you. You’ll win yourself nothing but pain.”
    He pulled her off the bed. The darkness tilted around her. She swayed, her knees liquefying, and then Cray’s arm was supporting her, and he was hustling her across the room.
    He paused once, apparently to collect something. She heard a rustle of fabric.
    The door opened. She felt the balmy night on her face.
    As Cray escorted her outside, the sudden sense of air and space was shocking, disorienting. She imagined herself a space traveler ejected from the safety of the capsule into the terrifying emptiness beyond.
    The walkway felt cool and smooth against the soles of her bare feet. She tried to count her steps, though she didn’t know why. It was something people did in the movies. They remembered every detail of their kidnapping, and later they could lead the police to the place where they’d been taken.
    Jingle of metal, a soft click, the sound of an automobile’s door swinging wide. Cray had brought her to his SUV.
    “In you go,” he said.
    She prayed someone was watching from one of the motel windows, some insomniac who would see a gagged, blindfolded woman being pushed into a Lexus sport-utility and would call 911.
    Cray lifted her in both hands, shoved her roughly into a passenger seat. The front seat, she was fairly sure. He pulled a lap belt tight across her waist, and she heard the snick of the buckle.
    Behind the gag, she made a very small sound, something like a moan.
    “No need to be scared yet,” Cray said, his voice close to her ear. “We’ve got a good half-hour ride ahead of us before things get interesting.”
    Half an hour was not nearly enough time to reach the   White Mountains , where Sharon Andrews had been killed. Cray must be taking her someplace nearer to town.
    The desert, she guessed. The empty vastness, where he could do whatever he liked, and no