Chapter Fifteen
“He let you go,” my dad said, once he’d situated me at our dinette table. In front of me was a giant mug of black coffee, a plate of shortbread cookies from someone’s wife at work, half a carton of potato salad from Robinsons, a grilled cheese sandwich my dad had been about to eat himself, our once-a-year fruitcake special-ordered by my aunt in Texas, and a tin of dollar-store-looking candy canes.
“They fed me, you know,” I said.
“Huh.” He looked unconvinced. “Regular food?”
“No, not really.” He gave me an insistent look, and I obligingly took a bite of potato salad. It was great.
“He let you go,” my dad repeated.
“Yes.”
“No… catches?” What had I given up to come back here? was what he really meant—a father’s worry for his abducted daughter spilling in infinite, nigh
