Stories of Tie Up Games

Dear @LunaDog, much of what sounds easy... isn't. You've got it absolutely right, this young woman, not even out of her teens, is making decisions a lot of people twice her age couldn't, leaving her life behind - maybe to save her life.
In tomorrow's episode, we will see what Ironwood Pastures has in store for her.

Forty minutes later, the black Volvo rumbles down a narrow gravel road lined with split-rail fences and tall black locust trees.
The last light of day melts across the sky in streaks of lavender and gold.
As Erica slows near a gate, Merjem silently unbuckles and steps out.
The gravel crunches beneath her sneakers.
She opens the latch, lets the Volvo glide through, then shuts it behind them with a soft metallic clack.
Climbing back into the car, she finds Erica watching her.

“Welcome to Ironwood Pastures,” Erica says, her voice low - reverent, almost - over the immediate scent of cedar, hay, and woodsmoke. “Your new home for the time being.”

She taps the gas.
The car rolls forward into a compact gravel lot tucked between a sloping pasture and a barn with weathered siding.
The barn rises in silhouette, red paint sun-faded and flaking like parchment - a monument to years of dust and muscle.

To the left, the main house perches on a low hill like it’s watching over the land - its porch light casting a golden spill down the steps.

“The ranch hands live in town,” Erica explains as they park. “You’ll be here with Mrs. Henshaw and maybe someone on night shift. Otherwise, it’s quiet.”

“Okay.” Merjem’s voice is small. Unsure. But there’s curiosity under it.

They step out and unload the bags.
The scent in the air is unmistakable: horses, hay, woodsmoke, leather.
A comforting mix.
Natural.
Honest.

As they walk past a long wooden building, Erica gestures toward it. “That’s the bunk house - where guests clean up after riding. It’s more work than it looks. You will break a sweat on a horse.”

“I believe it,” Merjem says, trying a faint smile.

The porch creaks under their weight as they approach the main house.
Erica sets one bag down and knocks on the weathered wooden door.

A voice calls from within, dry and theatrical: “Who’s there tapping on my timber?”

The door swings open to reveal Margaret Henshaw, tall and lean, her gray hair pulled into a low braid, her jeans dusty and boots worn to softness.
Her face is lined, sun-kissed - not imposing, but immovable.
She has the presence of someone who doesn’t have to raise her voice to be obeyed.
Steady.
Weathered.
As if the land itself shaped her.

She wipes her hand on her thigh and offers it to Erica. “Evening, Counselor.”

“Margaret.”

Her gaze shifts to Merjem. “So. You’re the intern.” A faint smirk curves her lips. “Margaret Henshaw.”

Merjem shakes her hand. “How do you do, Mrs. Henshaw?”

“Come on. Let’s go meet the horses. That’s what you’re here for, right?”

She loops an arm around the girl’s shoulder, firm but friendly, and leads her off the porch.
Erica follows, amused.
The girl is off to a good start and Margaret Henshaw is quickly taking to her.

“That’s the barn,” Margaret says, pointing to the long structure ahead. “Feed and hay storage. Behind that, the vehicle shed. You ever driven a four-wheeler?”

“I… no.”

“Doesn’t matter. You will.” She squints sideways. “Can you ride?”

“No, ma’am.”

“That’ll change.”

They step into the stable, the air thick with the scent of straw and warm animal.
The dusk light filters in through slatted windows.
The stable is quiet except for the soft sounds of hooves shifting, grain being chewed, and the occasional flick of a tail.

From the third stall, a soft nicker rises.
Erica smiles before she even sees her.
Lea.

The Cleveland Bay mare pokes her elegant head over the stall gate, ears flicking forward.
Erica walks straight to her and strokes her forehead.
Lea snorts, then nudges her shoulder hard enough to make her stagger a step.
“I missed you too, girl,” Erica murmurs.

Margaret chuckles and gestures further down the aisle. “We’ll leave these two lovebirds alone. Come.”
She leads Merjem to another stall, where a stocky roan mare munches contentedly on her oats.
Her eyes are soft, lashes long.

“This is Dolly. You’ll learn to curry and saddle her first thing tomorrow.”

Merjem’s brows lift. “And then?”

“Then you’ll ride her.”

“I don’t know how.”

“You’ll learn. She’s patient. Solid as they come.”

Something eases in Merjem’s face.
Not a smile exactly, but the shadow of one. For the first time since leaving Manhattan, she looks less like she’s waiting to be punished or as if she’s running - and more like someone arriving.

Tentatively, she reaches out and strokes Dolly’s ears.
The mare doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t even look up.

“Many consider roans to be difficult,” Margaret says, watching as Merjem strokes Dolly’s mane with tentative fingers. “But once they bond with someone they like… it sticks. Hard.”

Slowly, Merjem moves her hand up across the roan’s broad forehead, then down to the soft patch beneath her eyes.
Dolly lifts her head and regards her with something close to curiosity.
Maybe recognition.

“Do you think she likes me?” Merjem asks, barely above a whisper.

Margaret chuckles, the sound low and warm. “If she didn’t, she’d have bitten you by now.”

Erica steps over from Lea’s stall, brushing bits of hay off her sleeve
“Alright,” she says. “I’m heading back to the city. You’re safe here. With good people. I’ll call you tomorrow, alright?”

Merjem nods, but it’s tight, like she’s forcing the motion through resistance.
As long as Erica was beside her - calm, sharp, always in control of the situation - she felt safe.
But now, standing on the dirt floor of the stable, the vast, quiet space of the barn pressing in around the wooden beams, it all feels too big again.
The roan nudges her ribs gently, as if sensing the shift.

“Yes, ma’am,” Merjem murmurs.

Erica gives an encouraging smile. “You’ll be fine. Trust me.”
She turns to Mrs. Henshaw. “Thanks again, Margaret.”

“Anytime,” Margaret says. She claps a hand on Merjem’s shoulder - solid, grounding. “We’ll turn this city slicker into a wrangler in no time. She’ll be working with Kelly.”

Erica nods, and with a soft goodbye to Lea - a kiss pressed between her eyes - she vanishes into the darkness.

Margaret jerks her chin toward the house. “Come on, I’ll show you around. You eaten anything today? You look half-done in.”

~~~

Who said hiding away couldn't be rewarding? Maybe young Merjem might just like her new life here. And learn how to ride a horse in the meantime.

Dear @LunaDog, stay tuned. We'll shadow Merjem closely, I promise.

An hour later, full of tea and a sandwich heavier than anything she usually eats at home, Merjem stands alone in a room that smells like orange and horse soap.
Sarah Henshaw’s old room.

She catches herself sniffing, but there’s no trace of the spices her mother uses for cooking in the air.

It’s quiet.
Not the kind of quiet she’s used to - not the city’s muffled hum - but a real, breathing silence.
A silence with wood creaking under its own weight and trees rustling outside the window like whispers.

Her two sports bags sit on the floor, awkward and out of place.
She bites her lip.

This isn’t the life she had imagined.
She’s on a horse ranch out in the sticks.
Hiding from her parents, clutching her passport and a cheap phone like lifelines.

She wants freedom.
Choice.
To belong somewhere by choice - not by escape.

But this?
This is still better than the alternative.
Better than being packed off to Afghanistan, better than binding her life to a stranger with a deal for her parents and a marriage she doesn’t consent to.

She hauls her bags onto the bed and starts unpacking.

Later, when she finally lies down, the room is too still.
No sirens.
No headlights flashing against the ceiling.
Just stars - so many stars - and the faint sounds of a house shifting into sleep.

Although this is the first time in a week without fear chasing her, the new quiet is almost scarier than the forced marriage her parents arranged with that man’s family.

The cheap plastic watch on her bedside table ticks louder than she expects. 2:56 a.m.
The ranch wakes at five.
Breakfast at 5:30.
Her heart thuds like it’s measuring minutes instead of beats.
It’s going to be a long first day.


~~~


It’s 5:00 AM when Erica’s phone buzzes on the nightstand.
She reaches out, eyes still closed, and swipes her finger across the screen.
The bedroom is dark and still.
Cool air drifts in through the cracked window.

She stretches once, then swings her legs over the side of the bed.
Her bare feet sink into the rug for a moment before she rises, already shifting into motion.

In the living room, Spot and Tiger are curled together in their bed by the air vent - limbs tangled, ears twitching in sleep.
Their food bowl is empty.
As expected.

Quietly, Erica rinses out their bowls at the kitchen sink, fills one with water, and the other with a scoop of their favorite: shredded chicken breast pulp.
They won’t touch it until they’ve slept off a full night of feline mischief.

Back in her bedroom, she shrugs off her black silk kimono, letting it fall onto the back of the Hillhouse chair.
She slips into her running outfit - sleek, second-skin material with reflective stripes that catch the light like silver.

The streets are still hushed when she steps outside.
The city hasn’t fully woken yet.
The air is crisp, touched with the scent of pavement and spring.

Her route takes her into Central Park, past the familiar rise and curve of the Great Lawn.
Her pace is steady at first - just movement, just breath - but as she nears the Dakota, something shifts.
She leans into her stride.
Not chasing speed.
Just clarity.

She runs because she can.
Because she's alive.

She thinks of a young girl waking up far from home, probably scared, but trying to be brave.
Erica runs harder.

Because today, a girl is safe and her fight is just beginning.

Back at her apartment, Erica peels off her gear and tosses it into the laundry bin.
The shower hisses to life. Steam curls around her as she steps inside and lets the hot water cascade over her skin.
Lavender and mint soap lathers rich against her body, washing away sweat and sleep, the residue of adrenaline she hadn’t realized she was carrying.

Later, wrapped in a towel, she blow-dries her hair and brushes it into a high ponytail. Her makeup, as always, is minimalist - enough to signal style, not effort.
Moments later, coffee brews, its smell filling the kitchen.

~~~

Jenny_S wrote: 1 week ago She wants freedom. Choice. To belong somewhere by choice - not by escape.

Yes, this is extremely hard for young Merjem, no one especially Erica will even try to deny that. But, if the girl can learn to cope with it, she will become aware that, above all, Erica is trying her very best to obtain precisely that for her. It just might take some time to achieve here. Can Merjem possess enough patience here?

I will have to do some serious catching up. I will do. It may take a while though dear @Jenny_S

Dear @LunaDog, Merjem is up for her first day at Ironwood. Let's see what her "new life" is going to be like.

Dear @Caesar73, don't worry, take your time and enjoy the ride. I hope you will like this story.

At the same time, beneath a lavender-pink sky north of the city in Bedford, Margaret Henshaw stands in the stable yard beside a woman in denim and rubber boots.

“This is Kelly Garner,” she tells Merjem. “Our stablemistress. She’ll get you sorted.”

Kelly’s handshake is firm.
Callused.
“Glad to have you,” she says, eyes kind but direct.

The stable smells of hay and leather, horse sweat and the faint bite of disinfectant.
One of the hands is already mucking out stalls, rake scraping against straw.
Kelly leads her inside. “Most of what we do here is physical. By dinnertime, you’ll feel like you’ve spent the whole day at the gym.”

She gestures toward the stalls. “Before you start working the horses, you’ll help Andy clean these out. Our clients pay us to keep their animals in top shape. That means starting at ground level.”

Merjem nods. She doesn’t trust her voice yet, so she says nothing.

“Good,” Kelly says, handing her a rake and a shovel. “Andy will show you how it’s done.”

Merjem grips the rake.
The wood feels rough, unfamiliar.
If blisters are the price of freedom, she’ll take them.

The weight of the tools is unfamiliar in her gloved hands.
Heavier than a textbook.
But maybe that’s a good thing.
It means she’s really here.
It means this isn’t a dream.


~~~


The morning sun hangs low and golden, already warming the stable yard.
Flies hover in slow circles.
Sweat beads on Merjem’s forehead as she thrusts the pitchfork into a mound of damp, pungent straw.

Each load of manure hits the wheelbarrow with a wet thump.

Across from her, Andy hauls in clean straw and a sack of wood chips slung over his shoulder.
He moves with easy rhythm, not rushing, not struggling - just used to it.

“The compost heap’s downwind,” he says, nodding toward the far edge of the property. “You’ll smell it before you see it. Boss sells the manure to a fertilizer company. Nice side hustle.”

“Ah, okay,” Merjem says, catching her breath and wiping her arm across her brow.
A streak of grime smears her face.

She grips the handles of the wheelbarrow and lifts, arms shaking under the weight.
It’s heavier than she expects.
With a low grunt, she pushes forward, every step crunching over straw-dusted gravel.

“No shit,” she mutters under her breath, recalling Kelly’s warning that this place isn’t for the delicate.

The barn falls behind her.
Her arms burn.
The air thickens with the sweet-rot heat of manure.
She reaches the heap, steaming faintly like a living thing, and dumps the contents with a final heave.

Behind her, Andy watches from the stable door, grinning.

Fifteen minutes later, as she returns - sweaty, red-faced, and annoyed - he motors past her on the small front loader, tipping an invisible hat in salute as he rolls by toward the compost pile. “Just the welcome wagon, city slicker! You’re one of us now, like it or not.”

“Thanks a lot,” she calls after him, only half joking.

“Everybody goes through an initiation,” Kelly says, appearing beside her with a coffee in one hand and zero sympathy in her tone. “It’s how you handle it that counts. That’s what decides how the hands treat you.”

Merjem exhales and puts the wheelbarrow back, leaning the pitchfork against the wall.
Her muscles are already aching.
“Yes, ma’am,” she says, but her eyes don’t drop.
Not anymore.

“Call me Kelly,” the stablemistress says. “Save “ma’am” for Margaret. Come on - enough hazing. Time to meet the horses properly.”

~~~

Jenny_S wrote: 1 week ago “Everybody goes through an initiation,”

Don't they just, eh? Although i must say that in my opinion Merjem coped pretty well.

Dear @LunaDog, does she have much of a choice?
Help from Erica and protection at Ironwood or not, she's got to grow up fast now.

True. But she seems to making an effort to fit in with her new situation, as if to show gratitude towards Erica. Instead of acting like some sort of spoilt brat.

Dear @LunaDog, I'll let you in on a secret: Merjem is a great girl trying to make the best out of the situation.
I hope my reader like her.

Dear @Jenny_S it's absolutely true that i'm very much warming towards her. Mind you she has a LONG way to go in order to dis-place Detective Sandra Ruiz as my favourite of your characters ( Erica herself aside of course. )

But even Detective Ruiz's sheer decency isn't enough to become my 'girl of the forum,' any characters of my own not counting here. Naturally that is @Caesar73's utter sexbomb, Russian Natasha Bolkonskaya. He even allowed me the total privilege of letting me 'borrow' her in a couple of my own stories, one featuring a Chelsea footballer who unfortunately missed a penalty during a Champions League penalty shootout.

Dear @LunaDog, I'm happy to hear that my characters speak to you. This is such a wonderful compliment. Thank you very much.

I can promise you that you will meet Detective Ruiz again and - if you allow me a look into the future - I'm starting to polish my manuscript for story#27 next week with the story outline for story #28 on the table. There are many more stories to be told in the Ericaverse and many more fascinating (I hope) characters to be discovered.

Inside the stable, the smells shift - less manure, more hay and leather.
A low whinny echoes from one of the stalls.
Dust floats lazily in the slatted light.

Kelly pulls out a grooming box and pops the lid.
Inside are brushes, combs, and cloths, each worn smooth from use.

“We groom daily,” she says, handing over a rubber currycomb. “Not just for looks - helps circulation, checks for cuts, swelling, soreness. You’ll learn to see problems before they happen.”

She runs her hand across Dolly’s sleek roan coat. “Always go with the hair. Never against.”
Kelly’s fingers move in steady half circles.
Dolly flicks an ear, content.
Then she passes the comb to Merjem. “You try.”

The comb feels foreign in her hand - stiff, real.
Heavier than she thought.
She steps forward slowly and raises it to Dolly’s shoulder, then pauses.
The mare turns her head, one eye locking onto Merjem.
There’s no fear in it.
No judgment.
Just… interest.

Gently, she starts brushing in the same rhythm Kelly showed her.
Her first few strokes are clumsy, uncertain.
But Dolly doesn’t flinch.
She just blinks slowly and lowers her head a little, accepting the contact.

Merjem relaxes - just slightly.
And for the first time that morning, she doesn't feel like a girl in hiding.
She feels like a person with a job to do, a small anchor in this new world.


~~~


The elevator doors glide open with a soft chime, revealing the sleek, curated calm of Sinclair & Associates.
Polished floors reflect the morning light, and the scent of espresso drifts faintly through the air.

Erica steps out, heels sharp against the marble.
Almost instantly, Holly Beck bolts to her feet behind the reception desk, her cheeks flushed with anticipation.
“Good morning, Miss Sinclair,” she says, trying - and failing - to sound casual.

“Good morning, Holly,” Erica replies, not breaking stride.

“May I…” Holly starts.

Erica stops just long enough to meet her eyes. “Merjem is safe. That’s all I can tell you.”

Holly nods, the light dimming just slightly in her expression. “I understand.”

Erica doesn’t slow.
She moves down the hall, passing framed legal awards.
With each step, her mind sharpens.
The real work begins now.

Inside her office, she closes the frosted glass door with a quiet click.
She sets her handbag down, shrugs off her taupe trench coat, and hangs it from the steel hook beside her bookcase.

The city stretches wide beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Erica’s focus narrows to the name on her phone screen: Ahmad Nowzad.
She taps dial.
The line barely buzzes twice before it's snatched up.
“Yes!” barks a male voice - impatient, aggressive.

Erica sits back in her chair, voice level.
She doesn’t hesitate.
Control is won in the first five seconds of a call like this.
“Good morning, Mr. Nowzad. This is Erica Sinclair, Sinclair & Associates. I represent your daughter, Merjem.”

“Where is she?” he snaps - not a question, a demand.

“I can’t tell you that,” Erica replies, her tone even. “What I can tell you is that she is safe.”

“She is my daughter! I have a right…”

“Merjem is nineteen years old,” Erica says, cutting cleanly through his outrage. “She is of legal age, and she has made a decision. She will not, under any circumstances, go to Afghanistan to marry someone she does not wish to marry.”

There’s a brief silence.
Then the storm hits.

“She is my daughter! She will do as I say!”

Erica shifts the phone slightly away from her ear, unmoved.
“No, Mr. Nowzad. She won’t.”

A burst of furious language erupts on the other end - Dari or Pashto, she isn’t sure which.
She doesn’t understand the words - but she understands the threat.
The tone needs no translation: fury, insult, control slipping through clenched fists.

It’s not just anger - it’s panic disguised as fury.
Control slipping from a man who’s never been told no by his own blood.

She lets it play out for a few seconds.
Then, still calm:
“I suggest we speak again when you’ve calmed down. Good day, Mr. Nowzad.”

She ends the call with a flick of her thumb - measured, final - setting the phone down like a gavel.

For a moment, the only sound in the office is the distant hum of the city.
Quietly, Erica exhales.

Without ever having met the man, she can imagine what must have flashed through his mind: his daughter not following his orders - even running away.

And now?

He has to explain to his brother, to the groom, to everyone in his community that the daughter he thought he owned - vanished.
That’s not just disobedience.
That’s devastating dishonor.

First blood has been drawn.

~~~

Jenny_S wrote: 1 week ago Merjem relaxes - just slightly.
And for the first time that morning, she doesn't feel like a girl in hiding.
She feels like a person with a job to do, a small anchor in this new world.

Good for her! Just showing how intelligent Erica is here, and how beautifully she has played this situation.

Jenny_S wrote: 1 week ago He has to explain to his brother, to the groom, to everyone in his community that the daughter he thought he owned - vanished.
That’s not just disobedience.
That’s devastating dishonor.

Maybe this is the whole crux of this situation here. Ahmad Nowzad clearly has the, totally disgusting, view that woman simply exist to serve and obey their male masters upon this earth, with NO say who that dominate man controlling their life should be. It's quite possible, i guess, that his own wife, Merjem's mother of course, was 'selected' by either himself or another male member of the family, with herself having no choice in the matter. And, is it more that his daughter, a legal adult don't forget, has dis-obeyed his orders, or the perceived shame that her decision has caused him the most prominent emotion here?

Dear @LunaDog, once more, I see how invested you are in this story. What is a disgrace for Merjem's father is fully unacceptable for us. What is normal for him is deep Dark Ages for us. Just because they live among us doesn't know that they share our values - and now even his own flesh and blood disobeys him.
But still, Merjem is a citizen and a legal adult.
She decides what's best for her.

Jenny_S wrote: 1 week ago She decides what's best for her.

And THAT, Ladies and Gentlemen is what i truly believe is the real question about just what is present here.

Dear @LunaDog, upon that verdict, let's see how Merjem's journey coninues.

Around that time, in the golden quiet of late morning, Merjem reaches for Dolly’s reins and gently coaxes the roan mare out of her box.

Kelly Garner watches with her arms folded and a flicker of amusement in her eyes.
She’s been riding since before she could walk.
It’s easy to spot fear in a first-timer - especially this kind: quiet, respectful, but deeply real.

Of course she’s nervous.
Horses are big.
Powerful.
But so are cattle.
Even sheep, if you're careless.
One wrong move, and you’re pinned against the stable wall, ribs crushed, breath driven out of your lungs.

Still, Dolly doesn’t seem to mind.
She walks out with calm, plodding steps, as if she understands the soft-voiced girl needs kindness more than correction.

“Okay,” Kelly says. “She’s saddled. Time to mount. Left foot in the stirrup.”

Merjem nods and does as she’s told.
Her fingers tighten around the reins.
She steadies one hand on the saddle’s pommel and takes a breath like she’s about to step onto a moving train.

“Now swing up.”

With a little bounce from her right foot, she pulls herself up, swings her leg over - and suddenly, she’s there.
Perched in the saddle.
Balanced.

She lowers herself into the seat slowly, like if she rushes it, she’ll spook the moment.
A smile spreads across her lips.
Unforced.
Bright.
“I did it…” she whispers.
Her first time on a horse.

Kelly clicks her tongue and takes the lead rope.
Dolly starts forward, unhurried, hooves clopping gently on the stable floor.
“Now all you gotta do is stay in the saddle,” Kelly says, leading the mare toward the paddock.

Andy leans on his pitchfork as they pass, grinning.
“When did we become a dude ranch, Kelly?”

But Merjem doesn’t hear him.
She doesn’t care.
The wind brushes her cheeks.
The horse moves beneath her like a rhythm she didn’t know she needed.
“I’m riding!”
And for the first time in days, her smile isn’t borrowed from someone else’s reassurance.
It’s entirely hers.


~~~


Back in Manhattan, Erica sits at her desk, phone in hand.
The city hums below the glass as she dials Sophie van Rey.
She doesn’t need confirmation that the Deputy Commissioner for Public Safety kept her word - but it’s time for an update.
The line clicks.

“Good morning!” Sophie answers, unusually bright.

“Hello, Sophie,” Erica says. “Things are progressing on my end.”

“Talk to me.”

“Merjem Nowzad is safe. I just got off the phone with her father. He’s not… pleased that his daughter has opinions.”

“What a surprise,” Sophie says dryly. “I’ve looped in NYPD, TSA, and Homeland, just like I said. If Ahmad Nowzad so much as sneezes at an airport, I’ll get the alert.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Sophie replies. “Let’s game this forward. If he’s this pissed off now, how are you planning to untangle this mess?”

There’s a pause.
Just long enough to feel the weight of the question.

Then Erica says quietly, “Honestly? I’m not sure there’s a clean solution here. I can try reasoning, but this might be something that just can’t be solved.”
Another pause.
“I think she’s going to have to build her own life.”

On the other end, Sophie says nothing.
But Erica doesn’t need to hear her voice to know that she nods in agreement.


~~~

We all KNOW that our Erica is one hell of a smart cookie. And obviously here she's doing her best to cover all of legalities. As Merjem seems to be making an effort, a successful one, to make the most of her new situation.

But i still can't shake myself out of the feeling that she's NOT out of the woods yet. Ahmad Nozwad doesn't seem the sort to give up just like that, even if fear is the main motivation here. Fear of disgrace, the prospect of being classified as too weak to even control his own daughter. As the society that he is part of would fully expect him to.

LunaDog wrote: 1 week ago But i still can't shake myself out of the feeling that she's NOT out of the woods yet.

Dear @LunaDog, she isn't. I guarantee that. Just hang on.

Carrie Beck pulls her phone from her jacket pocket for what feels like the hundredth time.
Her thumb taps the screen, her eyes already scanning for what she knows won’t be there.

No message.

No missed calls.

Just silence.

She can hear the panic in her own voice now - rising with every message she’s left, each one a little more desperate than the last.

Scrolling through her contacts, her thumb hovers just above one name: Sis.
She taps it.
The line connects almost instantly.

“Hi!” Holly’s voice comes through, bright and warm, oblivious to the storm on the other end.

“Holly - it’s me,” Carrie says, breath catching. “I still can’t get hold of Merjem. Every call goes straight to voicemail. What is going on?”

“I tried talking to my boss when she came in,” Holly says quickly. “All she said was: Merjem is safe.”

Carrie exhales, shaky and loud. Relief, yes - but not enough.
“Safe where?”

“I don’t know,” Holly replies. “Ms. Sinclair didn’t say. But I’ll try to find out. Okay?”

Although she’s somewhat relieved that her friend is safe, Carrie would feel better if she could talk to her, hear it from her directly. “Okay. Thanks.”

They hang up.


~~~


She barely has time to lower the phone when fingers clamp onto her shoulder from behind.
Firm.
Unexpected.

She whirls around - heart leaping into her throat - to find herself face to face with Muhammad Nowzad.

He smells like stale cologne and a sleepless night of having lost control over his younger sister.
His eyes are bloodshot, his mouth twisted into a grimace.

“Where is my sister?” he growls. “You know where she is.”

Carrie takes a step back. Her pulse spikes.
“I… what are you doing here?”

“You think you can hide her from us?” Muhammad’s voice is low but sharp, slicing through the hum of the traffic. “Tell me where she is. Now.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

And there’s something else Carrie sees in his eyes.
Not just anger.
Panic.
Desperation.
Something unhinged.

Before she can back away, Muhammad lunges forward.
He grabs her wrist hard - too hard - and yanks the phone from her hand.
“Hey! Let go!”

But he doesn’t.
His grip tightens.
“You little liar,” he growls. “You think this is a game? You think you can hide her from us?”

Carrie tries to twist away, but he shoves her hard toward the curb.
She stumbles, hits the side mirror of a parked car, nearly falls.
“Muhammad… stop!”

But he’s already pulling her toward a car idling at the corner.

She screams.

A woman across the street turns.
A man near a food truck looks up.

“Help!” Carrie shouts, voice raw. “Anybody!”

Muhammad shoves her into the back seat and slams the door shut.
Then he’s behind the wheel.
The locks click down.

The car surges forward into traffic - fast.
Carrie’s muffled voice and pounding fists are silenced by the engine.

The city breathes, oblivious.
No sirens.
No brakes.

Just glass and steel swallowing her terror.

~~~

This has now escalated tremendously here. Now a member of the Nowzad family has committed a REAL crime, has well and truly overstepped the boundaries of what the law deems acceptable. Is Holly's sister in REAL danger here?

THIS one is going to need careful handling. Thank God there is somebody as intelligent as our Erica to work out just how to do that.