It was the second day of field-hockey practice, near the end of February. Sam Friedman tossed her stick into the bottom of her locker.

She played right forward for the girls’ team. They’d lost a couple of their best attackers from last year, so this season it was going to be tough. Sam grabbed her parka off the hook and scanned over a few books. She had an English quiz tomorrow on a story by Tobias Wolfe, a chapter to skim on Vietnam. Since she’d gotten into Tufts, Early Decision 2 in January, she’d pretty much been coasting. Tonight a bunch of them were meeting in town at Thataways for wings and maybe sneak a beer.

Senior slump was in full throttle.

Outside, Sam ran over to her blue Acura SUV, which she’d parked in the west lot after lunch. She jumped in and tossed her bag onto the seat, and started up the engine. Then she plugged her iPod into the port and scrolled to her favorite tune.

“And I am telling you I’m not going…,” she sang, belting it out as closely as she could to Jennifer Hudson in Dreamgirls. She went to slip the Acura into drive.

That’s when the hand wrapped around her mouth and jerked her head back to the headrest.

Samantha’s eyes peeled back and she tried to let out a muffled scream.

“Don’t make a sound, Samantha,” a voice from behind her said.

Oh my God! That scared her even more, that the person knew her name. She felt a bolt of fear race down her spine, her eyes darting around, straining to glance at him in the rearview mirror.

“Uh-uh, Samantha.” The assailant redirected her face forward. “Don’t try to look at me. It’ll be better for you that way.”

How did he know her name?

This was bad. She ratcheted through a million things she had always heard in case something like this occurred. Don’t fight back. Let him do what he wants. Give him your money, jewelry, even if it’s something important. Let him have his way.

Anything.

“You’re scared, Samantha, aren’t you?” the man asked in a subdued voice. He had his hand wrapped tightly over her mouth, her eyes stretched wide.

She nodded.

“I don’t blame you. I’d be scared, too.”

She glanced outside, praying someone might come by. But it was late, and dark. The lot was empty. She felt his breath, hot on the back of her neck. She closed her eyes. Oh, God, he’s going to rape me. Or worse…

“But it’s your lucky day. I’m not going to hurt you, Samantha. I just want you to deliver a message to someone. Will you do that for me?”

Yes, Samantha nodded, yes. Stay together, stay together, she begged herself. He’s going to let you go.

“To your mom.”

My mom… What did her mom have to do with this?

“I want you to tell her, Sam, that the investigation is going to start very soon. And that it’s going to get very personal. She’ll understand. And that we’re not the types to wait around patiently—forever. I think you can see that, can’t you? Do you understand that, Sam?”

She shut her eyes. Shaking. Nodded.

“Good. Be sure and tell her that the clock’s ticking. And she doesn’t want it to run out, I can promise that. Do you hear me, Sam?” He loosened his hand just slightly from her mouth.

“Yes,” Sam whispered, her voice quaking.

“Now, don’t look around,” he said. “I’m going to slip out the back.” The man had a hooded sweatshirt pulled over his face. “Trust me, the less you see, the better for you.”

Samantha sat rigid. Her head moved up and down. “I understand.”

“Good.” The door opened. The man slipped out. She didn’t look. Or turn to follow. She just sat there staring. Exactly as she was told.

“You are your father’s little girl, aren’t you, Sam?”

Her eyes shot wide.

“Remember about the sum. Two hundred and fifty million dollars. You tell your mom we won’t wait long.”