The Fake Kidnapping

My cell phone vibrated on the coffee table as I was taking pictures of the freshly baked cookies. The screen flashed the name "Ryan Donald," with a video call icon next to it. I wiped the powdered sugar off my hands, my finger just touching the answer button—yet the face on the screen was not my familiar husband's. It was a man wearing a black mask, the background dim like the corner of an abandoned warehouse. "Ryan Donald?" The man's voice was distorted by a voice changer, making it hoarse and harsh. The camera suddenly shook, then I saw Wanda Sharpe. She was tied to a chair with her arms bound behind her back, her hair messy, tears still streaking her face. Seeing the camera turn to her, she immediately let out a terrified scream. "Ryan! Save me! They're going to kill me!" The man roughly pressed down on her shoulder, pressing a dagger gleaming coldly against her throat. "If you want to save Wanda Sharpe, exchange her for your wife, Rhoda Thompson." The man's gaze pierced through the screen, as if it could see right into my living room. "Tomorrow at noon, twelve o'clock, West Suburb Abandoned Factory. Only Rhoda Thompson is allowed to come—alone. If you dare report this to the police, we'll kill Wanda." Ryan Donald's voice came from off-screen, filled with obvious panic: "Don't hurt her! We can talk this out!" "Cut the crap!" The man suddenly thrust the dagger forward. I clearly saw a streak of red seep from Wanda Sharpe's neck. Her scream shot up sharply—and then the screen went black. The cell phone screen returned to the standby mode, my photo of the cookie still on display, the warm yellow light sharply contrasting with the terrifying image that had just appeared. In the next second, Ryan Donald's call came through again, this time a voice call. "Rhoda! Wanda has been kidnapped!" His voice cracked with tears, his breathing frantic. "They want you to exchange for her. You have to go tomorrow!" My fingers holding the phone turned cold. That splash of red just now was too fake, like cheap stage blood. Wanda Sharpe's screams were equally exaggerated, like a scene from a TV drama. "Ryan," I tried to keep my voice steady, "don't you find this a little strange?" "Strange how?" He sounded provoked by my words, "Wanda's about to die! And you're still making cold remarks!" "Rhoda, she's my best friend. I can't afford to lose her!" "And what about me?" I asked softly. There was a two-second silence on the other end, then Ryan's impatient voice came through: "Now's not the time to talk about this!" "You have to go tomorrow. Just think of it as doing me a favor. I'm begging you!" His tone was pleading, but I couldn't detect the slightest worry for me. I remembered when we first got married, he begged me the same way—asking me to quit my well-paying job and stay home to take care of him. Back then, he said, "Rhoda, I'll take care of you; you just need to wait for me at home." Now, using that same tone, he was begging me to go to a potentially deadly meeting. "What if I don't go?" I pressed him for answers. "Rhoda!" Ryan Donald's voice darkened completely, "Don't you know how much Wanda helped me back then?" "She's in danger now. How can you be so cruel?" I leaned against the sofa, looking out at the sky darkening outside the window, and suddenly felt exhausted. This man can always find a reason to make me compromise. "Alright, I'll go." I heard myself say.