Picture Perfect

Meet us at the place where the wheat grows at the hour closest to the sun if you ever want to see her again.

Matilda massaged the bridge of her nose, her eyes squeezed shut. Sure enough, when she opened them again, the text was still there. She tapped a message on the screen.

I’m sorry, who is this?

It was several minutes before the response showed up.

Time is wasting.

How do I know you actually have her? Her fingers flew across the keyboard. Why was she going along with this? Send proof of life.


Send proof of life or I’m going to the police with this.

There was a slightly longer pause and then a picture came through. It was out of focus, but it clearly showed a goat tied to a tree. Tick Tock

Is that a goat? Who the hell steals a goat?

Time is running out.

Sorry. Wrong number.

At the age of six, Eliza was certain of two things. The first was that she had stories to tell. The second was that she had no talent for illustrating them herself. Talent or no, she still wrote and illustrated her first book, one that should be located and locked away if only to prevent her parents from embarrassing her terribly by showing it off alongside baby pictures. Now she spends her days writing stories that she isn't embarrassed to show off after a little bit of polishing.

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