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Bridgett Canwell, nicknamed Cricket at four years old, had nothing to prove and no one to owe. She wasn't even sure she wanted to return to the 'home' he'd taken her from.
Sure, her elderly folks were all over town hanging yellow ribbons, cashing in on the Go Fund Me awards, and playing their parts on the evening news. But Cricket was also confident they were using those words "selectively mute," "atypical," "delayed," and "strange."
Ironically, it was deep in the woods, sleeping under the stars by a stranger where she was starting to find her words. After all, a hermit had no one to tell and while she still wasn't sure what he wanted from her or if he'd even let her go, she found comfort in his silence. It was if he understood her. And she him, for that matter.
It'd been three months since he'd kidnapped her, and she wasn't sure if it was Stockholm or her own streak of wicked that kept her in those woods What she did know was that they were getting closer, and she wasn't ready to be found. Cricket had secrets too.
What would happen if she was rescued?
She'd been taught to never speak of evil
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