Eleven Hours by Paullina Simons Page A

aren’t tall. Annette? No. That’s a short name, and you aren’t short.” He glanced at her, a smile widening his lips. “You are just right.”
    She looked away.
    â€œYou aren’t blond like a Jennifer, or made up like a Jessica. You don’t look smart like a Melissa, or lazy like a Megan. Am I right so far?”
    â€œYou’re right so far,” Didi said faintly.
    He tapped on the steering wheel. “I’m having fun here. Right. This is tons better than working at some pathetic little job for a few bucks.”
    I knew it. He wants money, thought Didi.
    He seemed to be enjoying himself. He was smiling and looked as if he hadn’t a care in the world. The tension was gone, though he still kept both hands conscientiously on the wheel. “Hey, want to play a little game? Guess mine and then I’ll guess yours.” He almost giggled with delight.
    â€œListen,” Didi said. “I’d love to play, but do you think we can get a drink somewhere first?” She thought that stopping would be preferable to being stuck in the car with him. There would be people, she might be able to get away, call for help, anything but sit in the car and sweat.
    The man’s smile dimmed a little. “What? And have you perform one of your little antics again? You’re dangerous enough in a moving car. No, I’m going to take you to a safe place. Now guess my name.” He paused. “Tell you what.” The smile returned. “If you guess my name in three tries, I’ll stop and get you a drink. Don’t want to dehydrate a pregnant woman, do I?” His hand reached out to—oh my God, what was he doing? Was he thinking of touching the Belly? Didi was sitting too far away or he reconsidered, because he put his hand back on the wheel. “No, no, we certainly don’t. But you have to play a part in quenching your own thirst. Is that fair?”
    Is that fair? she thought. Up to one o’clock, the un-fairest part of today had been the doctor telling Didi the baby might be too big and they might need to induce labor a little early to make sure there were no complications during delivery. And she remembered thinking to herself, God, it’s unfair, to be penalized for having a big baby.
    â€œLet’s play,” said Didi.

3:45 P.M.
    Rich felt like bashing his head against the nearest car. What’s happened to my wife? he thought, and then screamed. Screamed right in the middle of the Dillard’s parking lot.
    â€œDidi!” he shouted, and her name echoed amid the Toyotas and the Hondas and the Fords. “DIDI!”
    A couple walking by turned to look at him and then lowered their heads and sped up. Rich ran after them.
    â€œHave you seen my wife?” he said fervently. “My wife, five-seven, brown hair, brown eyes, very pregnant?”
    They stared as if everything was not all right with him.
    â€œPlease,” he said, in a lower, pleading voice. “My wife. Very pregnant. Have you seen her?”
    The woman took her husband’s arm. “No, sorry,” she said and tried to push past Rich. The man followed, casting a sympathetic look at him. The man understood. But the woman shot him a frightened sneer; she must have thought Rich was crazy.
    Clutching the pretzel bag, Rich ran inside the mall, heading straight for the Freshens Yogurt stand. As he ran, he was thinking that perhaps Didi had been walking to the car, dropped the bag by accident, thought of something she’d forgotten to buy, and gone back to the mall. But he knew that made no sense. She went back and didn’t call him? Her phone had been on, her voice whispering “Rich,” when he dialed her number. She could have called him. But she hadn’t called him. She hadn’t got into an accident. The car was in the parking lot. Didi wasn’t calling because she couldn’t call, and the proof was in his hands.
    A girl stood behind the