"Spinelli, Stop! I hear something." Jason screams into the phone.
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"He has the kids!" I scream into my dead phone, throwing it into the passenger seat.
"Ahhhhh" Pounding on the steering wheel, screaming my lungs out into the darkness, I cry from my guilt; I weep for my shame, I weep for my weakness.
"They need you! Your kids need you. He needs you! Pull it together! You are Samantha Morgan!" Pulling one hand off the steering, I grab my cell phone, plug it in and turn the truck engine. I cannot break down. I have to be strong. There is no other choice. This is all my fault.
While I give my phone a moment to charge, I clean myself up, clearing the makeup off my face and pulling my hair back into a tight ponytail. I ready myself for war. I do not know who this man has become in the past few days, but one thing is clear. I have no clue who he is. I have never known. Before grabbing my phone and following the imposter's demands, I close my eyes and clutch my chest. I need one moment of peace, to think, one moment to feel something other than the crushing weight that has taken permanent residency on my chest.
Willing the nerves away, I put the address from the first text he sent in my GPS.
After driving 30 minutes outside the city, I end up at a rest stop off the highway.
"What is going on? Why did you send me here?" Slamming my truck door, I shout into the phone and pace on the side of the highway as the pressure on my chest intensifies.
"Wait for the next text." He hangs up before I can protest, and my phone vibrates with a new address.
Hopping back into the truck, I punch the new address into the GPS. I can't let him get to me.
Frustrated, I hop back on the highway and head towards the new location. After 45 minutes of driving in the opposite direction, I end up at an abandoned building 15 minutes from the heart of Port Charles. I park around the block and slowly step up to the side of the building.
No one is around. Everything is quiet. The house is quiet.
I creep up the front stair, with my gun drawn when my phone vibrates in my pocket. Startled, I pull it out to reveal a photo of the kids on Fakeson's lap. He's calling me.
"Hello! I'm done playing these-"
Cutting me off, his voice thunders through the phone, "You're not done till I say you're done. You should have called by now, have you reached the other location?"
"Yes! What is-"
"Wait for the next text message." He hangs up.
Beyond pissed, I stomp back to my truck and fight with the door trying to get in. Every minute that passes, every game he plays with me, my hatred and lack of understanding for him mount. The only thing that makes me stay the course are my kids. Danny and Scout. He has my whole life, and there is nothing that can stop me from getting them back.
This time he does not give me an address. Instead, he sends a text message every five minutes telling me where to turn and when like he is tracking my every movement.
Get back on the highway appears on my phone first. Then get off at the second exit. Then turn left, then right.
After driving another 20 minutes north of the city, I arrive at a little cabin tucked nicely behind what seems like hundreds of trees. If the imposter had not given me the exact direction, I would have never found this place. You cannot see if from the road. One would never know there was a cabin here, and it does not help that darkness is everywhere. It is the perfect place to hide.
