Excerpt from Big Time by Ben H. Winters, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Prologue
i.

Wait a second, wait a second, wait a second," Allie called from the back seat.

The driver didn't answer. The woman had said not one word this entire time, which was part of what was so terrifying about the whole thing. She just drove, not turning around, not answering Allie's questions, acting like Allie wasn't even back here. Allie tried to get her to engage, Allie had been trying the whole time, since the moment this lady had grabbed her from the bench at the edge of the playground and forced her across the sidewalk and into the back seat of her silver SUV.

"Hi, could you — I'm sorry, would you just talk to me? Can you look at me? Please."

Allie tried to stay calm. She was trying to stay calm. It had been — what? — an hour? Two hours? The sun was going down. They were driving south, or at least that's what Allie thought, she thought they were driving south, she had tried to look for landmarks but the windows were tinted and it was hard to see.

"Can you tell me where we're going? Can you just — I'm sorry, can you just talk to me?"

The driver — the kidnapper — this strange and terribly quiet and oddly witchy woman — still refused to answer. She just drove, keeping to an even highway speed, no talking, no radio, no sound but the muted rush of the wheels. Allie stared at the back of the woman's head, at her long black hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, at her pale thin neck.

Calm. Allie was working so hard to stay calm. You have to be rational. You can't panic. You have to stay calm.

"Okay, look. Here's the thing. Whoever it is that you think I am, I promise you it's not me. You've got the wrong person. Can you — I'm sorry, can you hear me?"

Allie knew it was useless. A waste of words. A waste of time. If this lady, whoever she was, if she was going to respond, if she was going to take pity on her, if she was going to pull over and untie her wrists and apologize for the misunderstanding and let her go, then she would have done it already. Right?

But Allie kept talking. Kept trying. Because, yes, she knew it was useless, but she also knew that if she stopped talking, stopped trying, she would collapse into despair, she would start crying and not stop crying until this lady either killed her or dropped her in a dungeon or threw her in a hole or whatever the hell she was planning.

"Can I just tell you something? Seriously. I'm not rich — okay? — I'm not some, like, heiress or anything like that, if that's what this is. I'm just a person. I'm just some woman. I'm a teacher." And as if to prove that she was a teacher, just a regular boring middle-school teacher, Allie was talking in her most pleasant voice, earnest and teacherly, carefully explaining what everyone needed to know for tomorrow's quiz.

"My name is Allie Zerkofsky. Allison Bridget Zerkofsky. My maiden name is Brownlee — Allison Brownlee. I'm originally from Ohio, and I'm twenty-six years old, and I teach at Dalton Kruger Middle School in Bordentown, New Jersey. I live near there with my husband, Lucas, and — and —"

Allie stopped. She couldn't think of the baby right now. She couldn't say the baby's name. If she said the name out loud, then despair would over-rush her, she knew that it would, and that would be it.

"I teach science and math to sixth- and seventh-graders," she said instead. "The kids call me Ms. Z. I'm not rich. I'm in debt, actually! I have over forty thousand dollars in outstanding student loans."

Allie paused. She breathed hopefully. She didn't know what else to say. Her kidnapper did not seem interested in her student-loan debt.

"I'm wondering if maybe you've got me confused with — I don't know — some kind of drug dealer or — or — or Mafia person?"

Nothing. No answer. Allie's wrists chafed where they were cinched tightly, one against the other. She felt panic building in the back of her throat.

Excerpted from Big Time by Ben H. Winters. Copyright © 2024 by Ben H. Winters. Excerpted by permission of Mulholland. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.