Emily and her parents made the crest of the last hill, finally coming in sight of their house. From the backseat, Emily heard her father curse quietly under his breath as he brought his black BMW to a stop at the intersection.

"What's wrong, Dillon?" Rebecca asked with some trepidation as she leaned forward from her spot in the passenger seat.

"Those blood-sucking vultures have beat us here."

Emily had been released from the hospital earlier that morning. Exactly a week to the day since Jake had found her wandering in the field. She would still need regular checkups with her doctor for a while and it would be another six weeks before they would cut her out of the hunk of plaster that encased her leg, but otherwise, the medical community deemed her fit for release. Physically, anyway. Her current mental status was a different story.

Slipping her hand inside her pocket, she ran a finger over the slick little appointment card that one of the nurses had handed her before she left. Written in tiny script across its front was the name of the therapist, Bethany Rhodes, and the time and date of Emily's upcoming appointment. Emily found that, for the first time in a week, she was actually excited about something.

Ever since her rescue, she had been at the mercy of the doctors and her parents, bending to everyone else's will because she had no other choice. Her broken leg and her Swiss cheese memory had left her almost completely helpless. It had also given her parents more than a few doubts about her ability to function as an adult. This new doctor offered the first opportunity Emily had been given to take control of her situation. If she could regain her memories, then there was a chance that she could put her life back to rights and this nightmare behind her.

Still grasping the card tightly inside the pocket of her hoodie, Emily sat up a little straighter in the backseat, craning forward to see between the headrests. A task made more difficult by the positioning of her immovable leg on the seat in front of her.

Just ahead of them, several news vans were stationed outside their house, many of them carrying cameras or microphones. It was much the same situation that they had encountered outside of the hospital. After being discharged, the nurses had been forced to deliver her, via wheelchair, to one of the alternate exits of the building where her father could load her safely into the car.

Apparently, her story had gone national. A large group of reporters had congregated outside the hospital's main entrance to get a look at her or possibly a quick soundbite. Her father had thought that by leaving the back way they would be able to avoid the press, but obviously, he had been wrong.

Rather than pull into the crowd, Dillon made a left-hand turn already searching through his contacts as he did so. As the phone connected there was a hurried conversation between her father and what Emily quickly gathered was the Sheriff. Within a matter of minutes, he had ended the call.

"What's going on, Dillon?" Rebecca asked.

"The sheriff is coming out along with some of his officers. They're going to block the road off and give us a chance to get inside without being hounded by reporters."

A heavy silence fell over the car as they followed the road for a few miles before turning into a driveway and starting back the way they had come. The area Emily had grown up in was a rural one. The streets weren't sectioned off into blocks like in town, but instead a collection of roads some paved some dirt, all intersecting at what appeared to be perfectly random points with no apparent rhyme or reason. You could drive for miles on some of the backroads before encountering another road or even a house. Fortunately, Dillon and Rebecca's home sat on several acres, the last house on a street that petered off into a dead-end. A geographical fact that would make it much easier for the sheriff to stop incoming traffic.

By the time the family returned to the intersection, the sheriff and his deputies were already positioned in front of the house. Yellow barricades were going up with the largest part of the crowd cordoned off behind them. A few stragglers had meandered a little way up the street in hopes of catching the car before it reached its destination. Officers had been placed on the roadside as escorts to prevent the stray reporters from rushing toward the car as it approached.

Emily sat nervously in the backseat as her father made the right turn that would bring them home. He eased onto their street keeping the car at a speed that would allow him to stop quickly if anyone should get too close. The decision proved to be a wise one for as soon as the media spotted the car headed in their direction, the crowd behind the barriers broke into a frenzy of movement. At the same time, the people near the curb surged forward shouting questions at the car even as the officers shouted at them to get back.

Emily could already feel her chest tightening and her breath coming in short heaving gasps. It felt as if the walls of the vehicle were closing in on her. Through the darkened window, she could just hear shouts and see intermittent flashes as some of the bystanders took pictures from their phones.

As they drew ever closer, the movement behind the barriers became more hectic, and, from her seat, she could see the struggle the officers were having to keep the gathering under control.

Emily's father sat tensed, his knuckles white as he tightly gripped the steering wheel, uttering a string of curses as he crept up the usually quiet street.

"Dillon, calm down," her mother scolded.

Rebecca's normally peaches and cream complexion had gone the color of paste. The only color was two hectic patches riding high on her cheekbones. Although she was so obviously nervous, her voice remained firm.

"That reaction isn't helping anyone, especially not your daughter."

Dillon glanced up into the rear-view mirror, meeting his daughter's eyes as he did. Something he saw in her face gave him pause. His features changed and something in his dark eyes softened.

"I'm sorry, sweetie. I wasn't thinking. Are you ok?"

Emily nodded in response, but truth be told, she was anything but. Her stomach was doing somersaults and she felt as if there were a real risk of losing her barely-touched breakfast all over her father's leather seats.

Her mind was racing. They were only seconds from the driveway. Getting out of the car was not going to be an easy task with her leg in the condition it was in, and all the while these people would be shouting and snapping pictures.

There was a split second where she imagined tomorrow's paper sitting on their kitchen table, face up in the early morning light. The black and white picture on the front page was a shot of Emily's pale face, frightened and struggling in an attempt to move through the crowd that surrounded her. The image was such a vivid one that it sent a wild shiver up her spine as her heart began to beat double time in response.

Passing the large hedge at the edge of their yard brought them into view of the driveway and the sheriff's vehicle parked in the grass next to the gravel drive. Royce himself stood at the end of the driveway waiting for the family to pull in. Seeing him stationed there gave Emily a small bit of comfort, but the mental picture of herself being swallowed up by an overzealous mob had still not completely dissipated.

As her father put the car in park, Sheriff Barrow strode confidently to the back driver's side door where Emily's fractured leg was positioned. He had some type of long black fabric in his hand. As Dillon stepped out of the car the sheriff spoke to him briefly.

From her vantage point, Emily could see the people at the barrier. Reporters with microphones were turned toward their respective cameramen, giving their audience a view of the area as they explained the current situation. A few people had slipped into the grass near the house as the police stood guard between them and where Emily and her parents sat parked. They weren't able to come any closer, but it didn't stop them from snapping pictures and yelling questions. Her father and the sheriff ignored them as Royce pulled the back door open and leaned inside.

"Well, I'll be honest with you, young lady, you look a lot better than you did the last time I saw you."

Emily tried to smile back at him, but it just felt strange and out of place on her face, so she nodded instead.

"I'm going to help you out of here. I brought a poncho that I keep with me for emergencies," he said, holding up the black fabric that she had seen earlier, "I'm going to cover you with this once I get you out. Are you ok with that?"

'Yes. Thank you," she answered, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice but failing miserably.

Royce put a hand out to her as her father leaned down, sliding her crutches out of the floorboard. Slowly, the sheriff helped her work her way to the car door while he and her father used their bodies to cut off any view the unwelcome spectators might have of her. As soon as she was positioned in the door, Royce wrapped her in the poncho, using it like a makeshift blanket. It fell to just above her knees as they helped her to her feet and handed her the crutches.

Emily started the slow process of making her way down the walk to the front door of her childhood home. Plop, swing, plop, swing, she thought to herself, trying to ignore everything but the sound of the crutches and the movement of her lower body, so as to avoid falling flat on her face. Her father and Royce walked on either side of her while her mother led the little entourage, house key in hand, effectively blocking her from view on three sides.

Emily kept her head down, watching her leg and the tips of her crutches as they walked. They were moving slowly but they were closing in on their destination. Behind them, she could still hear the reporters firing questions at a rapid pace, even shouting over one another to be heard. She tried not to listen, but it was near impossible.

"Emily, how are you feeling?"

"Ms. Lansing, what do you plan to do now that you're finally home?"

"Do you know who took you?"

All variations of the same question asked repeatedly in a riot of sound. It was the last question shouted above all the others that sent Emily into a spiral.

"Ms. Lansing, is it true that you staged your own abduction?"

The words rocked her. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Just to her left, she heard her father mumbling more fun phrases that would have sent her mother into fits if she had heard it. Emily ignored him in a near-total state of shock. She couldn't believe that anyone would think something like that.

She faltered, so flabbergasted by the question that her focus slipped, her struggle to stay upright forgotten. One of the unwieldy crutches slipped off the walk and into the loose gravel causing her to stumble. She would have fallen altogether if Royce had not grabbed her at that exact moment, first holding her up, and then helping her to steady herself.

"It's alright," he said gently, "we're almost there."

She could feel the heat radiating from her cheeks and found herself immensely grateful to the sheriff for the second time that day. If not for the poncho, her embarrassment would have been on display for the world to see.

A few more feet and they were at the steps of the large brick home where Emily had spent her childhood. She took two jarring steps up the concrete stairs to the front door where her mother was already working the key into the lock. A moment later they were inside. She pulled the poncho off her head trying, to smooth her hair and keep her balance at the same time as the little group stood awkwardly in the house's immense kitchen.

"Thank you for all your help today, Royce," she heard her father say from just behind her. She took a deep breath and before Royce could answer she was already speaking.

"What they said out there, is that true? Do people think that I did this to myself?"

She turned to Royce and her father as she spoke, wanting to judge their expressions for herself. The identical blank stares on both their faces told her what she needed to know, but still she stood silently waiting for an answer.

Royce glanced over at Dillon and then gave him a little wave.

"I believe that's my cue to leave and let you talk with your family. I'll keep someone posted out here tonight, just in case."

"Thanks again, Royce," Dillon called as Royce nodded and pulled the door closed behind himself.

"I guess that answers my question," she spat, venom coloring her words.

"He can't say much. There's still an active police investigation underway. You already know this."

"No, I don't know that. You haven't let me see the news or even talked to me about the case since I started to recover."

"We didn't want to unintentionally plant memories or give you more information than you needed while you were trying to heal."

"Yes, absolutely. Because finding out I'm a suspect in my own kidnapping is so much more therapeutic coming from a random reporter on our front lawn. Are you serious right now?" Her voice had risen several octaves as she spoke.

"Baby, listen," her mother started.

She had been standing at the island in the middle of the room, her hands clenched tightly on the dark granite countertop as they spoke.

"We're just trying help. All we know to do is what the doctors tell us. We just want what's best for you."

Emily listened to this little speech in furious silence. She stared down at the floor, unsure of what she should even be feeling. For the umpteenth time this week, she found herself unable to believe that this nightmare was her life.

"What else are you two not telling me? What do I need to know?"

Her parents exchanged a loaded glance. Rebecca turned to her daughter with a guarded look in her eyes.

"The doctors say your memories should return organically, if possible."

Emily growled and turned on her heel, at least, as well as she could manage on crutches, before starting toward her room at the back of the house.

"Emily," her mother called after her.

"Forget it. I'm done with both of you," Emily shouted as she made it clumsily through the door slamming it with the end of one of her crutches as she did so. Then, collapsing onto the bed, she threw them both across the room before bursting into tears.

A large, fluffy overweight calico cat made its way over to her from where it had been resting on the window seat. It pushed its head against her arm and then began to purr loudly as Emily bundled the cat onto her lap wrapping it in a warm embrace.

"Hi, Willow," she murmured." At least you're real."

Her cat seemed to be the only part of her past life that still existed. She lay down across the bed, the portions of her body not wrapped in plaster firmly wrapped around the cat. She listened to her parents arguing in the next room until her eyes began to feel heavy. As they slipped closed, she let Willow's soft purr lull her into a fitful sleep.

She couldn't have known that just several hundred feet away, someone was watching. Lying in wait in the woods behind the house for the perfect moment. He watched quietly to see what would happen next. There was no hurry. He was a patient man and there was plenty of time.