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I was the last person to hear Sarah Kripke's voice before she went missing.

I listened to her screams from the other side of the phone while I sat there in horror, unable to move.

The police found no blood, no signs of stuggle, no signs of forced entry, and no Sarah Kripke.

Three weeks and thousands of dollars in therapy later, I found myself in a ditch, pinned under the crumpled metal of my car, blood dripping down my face and half conscious as flames licked the air around me. Whoever hit me was now wrestling with the car door and yanking my arm, trying to pull me from the burning wreckage that used to be my car. They hadn't said a word to me, but at the time I didn't question it. I should have struggled. I should have screamed. I should have done something so they wouldn't take me.

I never should have answered that phone call.