Lexington, Tennessee. May 13 1973

My name is Liza Peters. I am 23 years old now, but I remember it with the clarity of a fresh wound. I was just seven years old when I was kidnapped by strangers. The world was a simple place then, filled with the warmth of summer and the sound of my mother's voice. That morning, though, the music of my childhood stopped.

It was a Saturday, a bright, sun-drenched morning in Nashville, Tennessee. The air was warm and smelled of freshly cut grass. I was outside with my best friend, Laney, in front of her house on Derryberry Street. We were playing hopscotch on the sidewalk. It was before lunchtime, so around 10:30 in the morning. My stomach was starting to rumble, and I could already smell my mom's chicken soup from across the street.

I was wearing pink shorts and a yellow t-shirt with a picture of a cartoon dog on it. It was my favorite shirt. The chalk lines on the pavement were a bright, cheerful white against the gray concrete. We played there all the time, our little world of squares and numbers. I had just thrown a rock, and it landed perfectly on the number 8, so I was hopping to the 8. Laney was standing behind me, waiting for her turn. She was humming to herself, a little tune that all the kids were singing.

I stood on the 8 and turned to tell Laney it was her turn. That's when I noticed a silver car pull up to the curb by the sidewalk. It was a nondescript four-door sedan, a car that would be easy to forget. A woman got out of the vehicle. She was about my mom's age, maybe 35. She had long, dark hair pulled back into a messy bun, and she was wearing dark clothing—a black jacket and black pants. Her face was plain, almost forgettable, but her eyes were cold, and they were fixed on me.

I remember thinking, "Who is this?" before she took a single step toward me. She was fast. Faster than any adult I had ever seen. She picked me up off the ground, and I started screaming, a high-pitched sound of terror that seemed to echo in the sudden silence. I saw Laney stop humming, her eyes wide with fear, and she started crying. The woman put me in the backseat of the car and got in next to me. I tried to fight her, to bite her, to squirm out of her grasp, but I couldn't. Her grip was like a steel trap.

A man was driving the car. He had a checkered shirt and short blond hair and wore dark sunglasses, even though the sun was not that bright. He didn't look back; he just started driving. The woman held me tight and used a roll of gray duct tape to tie my hands together. Then she did the same for my feet. It was a quick, practiced motion. I couldn't fight anymore. I was just a small, struggling bundle in the backseat of a car.

It was hard to say where we were going. The car drove on and on. I remember the sound of the tires on the asphalt, the hum of the air conditioning, and the muffled sound of the radio. After about a half an hour, the driver stopped. The car's engine shut off, and the silence was unnerving.

The man got out of the car. He seemed to grow with every step he took. I remember thinking how big he was. He was a giant to me. He opened my door, picked me up, and threw me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The woman got out of the car and followed us. I could see she was about a foot shorter than the man.

I looked around as he carried me, my head bobbing on his shoulder. We were in a new subdivision being built on Natchez Trace. The houses were all empty, their windows dark, their lawns bare. There wasn't anyone around, and there were no neighbours. It was a ghost town. The man walked up to the door of one of the houses, a beige house with a white porch. It looked like any other house, a place where families were supposed to live, not a place where children were taken.

We went inside, and they put me on the floor of one of the bedrooms. It was empty save for a thick layer of dust. My hands and feet were still bound, so I couldn't fight. I was crying, not sobbing, but a quiet, constant stream of tears. My kidnappers weren't very nice to me. They just looked at me with cold indifference and left the room. They closed the door behind them, and I was alone.

As soon as the door closed, I stopped crying. I knew I had to get out. I started chewing on the duct tape on my wrists. The woman had wrapped it in about three times. The tape was tough, and my teeth ached, but I kept chewing, a frantic, desperate effort. I don't know how long it took me to chew through it, but I finally managed to gnaw a hole in the tape. I pulled my hands free, my skin red and sticky from the adhesive. I was so scared they would come back and see.

Once my hands were free, I ripped the duct tape from my ankles. The sound was like a thunderclap in the silent room. I hadn't noticed the room yet, so I looked up as soon as my feet were free. I saw a window, and I scrambled to my feet and ran right to it. First, I tried to open it, but it was locked. I tried to push it up with my small hands, but it wouldn't budge. I looked outside and saw the woods, the trees and the darkness, and I knew I had to go. So I just broke the glass with my hands and climbed through the window. I didn't even feel the broken glass cutting my skin. All I knew was I had to get out of there.

I just ran. I didn't look back to see if I was being followed. I ran as fast as I could, the soles of my shoes slapping against the pavement. I ran until I saw the first sign of life. I ran into the Fast Stop on Natchez Trace Drive, covered in blood and crying. Andy Walters was working the counter that day. He saw me, a small girl covered in blood and tears, and his face went pale. I ran to him and grabbed hold of his shirt, begging him to protect me and call the police. I remember his hands on my shoulders, his voice calm and reassuring. I remember him kneeling down, his eyes on mine as he promised to help me.

He did. He called the police, and he held me until they arrived. We are still friends today.

Sincerely,Liza Peters