“Who was the blonde girl named Claudia, Don?”
“Claudia?”
“She’s in my dreams.” And I know my husband has something to do with it—something bad.
“Look…I’m getting ready to have a cup of coffee. Why don’t you come with me to the kitchen and I’ll tell you everything I know?”
Joe nods and I’m following, but this reminds me of something else.
A memory.
“Put the phone down, Anna.”
“I need to call the police.”
“Put the phone down. Before you call the police, I need to explain.”
“What the hell could there be to explain about a girl tied up in the basement?”
“Let’s discuss this over a drink. If you still want to call the authorities after I explain, then I won’t stop you.”
I almost touch Joe’s arm to get his attention and let him know I don’t trust Don—but then I remember I don’t trust Joe, either. How do I know they’re not going to overpower me? Unfortunately, I don’t have a weapon—but then I remember something I saw in the drawer I’d just taken the burner from. Quickly, I turn and run back into the office again, opening the top drawer to take out the knife-like letter opener.
It’s better than nothing, because I don’t trust my fists with these men.
Flipping off the light, I then cross the room to catch up to the men as they head into the kitchen area. As we walk through, I recall loving the open design of this home, the vaulted ceilings and feeling of unlimited space.
I came from humble means and this was my Cinderella story.
The memories are finding cracks in the haze and I’m feeling overloaded again. But I need to keep it together.
“Have a seat,” Don says as we arrive at a big table. He’s wearing workout clothes, but not a t-shirt and sweatpants like Joe and I. Instead, he’s in a black tracksuit and Nikes. When he crosses over to the counter, he pulls three coffee mugs out of the cabinet. “Anna, do you recall how I used to have groupies?”
“Groupies? Like a rock star?”
“Yes. Do you remember that?”
“I don’t remember anything.” That’s a lie. It used to be true—but I’m starting to remember. A lot. I just pray it doesn’t flood my head.
“Well, when I was nothing but an unassuming attorney, it was just you and me. But when I ran for office, crazy things started happening.”
“How did we meet?”
“You really don’t remember?” He turns to look at me and nods. I can’t quite see what he’s doing clear on the other side of the kitchen behind that island, but I already know—no matter how tired I am—I’m not drinking anything he gives me. “Your father died. I was his lawyer. You were an only child and he left everything to you.”
“And we just decided to get married out of the blue?”
He laughs then, and I’m reminded that I used to find his chuckle charming. Nowadays, I realize the gears are always turning in this man’s head. I just know this.
He’s probably already three steps ahead of us.
“Oh, no, Anna. You made me woo you. Your father had some funds tied up in a few different investments, and so you and I were in regular contact for a while. When all was said and done, I asked you out on a date. Hey, Joe, would you grab the creamer out of the fridge over there?”
Joe gets up and walks across the kitchen. I’m finding this all to be surreal.
So I focus on what I can—and I have to know. “Was my father…well off?” Joe, creamer in hand, returns to the table.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Don says, turning, bringing over three mugs of steaming hot coffee. “But he was smart with his money.” After he sets the mugs down, he slides one to Joe and one to me before turning back. Quickly, I stand and swap my mug with Don’s. Joe and I make eye contact but he says nothing.
This is his moment to prove himself completely—and, because he hasn’t told Don what I’ve done, I wonder if Joe is all right after all.
Don returns with a bowl of sugar. “Anna, is sugar okay?”
“I guess.” I don’t plan to drink the coffee anyway.
“Do you still prefer that sweetener you used to use?”
I have no idea what he’s talking about but that’s nothing unusual anymore. “I don’t know.”
I can barely hear him make a hmm sound as he opens a drawer. Something inside me tells me I could get up and start making a meal in here. I know where to find everything—provided he hasn’t moved things around since I’ve been gone.
He returns with spoons and Joe is already doctoring his coffee. I would have thought he’d have taken the hint when I swapped my coffee with Don’s—so either Joe is not thinking clearly (we’re tired, so that isn’t entirely unlikely) or maybe he is still my husband’s faithful employee.
Underneath the table, I’m gripping the phone and the letter opener, feeling disappointed that I’m not getting the information I came here for.
Something here is not right, though. Why would this man be so calm if I am supposedly a danger to him?
Joe starts to lift the mug of coffee to his mouth. Even though I don’t know if I can trust him, if Donald has done anything to it, I would never feel right having let Joe drink it down. “No!” I reach across the table and push the mug. Joe’s grip is pretty good, so he doesn’t drop it, but most of the coffee spills.
“What the hell, Anna?” Don asks. “You’re not exactly helping your case here.”
“You put something in the coffee.” I’m standing now, gripping the letter opener in the hand that’s not holding the burner phone.
“Why would I do that?”
It’s then that I see his cell phone over by the coffee pot. Brandishing the letter opener like a knife, I move while continuing to face the men. When I get to the phone, I see an open call—to 911.
22
So keeping us preoccupied with the cops on the line was his ploy. Maybe the coffee was fine after all. That he called the cops means I now have very little time.
Or maybe it’s fine. I don’t know how easily a cell phone can be located by the police, but I can’t take the chance that they could get here quickly. I press the red hang-up button, doubting it will do any good. Now, Joe is standing. “Stay there!” I say, holding out the letter opener again.
I need information.
Now.
I open up the burner phone while walking out of the kitchen, following my instincts. Pausing by a door, I look at the contacts list in the phone. Of course, there are only a couple of numbers and no names. What did I expect?
At least, there are some text messages.
I hear movement, so I open the door, ignoring the phone for the meantime. I need to stay safe, meaning I need to put some distance between us. Closing the door behind me, I’m struck with a musty smell as my eyes adjust.
This is the door to the basement.
And I’m hit with a memory full-on. There’s no stopping it.
I walk in the house from the garage. My arms feel a little tired from the workout I just completed, but I’m excited to be hitting my goals with every workout. When I run upstairs, I realize no one else is home right now, but they should be by dinner time, so I head to the kitchen. I’m pulling veggies, chicken breasts, and a package of pasta out of the fridge. I’ve just grabbed the cutting board when I hear something. It sounds like rattling.