When I close that particular thread, I choose the last number he’s texted with. It’s pretty stale, meaning he hasn’t texted this person for a couple of years—and I wonder if I know who this person might be. Scrolling to the top of the thread, I see that Don sent a message to this person that says, I have a job for you.
The other person says, Okay. What are the details?
Come by the office to discuss.
This sort of exchange happens every once in a while but then there’s over a year with no communication—until a day after my admissions date. J, is this still your number? If so, call me. I have a huge job for you.
That’s the last text between them, and I don’t need a college degree to know for certain that this exchange was with Joe. I also know why there are no other messages between them.
Just as I get ready to look at the other texts with other numbers, my head starts pounding. It hurts so badly, I press my hand into my temple, trying to relieve some pressure. Swallowing, I move across the room, first leaning on the table against the wall and, finally, sitting on the floor, just holding my head in my hands.
And the memories come flooding in again.
23
The blonde teenager is frantic. I look at all the duct tape and know I’ll need scissors to cut her loose.
But, more importantly, I need the police. And possibly an ambulance. I don’t know how badly she’s hurt.
She’s screeching, screaming words that I can’t understand, so I shout at her, hoping she understands. “I’m calling the police! I’ll be back.”
She’s frantic, panicking, using the force of her body weight to sway back and forth, but the chair is almost like a part of her, bound together with an entire roll of tape. I consider pulling the chair upright, but she might just pull it down again. There’s glass all over, though, so I start to pull the chair away from the area by tugging on the top part by her head—but she’s turned her head and it’s loose enough that she tries to bite my arm and almost succeeds.
She doesn’t understand I’m trying to help her.
I then grab a chair leg and try pulling it that way, but it’s hard, especially when she’s fighting, wiggling, writhing.
The police will be able to help me.
I bound up the basement stairs, still not thinking beyond the present moment, her screams following me, amplified as I get closer to the door, and I suddenly wonder why the girl smells like cows, like a field of them standing in puddles of shit. When I open the door, I begin rushing toward the kitchen where there’s a landline.
And there stands my husband.
Don says, “I thought you were shopping tonight.”
Can’t he hear those screams? “I was tired after the gym.” Besides, how many clothes do I really need? “There’s a girl in the basement—”
“I’ll take care of it, Anna.”
“I just need to—” It dawns on me then that he already knows she’s down there. He knows.
How did he know?
Fear like I’ve never felt before constricts my throat. “What is she doing down there, Don? Who is she?”
His face contorts, again becoming a man I’ve never seen before. “You don’t need to worry about it, Anna. I’m taking care of it.” He takes a step closer. “You weren’t supposed to be here.”
I don’t dare run, but I sense danger. Still, that girl downstairs—she needs my help. What if that were my daughter? Wouldn’t I want a stranger to help her in her need?
“I’m calling the cops, Don. They need to take this girl to safety.”
In one swift motion, he closes the door to the basement, muffling her cries—and then I see the gun in his hand. What is my husband doing with a gun? “You can’t do that, Anna.”
I don’t know why, but I ask, “Why not?”
He is ever the consummate politician, polished defense attorney getting ready to smear the black and white into gray, just like the duct tape binding the girl downstairs. He didn’t use that tactic on me very often, but I knew from experience that it could be effective. “I need to explain to you what’s going on.”
“What’s going on is that girl is tied up and injured.”
“I know that. Let me explain—and if you’re not satisfied with my answer, I’ll call the police myself.”
I’m clenching my jaw so hard my teeth hurt, but I’m considering his words. Wouldn’t it be a relief if he has a good answer, a rational explanation for something so strange, so horrifying? This man is the father of my babies, the man who took me in when I had no family left and no money save a tiny estate left to me by my middle-class parents—and he has provided well for us. Already from wealth, Don managed to amass more, first as a lawyer and then far more in politics. Only recently have I begun to connect the dots between outside interests buying votes. But Don wasn’t there for the money.
He was there for the power.
And he has a gun. I can give him a few minutes to talk.
“Let’s discuss it over a drink.”
I nod. It’s easier now that the girl’s voice is muffled by the door. I can concentrate a little more easily—but Don had better have a good explanation, and I’m giving him five minutes. Otherwise, I’m calling the cops, no matter what he says. Just inside the living room is a small dry bar and, as he pulls two glasses off the tray, he says, “Have a seat.”
I don’t know that I want to, but I move to the sofa just the same as he takes the ice bucket into the kitchen. I don’t need ice now! I want to scream, but the girl downstairs isn’t making as much noise, so I’m able to think a little.
From what Don’s said, I think he’s the one who’s tied up the girl. She looks like a teenager, but I still wonder if he’s having an affair.
Or maybe…
The other thought is ugly. Gruesome.
But possible.
He better have a damn good explanation. I can’t remember where I set my cell phone, so I won’t have a choice but to use the landline when the time comes.
And I promised to give him five minutes.
He’s back, dropping ice cubes into a couple of glasses—and the gun is out of sight, helping me breathe a little easier. Finally, I say, “Start talking, Don. Who is that girl? What’s she doing in the basement?”
“It’s not what it seems, Anna,” he says, turning, handing me a glass. I don’t know what’s in it. Probably brandy, because he knows I prefer it to whiskey. I take a sip, because I do need something to calm my nerves. They’re fraught, and I need to be as calm as possible to hear what he has to say.
“So explain, Don. I’m giving you five minutes starting now.”
It looks like he almost smiles. “You know why I was such a good fucking attorney, Anna?” I shake my head, wondering where the hell this is going when he continues. “Nothing is ever as it seems, and my job—my only job—was to show the jury that. If they knew my client wasn’t guilty, they couldn’t convict.”
I want to ask what this has to do with him, but I know he’s getting there. After decades of giving closing arguments, this kind of speech is in his blood. I’ll indulge him.