Bang Theory

by Valente, Lili

  And all the people who have my back.

  I’m a lucky woman with a lot of love in my life. I have to believe that love will be enough to help find Shep. I have to.

  Because I never want to find out what life is like without him, either.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Bridget

  I push through the door to find the usually quiet reception area hopping. Deborah spreads out a town map for a couple at the front desk, while another couple examines the selection of books available to borrow on the shelves in the corner of the room, and a mother and daughter sip tea on the baby-blue couch.

  We’re completely booked, and it looks like the guests are the joining kind, the type that like to explore the common areas and show up for special events. Which means cancelling s’mores night isn’t an option, not if I want to keep my four-and-a-half-star rating on Tourist Time.

  I’m just going to have to find a way to make it work.

  I’m mentally calculating the odds I can get to the grocery store for s’mores supplies, then to the hardware store for bundles of the not-too-smoky kind of firewood, then back in time to decorate the garden and hang the screen for the sunset movie, when Mary breezes in through the door leading to the back porch, an empty cardboard box in her arms.

  Relief sagging my shoulders, I hurry to catch her before she disappears into the staff lounge near the kitchen.

  “Hey, Mary, there you are,” I say, smiling at Deborah over the guests’ heads as I sweep by, signaling with my eyes that the crisis has been averted. When I reach my head of hospitality, I drop my voice. “So is everything ready for the social? Deborah was concerned.”

  “I’m sorry, my alarm didn’t go off,” Mary says in a voice that doesn’t sound sorry. At all. She almost sounds irritated, which is odd considering I’m her boss and she’s the one who showed up three hours late to work.

  “All right.” I frown but decide I don’t have the bandwidth for a heart-to-heart with a disgruntled employee and force a smile. “But everything’s good now? We’re ready to go? The screen is set up and the ingredients where they need to be for Tracy to get that rolling around six when she comes in?”

  “Everything’s ready.” Mary sniffs and lifts her chin. “I’m good at my job.”

  “You are,” I agree. “And that’s great to hear. I’ve been dealing with a family crisis today and haven’t had time to take care of much on my end. Knowing you guys are keeping things running smoothly here means a lot to me. Thank you.”

  “A family crisis?” Her lips twitch on one side. “What happened?”

  “My friend went missing last night. We have no idea what happened to him or where he is and…” I swallow, refusing to break down in front of my staff or the guests. “I’m just really worried. And distracted.”

  “So, a friend, then,” she says, her eyes narrowing. “Not family.”

  “He’s like family. I’ve known him most of my life.” Her focus on semantics at a time like this is tone deaf, to say the least, and I can’t ignore the strange vibe I’m getting from her any longer. “Is something wrong, Mary? Have I done something to upset or offend you?”

  “I just like to stick to the facts, that’s all,” she says, her tone stiff. “And the fact is, he’s just a friend.”

  “The fact is that I’m scared and sad and so worried I didn’t sleep at all last night,” I say, holding her gaze. “I don’t believe it’s asking too much of a professional relationship for you to have some compassion for what I’m dealing with right now.”

  Her eyes soften, but her expression only grows more troubled. “I’m sorry you’re hurting, but I…” Her grip tightens on the empty box until her fingertips go white. “But I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore. I don’t feel comfortable in this situation.”

  “What situation?” I ask, utterly confused. “I thought things have been going well. You’ve been doing a great job the past six months, and I’ve already given you a raise. Has something happened with another member of the staff? Something I don’t know about because I—”

  “I have to make choices that are right for me. Even if they aren’t right for everyone else,” Mary cuts in, setting the box on the ground before standing and reaching into the pocket of her khaki pants. “I was going to wait and give this to you next week, after things had calmed down, but that doesn’t feel right. Better to have a clean break.” She holds out a piece of paper, folded neatly into fourths. “It’s my resignation. Effective immediately.”

  Blinking faster, I take the note. “Wow, Mary. I’m sorry. I had no idea you were so unhappy here. Why don’t we go back to my office and talk this over in private? I’d love to learn what’s been bothering you, and if there’s anything at all I can do to make things better. Even if you still decide not to stay, it would help me make sure nothing like this happens again.”

  She shakes her head, backing toward reception. “No, talking isn’t going to help. I’m sorry, Bridget. It’s not you; it’s just the way things have to be. But you’re a sweet kid. You’re going to find the right fit for you someday. You’re young and have plenty of time. You don’t have to worry.”

  What the heck is she talking about? It’s like we’re having two different conversations, and I don’t know if it’s sleep deprivation or poor communication, but I’m lost and likely to stay that way since Mary certainly isn’t stopping to explain. My hospitality director is already halfway to the door.

  “Take care then, Mary,” I call in a bright, determined voice, conscious of any guests who might be listening. “I’ll have your final check ready next week, so just swing by the office when it’s convenient for you.”

  She lifts a hand in acknowledgement but doesn’t look back as she pushes through the door, letting in a gust of chilly fall air that puffs against my face and snatches her resignation letter from between my fingers.

  With a sigh, I cross the room, picking it up off of the carpet. I start to tuck it into my jacket pocket to worry about later, but at the last moment, I stop.

  I don’t know why I’m suddenly certain that I need to look at it sooner rather than later. Maybe it’s a hunch, or maybe it’s Mary’s weird behavior, but I unfold the letter and scan the words without really reading them, as my heart races in my throat.

  I recognize this cramped and crooked handwriting. It’s the same handwriting on the note in the coffee shop. It has to be. There’s no way two people in the same small town could both have serial killer penmanship.

  Serial killer…

  Oh my God.

  “Deborah, call the police and give them this,” I say as I sprint through the reception area, slapping Mary’s letter on the counter as I go. “Tell them Mary kidnapped Shep, and that I’m going after her. She’s right outside.”

  “Wait! What?” Deborah squeaks. “What’s happening?”

  “Just do it,” I call out as I burst through the door and race down the steps. I pause at the bottom, scanning the front yard and the sidewalk in either direction, but there’s no sign of Mary.

  Standing on tiptoe, I search the crowd in the park, but there are too many people in khaki pants and brown jackets, and each face I settle on is someone who isn’t Mary. Either she’s blended into the crowd too seamlessly for me to spot her, or she’s already gone.

  Gone.

  Maybe forever.

  And if I don’t find her soon, I might never find Shep, either.

  That is, assuming he’s still alive.

  Fumbling my cell from my pocket, I call Kirby, words spilling out as soon as she picks up the phone. “It’s Mary, Kirby. She took Shep or hurt him or something. Whatever happened, she did it! Her handwriting is the same. It’s exactly the same. I was going to stop her, but she was too fast. She was here not five minutes ago, but by the time I put the pieces together she was already gone.”

  “Calm down, honey,” Kirby says. “Have you called the police?”

  “Yes. Deborah is calling them, but I don’t know what they’ll be
able to do. Mary never gave me her home address. Just a post office box, and she always came by the office to pick up her checks. I have no idea where she lives or where to even start—” I break off, snapping my fingers. “Her daughter! Abby! She works at the homeopathy place on Persimmon Street.”

  “I’ll meet you there,” Kirby says. “Bring your car, in case we need to haul ass right away.”

  “Got it. See you there.” I hang up and sprint for the parking lot on the other side of the property.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Shep

  I’m still several feet from the kitchenette and even farther from the knives when the door opens, making me flinch and every muscle in my body flex for a fight.

  But when I fix my eyes on the person in the door, it isn’t Mary.

  It’s Goth Girl, from the wine tasting.

  “Oh my God,” she says, dropping her purse to the floor as her hands fly to cover her mouth. She shakes her head. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry. I didn’t think she’d really do it. I mean, I was worried she was getting a little out there with the scrapbooks and the T-shirt, but I didn’t think—”

  “Just help me cut through these ropes,” I say. “Please.”

  Explanations can wait until after I’m free and out of this house.

  “Right. Sorry.” She bends to pick up her purse but drops it again almost instantly with a wince and a shake of her head. “No. Nothing in there. I need scissors.” She hurries into the kitchen, opening drawers and closing them as she mutters, “Where the hell does she keep the scissors?”

  “The knives are right there,” I say, pointing toward the block by the sink. “Get a couple of them, and I’ll help you.”

  “Right. Knives.” She turns, shaking her hands at her sides for a moment before she reaches for the block and starts tugging knives from their slots. “We need a serrated one. To cut through the ropes faster, right?” she asks, trembling so badly that two of the blades skid off the counter to clatter to the floor at her feet. “Why are none of them serrated?”

  “Relax, it’s okay,” I say. “Just bring those two big ones over. And watch your feet so you don’t cut yourself. We don’t need anyone getting hurt on the way out of here.”

  Grabbing two of the larger knives by the handle she turns to me with wide eyes. “She would never hurt you. Just so you know. She hasn’t been herself in a lot of ways lately, but she’s not a violent person. Things have just been so hard for her since my dad left.”

  I curl my fingers, motioning her closer with as much patience as I can muster and pointing toward the thick rope looped twice around my waist, pinning my hips to the headboard. If I can get my top half free I’ll be in a much better position to attack the binding on my legs. “You start on the top rope, and I’ll take the bottom. Okay?”

  “Sure thing.” She carefully hands over the knife before wrapping her fingers around the second blade’s handle and beginning to saw at the thick, resin-coated material. I slip my blade under my assigned rope and drag it quickly back and forth, using as much force as I can in my awkward position.

  “I mean, first my dad ran off with a woman only a few years older than I am,” Goth Girl says, her breath coming faster from even this small amount of exertion, making me hope cutting through my rope will get the job done.

  If not, I’m going to have to take care of hers, too, because there’s no way she’s hacking through it in the next hour.

  “And then Mom was diagnosed with this weird autoimmune thing that made all of her hair fall out,” she continues. “And even though it grew back, it really did a number on her self-confidence, you know? And then she turned fifty-five and she took that birthday so hard. Which is just sad in so many ways. I mean, I still see the beauty in her, no matter how old she is. I just wish she could see it in herself.” She sucks in a breath. “It would help if there were at least a few decent older men in this town for her to date, so she wouldn’t be alone so much. But they’re all grouchy or hideous or married or all three. I mean, what is it with guys over fifty? I know lots of women who still look great into their fifties and beyond, but I don’t think the men are trying at all.”

  I make a noncommittal noise as I check her progress—slim to none, as expected, but at least she’s trying to help. I have an ally now. Someone who knows where I am who’s also a person Mary won’t dare interfere with. Mary truly seems to love her daughter. She’s not going to tie Goth Girl up in the closet or knock her out and bury her body in the forest.

  If I’m not free by the time Mary gets back, Goth Girl can head into town and alert the proper authorities.

  At least, I think she will…

  Probably best to get some verbal confirmation on that before we waste any more time. “What’s your name?” I ask as I saw faster, trying not to be disheartened by my own lack of progress. These ropes are serious fucking business, as thick and heavily coated as the ones used to tie yachts to the pier.

  “Abigail,” she says. “But my friends call me Abby.” She winces again. “I know we’ll never actually be friends, seeing that my mother kidnapped you and tried to force you to be her boyfriend or whatever, but you can still call me Abby. I’m so sorry about all this.”

  “You don’t have to be sorry,” I assure her. “This isn’t your fault, but I do need a promise from you.”

  “Of course. Anything you need. Anything that will make you feel better.”

  “If we can’t get out of here before your mom comes back, I need you to go to the police. Tell them where I am and that your mom is armed and possibly dangerous.”

  Abby’s arm stops working and her knife stills. “Oh…”

  I glance up at her pale face, my stomach tightening. “Please, Abby. I know that she’s your mother and that you don’t want to get her into trouble with the authorities, but we might not have a choice. She’s mentally ill and struggling to separate reality from fantasy. The police will be able to get her the help she needs and get me out of here without anyone being hurt.”

  Abby straightens, abandoning her knife on the quilt as her fingers come to pluck at a piece of dry skin on her bottom lip. “But she’ll never forgive me. Seriously. She’ll hate me for the rest of her life, and I can’t stand to have her hate me. I know that sounds horrible and selfish, but she’s the only family I have left. Without her, I’ll be completely alone. We moved around so much when I was a kid that I never really made any good friends. Not anyone I can count on, you know?”

  “She won’t hate you,” I assure her. “She’s your mom, and she’s always going to love you. She might be upset for a while, but in the end, she’ll be able to see that you did what you had to do to keep her from hurting herself or others.”

  “Oh no,” Abby says, shaking her head. “She won’t hurt you. Seriously, like I said, she’s not that type of person. She’s a pacifist. She didn’t spank me a single time while I was growing up, and she spends her weekends at war protests and stuff like that. She’s harmless.”

  “She injected me with a drug that knocked me out, and somehow she managed to get me into this bed and tied up with an insanely heavy rope. All by herself,” I say bluntly. “I weigh over two-hundred pounds, and she took me down without missing a beat. That doesn’t sound harmless to me.”

  “Well, she probably used the wheelbarrow to move you,” Abby says, tugging harder at her lip. “It has this sloping part at the front that helps scoop stuff up, but still… When you put it that way…”

  “So I can count on you?” I press. “To go to the police?”

  “Okay. Yes. Okay.” She pushes up on tiptoe and rocks back again, her lip raw where she tore at the dry skin. I try not to take the blood as a bad omen, but my stomach churns as I cast another anxious glance toward the door.

  “But maybe I won’t have to?” Abby continues. “If we can get you home safe? Maybe you don’t have to press charges if I can get her checked into a treatment program and she promises never to drug or kidnap anyone ever again?”

&n
bsp; I nod. “Sure. We can work something out.”

  After I have a long talk with the police about how quickly this escalated from fan-love to kidnapping. Mary has taken this way too far to get off with a slap on the wrist and a warning. The authorities need to know what she’s been up to and what she’s capable of before someone gets seriously hurt.

  I just need to saw through this fucking rope and get out of here first.

  I keep jerking my blade back and forth, eventually rejoined by Abby, who keeps up a litany of excuses and reasons why her mom isn’t like all the other kidnappers. But after another five minutes or so, my hand is cramping, and its clear we’re getting nowhere fast.

  “You’ll have to try to untie me,” I say, dropping the knife to the bed and cracking my knuckles in an attempt to ease the ache in my fingers. “I can’t see where the ropes are knotted from here, but hopefully you’ll be able to untie them.”

  “I’ll try,” Abby says, crouching down to peer under the mattress. “But Mom was in the Navy for ten years before she and Dad got married. She knows what she’s doing with knots.”

  My jaw clenches with frustration, but I keep my voice even as I say, “Just give it your best shot. That’s all you can do. And if that doesn’t work—”

  “Oh, wait!” Abby stands, fingers spread wide in front of her in a “hold everything” gesture. “I’ve got an idea! I can take the bed apart!”

  I pause, trying to imagine how that will help.

  “It’ll work,” Abby says, nodding as her words come faster. “The ropes are tied under the mattress and around the headboard. If I take the headboard apart and get it free, the ropes will loosen up and you should be able to scoot out from underneath.”

  “My legs are tied, too,” I say, but I can’t help catching some of her excitement.

  This could work.

  “Then I’ll take apart the footboard, too.” She claps her hands together. “I’m good with tools, and Mom has a power drill in the shed. I’ll set that bad boy on reverse, and we’ll have all the screws out of this thing in a few minutes.”