People begin talking all at once, hands shooting up. Sophie points to an elegant lady wearing a white blazer. “I’m Katie Grant from The Huffington Post. Did you ever feel hopeless? Were there times you thought you might not survive?”
“Absolutely. Every moment of every day.”
“Did you ever try to escape?”
“At first, I did.”
“What happened?”
“A trip to the ER happened.”
“After you were found?”
“Yes.”
“How did you stay calm?”
“I didn’t, Katie.” People like to hear their names used in a conversation. Sophie read that in a book. It makes them feel good. “I was terrified.”
“Will you be reaching out to people who have been through similar situations?” again Katie.
“I don’t know. I haven’t given it thought—next.”
Rhonda Dawson, a tubby woman with stringy black hair and a hoarse voice, says, “Your kidnapper—in a statement to the police—you said he bound your hands and feet, but you also said he gave you food and kept you warm with a wool blanket.”
“Yes.”
“What kind of food?”
“Sundried tomato and chicken Fettuccini. Southern Crunch Butter Pecan Ice Cream.”
“Very specific dishes.”
“He knew what my favorites were.”
“Was he trying to befriend you?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did he want from you, Sophie? Money? Or something else?
“I don’t know.”
“What was the motive? Or point?”
“I don’t know,” she repeats for a third and final time. “He never said. I don’t know what he wanted with me. Only when he was around, and if I promised not to run, he would untie me. If I ran, he’d find me and kill me. He said if I gave him something, he’d give me something in return. He called it a…a symbiotic relationship.”
“A symbiotic relationship?”
“Yes. Where both benefit from the interaction.”
“What did you give him?”
“My word.”
“You’re saying, given the chance, you wouldn’t have run because you made him a promise?”
“What? No, that’s not what—”
“Did you ever scream for help?”
Her face is hot. This feels like an interrogation now. “It’s hard to scream with a rag stuck in your mouth.”
Horrified murmurs resound around the room.
“Did you develop some kind of bond with your captor? Is this a case of Stockholm syndrome?”
“Bond? No. Absolutely not. I don’t sympathize with that man.” Her insides are quaking, but her voice remains firm and in control. “I was simply too afraid. I did what he told me to do. It’s called self-preservation.”
Rhonda says thank you and takes a seat. Dead silence ensues.
“Alex Ho, News Publishers Association.” Sophie turns to see a man holding a pen in the air. “With Oliver’s recent announcement of his stepping down as CEO due to intense public scrutiny, how has he handled the fallout?”
“Great. He’s great. He’s handled it very well.”
Another thing Sophie read in a book, this time Shakespeare, is “we are all actors on a stage.”
“There’s been much hand wringing in the business world. Do you think he’ll be returning to the helm of Black International? What does he intend to do moving forward?”
“He’s in no way retiring, if that’s what you’re asking, Alex. He is that vital to the success of the company. I don’t worry about Oliver. He’s incredibly smart. His business is his business.”
“Do you two have plans for your lives together?”
Sophie sighs. “As much as I’d like to stand here and talk about Oliver all day, I’d rather answer a different question.”
“Yes, if I may,” says another male voice.
Sophie nods.
“My name is Greg Miller, I’m with the Associated Press. Thousands of people are reported missing every day in this country. Many remain missing while others are found. What would you say to survivors?”
There it is. Sophie knew the question would come. She holds her breath, then exhales. “It’s tough, Greg. There is no ‘one type fits all’ solution. No one knows how hard it is but you. Some will look at you and glance away. Some won’t look at you at all. But some will look at you and see you, knowing exactly what you have been through. And that’s all you really want, to have someone who can see more than what everyone else does.”
The conference room gets very quiet.
“Hello,” says a dark woman with a blonde pixie cut. “Rachel Roberts with NBC News Digital. Is it true you’ve recently discovered you have a sister?”
Sophie stops dead as soon as the question is shot at her. She looks down at the microphone, her stomach getting queasy and her mind trying to compile her thoughts into words. “Half-sister,” is her non-disclosing reply. “Her name is Sarah. Next question.”
Rachel raises her voice to be heard over the commotion behind her. “It’s been said by police she was involved in an intimate relationship with your captor prior to the cyber stalking’s commencement. She was a willing accomplice to his multiple homicides and aided him in the months leading to your abduction, sending you threatening messages.” Head down, she reads from her notes, then looks up. “Was she complicit to your kidnapping?”
Sophie takes a deep breath like a fish, feeling the lining in her lungs can’t handle the air. “Unfortunately, Sarah was also a victim to my captor’s abuse and violence.” Her voice is thick with emotion. “Yes, they shared a relationship; of course, she didn’t know he was a murderer at the time. When she found out, she had no choice. Sarah knew he would kill her if she didn’t do what he said. And the only reason the name John Henry Bridges means anything today, is because Sarah testified to his crimes. Her testimony was the key to putting him behind bars. I won’t be discussing my sister further—next.”
“Are you saying she should be left off the hook?” Rachel presses.
“I’m saying she shouldn’t be decried,” Sophie fires back.
“Some would call that a double standard.”
“That wasn’t a question, so I don’t have an answer.”
“Let me try again,” Rachel says, in a clipped, grave tone. “Was there really no choice for Sarah?”
Sophie moves forward on the podium, her eyes on her interrogator sitting a few feet in front of her. She leans into the microphone for emphasis, to breathe the single world, “No.” All cameras and tape recorders on her, she waits to answer. “Sarah didn’t stand a chance, not against a man like Bridges. No one does,” she says sternly. “She had to play his way. It was survival.”
“But she was an accomplice to an alleged series of the most terrible murders,” Rachel continues to hound. “General rule is that an accomplice should be prosecuted. Is there more to this case than people know?”
Kim suddenly interjects, “Sophie has already said she won’t be commenting on her sister. Please move on to something else.”
Sophie waves to Kim as if saying, “It’s okay. I can handle it.” And then, Sophie stops beating around the bush. “You know, it’s no wonder that so many women who are harmed keep their mouths shut. Because they are embarrassed. Because they feel that they somehow provoked the violence perpetrated on them. Because they are afraid no one will believe them. Because if they do tell someone, they instantly become victims. And no one likes to be a victim; it implies we were weak. I hope you never have to know someone who’s been through that, Rachel. Be glad it’s not your sister we’re talking about.”
Rachel smiles like nothing bothers her. “If you can all please direct your attention to the screen,” she says, gesturing to a big screen on a stand in the corner. She powers up the projector with a remote control and a video recording appears. It’s Sarah and Aunt Peg leaving a Whole Foods in Brooklyn when reporters demanding answe
rs corner them like rats. Aunt Peg grabs Sarah’s hand and they tromp down the sidewalk as calmly as possible. They want to run, but it’ll draw attention.
“Hey, Sarah! How’s it going? Can we ask you a few questions?”
“Are you happy now that Bridges is behind bars?”
“What kind of abuse did you experience at his hands? Physical, verbal, sexual?”
“How long had you been in a relationship with him before you realized he was a murderer?”
Sarah stops, turns, and says, “All of you leave him alone! You don’t know anything!” She pushes the camera to the side with force.
Click. Off goes the projector.
“SHE AMBUSHED ME!” Sophie slams the door open to her suite in full panic attack mode. She kicks a trash bin, swipes her hand across the desk, and knocks down everything.
“Sophie, calm down!” Kim follows behind trying to console her fury, but Sophie is crumbling. “Sophie! Sophie!” she yells in her face. “You have to calm down! Getting upset is not going to solve—”
“Don’t tell me to calm down! Didn’t you see what just happened back there? Who does that woman think she is with her stupid projector screen and her cheap hair color? She made a fool of me in front of the nation! The whole damn nation!”
Kim looks at her, distraught. “We’ll fix this. I swear we will, Sophie. I don’t care if it takes my last breath.”
Sophie paces back and forth across the room, endlessly thinking. Her blood pressure is through the roof. She stops and looks at Kim. Driven by impulse, Sophie takes two quick steps straight into her arms and rests her chin on her shoulder. Stunned from the hug, Kim faintly taps her back, but then embraces her in return.
It’s the last thing either expected the other to do. They never thought they could possibly share something so intimate, but they hug each other like it can cure every ailment in the book. It’s the kind of hug that can comfort and be felt not just physically, but inside you.
The TV blaring the news distracts Sophie. Frowning, she retreats from the hug and slowly walks toward the TV.
“In a surprising twist, days after psychiatrist John Henry Bridges was charged with rape, murder, and kidnapping in the disappearance of Sophie Cavall, the thirty-four year old has decided to plead not guilty in the case. His attorney, Michael Locke, has told the press they’re confident a jury will not find him guilty.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Kim says.
“This morning, during arraignment, the convicted murderer responded to a judge, ‘There is no proof of my guilt,’ as he sat shackled in the courtroom. ‘You won’t find anything, because I’m not hiding anything.’ It’s one of the top stories we’re following for you. More news as the story develops.”
“Son of a bitch,” Sophie grouses, rubbing her mouth. She knows what it means—this will go to trial. Turn into an even bigger circus. She’ll have to take the stand. In nothing flat, she fumbles for her cell phone inside her bag. When she finds it, it has missed calls from Oliver and Eric. She calls Oliver back, and he picks up on the first ring.
“Sophie.” She hears a tense voice.
“Are you seeing what I’m seeing? Are you watching the news?”
“Yes, I heard. His lawyer is claiming all accusations are false.”
“How’s this happening, Oliver? Why, why is this happening? How can he plead not guilty after what he did to me? There are witnesses. There are dead girls. He escaped from prison, for Christ’s sake!”
“I don’t know,” he answers after a long while.
“I can’t…I can’t believe…” She suddenly hears a woman’s voice at a distance, on his end of the line. “Oliver, where are you?”
“In Brooklyn heights with Sarah and your aunt.”
Sophie looks desperately uncomfortable. “What?”
“Sarah called me,” he replies.
Sophie can hear him breathing fast, walking around, busy with something more important. Waves of emotions engulf her, though she doesn’t exactly know what to think.
“She asked me to come get them after they were taken aback by reporters.”
The line is silent.
She called…him? Why? Is Oliver easier to talk to? Does she like him better? Sophie wonders. “Well, why didn’t she call me?”
“I didn’t ask her, but I’m sure it had something to do with you being in the middle of a press conference.”
“What about Uncle Pete?”
“Away on business.”
“Well, you could’ve sent someone to pick them up. Why did you go yourself?”
“Are you indirectly trying to tell me you’re angry that I came to help your aunt and sister?”
“No, of course not,” she says, but the words are wide of the truth. “That would be absurd,” she tells herself. “I just don’t understand why she called you.”
“You should come over.”
“Why? What is it? You know what, never mind. I’ll be right there.” She hangs up.
Kim is on the phone with a publicist when Sophie—walking towards the door—says, “I have to go. Call me if anything comes up.”
Kim puts the phone on her shoulder and turns to Sophie. “Hey, Cavall, you know it was just a hug, right? It didn’t mean anything.”
“I know, Kim. I know.”
N I N E
* * *
There’s Something About Sarah
“IS SHE DOING okay?” In the outer boroughs of Brooklyn, at the Sullivan townhouse, Oliver goes up the stairs just as Aunt Peg leaves Sarah’s bedroom.
“Yes, dear, she’s feeling better. It was just too much for her to take, I guess. The reporters, they were really aggressive and rude in their questions. Had their cameras pointed straight to our faces.”
Oliver says nothing, just sighs and shakes his head in dislike.
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“Sarah. Something is wrong with her. At first, I thought it was just stress or nerves, but now I think it’s something more serious. Am I a monster to think this way?”
“No, of course not. What happened?”
“She’s very…guarded. She thinks we want to hurt her,” she says, shaken up, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. “Last week, there was an incident while we were playing Monopoly…the girls, Sarah, Peter, and I. Gracie was supposed to pay Sarah with a fifty dollar bill, but instead gave her a five dollar bill. Sarah got angry and yelled at Gracie, called her a cheater. She really believed that, Oliver. It was so frightening to watch. I mean, Gracie is only five, for the love of God. She’s in Pre-K, starting to learn about vowels.”
“Just take it easy, Margaret. We don’t really know anything about Sarah, except what’s given to us through the police. I’ll talk to her. Maybe I can figure out what’s going on.”
“I found some pills in the back of one of her drawers. I’m not sure what they are.”
She whips out a single tablet from her pocket for him to see. It’s orange and round, small.
“Did you take a look at the bottle?” Oliver investigates.
She lowers her head and shakes it from side to side. “She has them in one of those…medicine organizers. Can you tell what the pill is? What it’s for?”
“No, but I’ll find out.”
“I’m worried, Oliver.” She rubs her face with her hands and tucks her sandy hair behind her ears. “What’s going to happen? God forbid something else happens…I don’t want to think about that.”
“We can’t draw conclusions until we know for sure.”
“I’ve been thinking…Sophie should see someone. A therapist. She’s been through so much.”
“Have you met your niece?”
“Maybe if you encourage her, tell her it might be a good idea to mend fences, she’ll agree.”
“Sophie is a grown woman, Margaret. She doesn’t lack an ounce of independence. Have faith in her.”
“Even grown women need a soft place to fall. I don’t want her
to wear out. Don’t you worry?”
Sophie isn’t the only one having a shitty time. “All the time. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Sophie it’s that she needs freedom to choose what she desires. And sometimes, without being forced to do anything, she naturally comes to me.”
Aunt Peg sighs, unable to calm her heart. “Thank you for being here, dear. For protecting my family. For everything. Thank you.” She pulls away and goes down the stairs.
Oliver gently knocks on the door and steps into Sarah’s bedroom. It’s Sophie’s old room. He gazes around, trying to imagine what kind of girl Sophie must’ve been. Throughout the room are photos and posters of Sophie in pageant costumes. At least one hundred trophies line the floor, and shelves hold an array of sparkly crowns and sashes that catch his eye. The rosy striped bedding, delicate pink walls, and white vanity with oval mirror speak of innocence and calm. Neither are words that Oliver would use to describe Sophie.
Sarah has never been good at reading people (at least not correctly), but from the sight of Oliver, it’s obvious there are many thoughts swirling in his head. She breaks her concentration from the TV and looks at Oliver. “Impressive, huh?”
“Yeah. It’s something.”
He lets himself focus back on her. She’s looking at him from the bed like she’s waiting for something; comfort or friendship or affection.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
She nods.
“Mind if I sit with you for a while?”
“Sure. If you want to.”
He sprawls on the bed, his head against the headboard. “What are you watching?”
Sarah is extremely aware of the man sitting next to her. He’s handsome all right, but she isn’t drawn to his looks. She wasn’t compelled by Bridges’s face either. For some reason, her paranoia seems to subdue when she’s around Oliver, and she believes him when he says he’ll take care of things. In some corner of her flawed consciousness, Sarah wonders what is happening to her and why she is feeling this way toward him. She knows she shouldn’t, but God, how she hungers for that trust.
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