by Lilly Wilder
Anderson takes my hand in his. It’s warm and soft.
“No, Maddie, your father isn’t a bad guy at all. In fact, he’s one of the nicest guys I’ve met. He just… made some mistakes that came back to haunt him, more than once.”
“Is this one of those times?”
“I’m afraid so.”
I slump down onto the sofa next to him, feeling an invisible burden pressing hard on my chest, not showing chances of letting go any time soon.
“Your father loves you very much.” His hand is still on mine, and I don’t know what to focus on, his words or his gentle touch. “And, everything he ever did was for you and your mother. Never forget that.”
“I won’t,” I smile, feeling the exhaustion of all the previous events finally catch up with me, threatening to shut me down completely.
“You just need a good night’s rest, or in this case, a good day’s rest. When you wake up, it’ll all seem a little less scary.”
“You’re probably right. I just don’t know how that will happen. It feels like nothing will ever be the same.”
“I know that’s how you feel, but that’s just it. A feeling. It’s not the way things really are. I read somewhere that we create our own reality. Sort of like, wishful thinking really is wishful thinking. You think positively, so you wish for it, and often, the Universe actually answers.”
“You read that somewhere, huh?” I smile curiously.
“Well, not that I have that much time to read lately, but yeah. It’s one of those things I read and it just stuck.”
“I know that feeling. Lately, life has gotten so busy that I barely have time to pick up a book let alone actually enjoy an evening with it.”
“Priorities.”
“Of course. Books aren’t priorities most of the time.”
“But, they should be.”
“Right?” I beam at him. “So, do we have any books around here?”
I look around, hopeful for some bookshelf with hidden gems, but I see nothing here.
“There’s a small bookshelf in your room. Not sure what it has, though. I wasn’t furnishing this place, so…”
“I’ll make sure to check it out then.”
“If you’re lucky enough to find something, then this month will be your perfect opportunity to lay down, relax with a good book in one hand and some coffee in the other, while Fynn and I take care of business.”
“You mean, if the machine spits it out, right?” I laugh, and he joins in.
“It better,” he tells me.
“Well, alright then. I think I’ll go take a shower, because I feel horrible.”
“Well, you don’t look horrible,” he tells me quickly, then even more quickly adds. “You look fine. I mean, you look better than fine. Just, you look fine for someone who was held captive a few hours ago. I mean….”
“I know what you mean.” A tidal wave of warmth and gratitude washes over me, as I beam with a strange sense of happiness at not only being alive, but being here. “And, thank you. For everything. Even if it is just you doing your job.”
I get up first, and he does the same.
“Rest well,” he suggests. “If you need us for anything, we’re right here, 24/7.”
“Thanks,” I raise my hand a little awkwardly in a gesture of goodbye, then walk down the short hallway to my room.
When I enter, I immediately close the door. Two large windows overlook the forest around us, and I see the mountains in the distance. Well, if I need to run, I should make sure not to run in that direction. What’s the point of escaping someone who wants to kill you, only to die of thirst or hunger or fall prey to some animal in the woods?
I put my backpack on the bed. It’s covered with a woven blanket, the likes of which old Nordic grandmas would make for a newborn, all colorful and checkered. It makes me smile. That’s the second thing around here that makes me feel welcome. Maybe this month won’t be so bad, after all. That is, if I manage to avoid Fynn at all cost, which is not really possible. But, I can at least try. He obviously doesn’t want to be here. I’m sure Anderson doesn’t either, but at least he’s being nice about it. Not like I asked them both to be here and babysit me. I sigh, realizing that such thoughts aren’t really helpful.
I see a door in the corner, and upon opening it, smile at the fact that I have my own bathroom. It’s small, and once inside, I can’t spread my arms to the side. The shower stall is inconvenient and I’ll probably hit my elbows against the walls all the time. I have to lean to the side while sitting on the toilet, not to hit the sink with my shoulder or head. But, at least it’s some privacy, and under these conditions, I’ll gladly take it.
I grab a t-shirt and a clean pair of undies from the backpack, then jump into the shower. It’s like I thought. I can barely turn around, but I manage it somehow. When I get out, I see a clean toothbrush and toothpaste on the sink. So, they really have thought of everything. I brush my teeth, and cover under the blankets. I consider closing the curtains, but the view is too beautiful. The mountains are majestic, covered in lush greenery and I can’t stop staring at them.
Slowly, without me even realizing, I drift off into deep sleep. The fear stops looping at some point, and my thoughts become a car burning up the road, smoothly taking over hills and valleys, heading into the warm, sunny horizon.
CHAPTER 7
Fynn
I check the perimeter quickly. This is definitely easier done in the daytime. And, even the woods surrounding us don’t seem so dark and ominous, as they usually do. Still close to the house, I pause. I listen. The sound of my own footsteps is silent. I hear only the wind. Usually, the wind is my friend. My sense of smell is unbeatable, and the wind usually knows to escort anything important my way.
Suddenly, a flutter of leaves is raised off the ground, swirled in the wind, and then smashed against the ground. Rain’s coming. The leaves are like eyes, staring at me.
Whatcha gonna do, Fynn? Ya gonna lose this one, like ya lost the other one?
The words flooded my ears. I could hear all those ancient voices buried deep inside my mind, reminding me that I failed. Telling me I would fail all over again. Hoping I would fail all over again.
I rub my eyes, opening them. There’s a cage all around us. I can smell it. The bars are closing in, and we don’t even see it. I can’t blame Anderson. It’s just how he is. He’s an upbeat guy. You can beat him, but you can’t break him. The more you block his sunlight, the more he convinces you he’s a rain kinda guy and never needed the sun in the first place.
Not me. You can’t beat me, and you sure as Hell can’t break me. You can’t break something that’s already been broken. It doesn’t work twice. That’s what makes me a good cop. I don’t get distracted. Never again. I made that mistake once, and it cost me half of my life. The other half I’m left with is barely good for anything. But, I keep pushing on. What else is there to do?
I walk back towards the house, and just as I’m about to open the front door, I hesitate. I remember what Anderson said. The girl probably doesn’t want to see me, even in passing. It’s good Anderson’s here. He’ll know how to handle her.
I turn to the wicker chairs on the patio and collapse into one of them. I hear it squeal underneath my weight, but eventually it settles in. At that moment, Anderson comes outside. He takes the other chair. He puts two beers on the table. Opened, of course. No glasses. That just means washing up.
“How is she?” I ask, reaching out for the bottle closest to me.
“What do you think?” He shrugs.
“If I knew I wouldn’t be asking,” I snort. I do that too much, I know. But, it’s hard to fight an instinctual response.
“Well, you could have asked her that yourself, you know,” Anderson tells me and I know he means well.
“She’s unstable.”
“No, you’re just an asshole.”
“Point taken,” I nod, as we clink beers. “So,
how is she?”
“I wouldn’t say she’s unstable. Considering everything, she’s… fine. Worried about what might happen, of course, but that’s a given. She’s a sweet girl. You should actually try talking to her.”
“I think I’ll leave the consolation part to you,” I sneer. “You seem to be doing it well.”
“You don’t think that I - “
“I don’t think anything,” I shake my head defensively. “She feels safer with you. I’m fine with that. You can be the inside guy, and I’ll just be the watchdog.”
“As always?” Anderson cheers again, and we both take a long sip from our beer bottles. “Go inside to rest. I’ll take the first shift.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. You’ll get the night shift, so I’m actually being selfish here,” he chuckles.
“You sly dog,” I laugh as well.
I finish the rest of my beer, then head on inside. As I pass the girl’s door, it’s tightly shut. No sound can be heard from inside. She smells of apple orchards in the spring, but the path there is closed. Trespassers aren’t allowed, and that’s probably what I’ll continue to be. That doesn’t matter. What matters is that she comes out of this alive and unharmed.
CHAPTER 8
I have no idea how much I’ve slept when I wake up, it’s still daytime. I check my watch, and it has been only a few hours. Yet, I feel strangely well rested. That’s stress and adrenaline for ya. Receive the right mixture of the two components, and you’ve got a helluva cocktail.
I get up, and dizziness hits me. I stop, mid-motion, allow my head to adjust to the newly awake sensation, then get up completely, with both feet on the ground. One sniff in the wrong direction and I realize that I need another shower, even though I did take one before I went to sleep.
One quick shower later and I feel better, almost fine, actually. This realization surprises me. This is my first official day in this safe house, not counting the day of the arrival, and for some reason, I want to start it the right way, whatever that means in this instance. I put on a loose sweatshirt on top, and a pair of leggings, and walk into the kitchen, which smells pleasantly of pancakes.
There, I see Anderson by the stove, with a big plate of pancakes sitting on the counter next to him. He is humming a tune I don’t recognize, as he skillfully flips the pancake in the air.
“And, voila!” he shouts at no one really, as he successfully flipped the pancake over in the air, allowing it to fall gently back into the pan.
I chuckle loudly, and at that moment, he turns around. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he blushed a little.
“Oh, hey!” It only takes him a moment to regain composure and be his charming, assured self. “Didn’t see you there.”
“I noticed,” I smile. “Nice flipping, by the way.”
“Oh, that,” he grins. “Just something to pass the time. You’ll see, staying in a safe house isn’t all fun and games.”
“Oh, really?” I smirk. “And, here I am, thinking we’ll be having non-stop parties. I mean, that’s what your partner seems to think.”
His face immediately changes at the mention of his partner. “Seriously, don’t take everything Fynn says to heart. His tongue is faster than his brain and he often says things he doesn’t mean.”
“He sure sounds like he means it.” I take a seat at the kitchen table, and eye those pancakes. “But, I’d rather have some breakfast first, and then discuss the unpleasantries of our stay here.”
I see him trying to suppress a smile, but he can’t. He adds the last pancake to the tower of others, and puts the pan away.
“There, I made us all breakfast,” he announces. “We got maple syrup, some jam, honey, and powdered sugar.”
“Sounds great.”
He places the full plate in the middle of the kitchen table, then sets the tableware for me. I patiently watch him do it, as he swirls around, not once removing that grin from his face. It’s pleasant, but almost feels a little strange. This is what my girlfriends told me that the morning after with a nice guy looks like. He’s happy you’re still there, and he’ll gladly make you some breakfast before you leave.
The thought of having a one night stand has always been a conflicting one for me. It’s not that I have anything against that. It’s all about instant gratification, and if both parties agree to it, then by all means. But, I guess for me, sex has always been something intimate, something I wouldn’t do with strangers. That’s probably why I’ve only slept with one guy, and that was my high school sweetheart, with whom I was in a 5 year relationship. My girlfriends still make fun of me, occasionally nicknaming me the nun, but I know they don’t mean anything bad by it. They understand it’s just how I’m wired, and there’s little I can do about it.
Anderson puts two pancakes on my plate, then tries to give me a third one.
“No, no,” I shake my head. “I can’t eat that much.”
“Don’t tell me you’re on a diet?”
“No, just… three is too much.”
“Since when are three pancakes too much for a grown up person?” He tilts his head a little to the side, to give me a weird, puppy dog eye look.
“It’s not, I guess. I’m just not very hungry.”
That seems to dissuade him, and he puts the third pancake on his own plate.
“Where’s Fynn?” I ask, but not out of any desire to see him. Still, my question surprises Anderson.
“On the porch,” he explains. “Someone always needs to be on the lookout. Especially at night.”
“Is that how it always goes? This safe house deal, I mean.”
“Yeah,” he nods, pouring some maple syrup over his four pancakes. “But, with Sven, I’m surprised our chief didn’t let us take some more guys.”
His comment makes me put down my fork.
“I don’t mean to scare you, but it’s good for you to be aware of the situation,” his voice is grave, but not hopeless.
“That’s fine,” I nod. “I don’t want you to keep me in the dark.”
“We don’t plan on doing any such thing,” he assures me. “Especially not Fynn. Only, he’s doing it in his own, special way.”
Our conversation takes on lighter overtones, and I feel pleasant again, almost completely safe, like my life wasn’t hanging on the line.
“So, isn’t he having any breakfast?” I ask, finally putting that piece hanging from my fork into my mouth.
The moment my tongue feels the sensation of taste, I realize that I’m starving. Maybe I really will have that third pancake, as the adrenaline has finally left my body, and now it is starving for nourishment.
“I told him to come, but I guess he’s not hungry,” Anderson tells me, not looking particularly concerned whether his partner will eat or not.
His face looks jovial, as he keeps stuffing it with maple syrup pancakes, but my mother’s voice arises from somewhere deep inside of me and takes over.
“I can take some to him, outside.”
My statement surprises us both. He starts coughing so hard, that I jump up and slap him on the shoulder, until he finally manages to breathe again.
“You OK?” I ask, my hand still electrified on his shoulder. I quickly pull it away, before he notices.
“Yeah…” he coughs again. “Fine. Thanks.” He pauses, then nods. “Sure, take him some. He might… be hungry.”
For some reason, I wonder if that’s what he wanted to say initially, but I leave it alone. Instead, I put three pancakes on another plate, douse them with some maple syrup and then head outside.
I find Fynn sitting on the porch, in one of the rocking chairs. I feel like I’m seeing him for the first time now, when neither of us is veiled by darkness or fear. We’re just two normal people, put in an abnormal situation.
“Hey,” I tell him.
He just looks up at me. His piercing gaze confuses me. He has the look of a vet who’s seen his fair share of h
uman malice, and he’d rather just be left out of it all. I think he wants his eyes to appear fearsome, to make you think that he could hurt you just like that, so you’d better leave him alone, but in fact, they look sad. Deeply, profoundly sad.
“I thought you might like some food.”
I put the plate on the table to his side. He just glances at it, but doesn’t say anything. He doesn't reach for them. He doesn’t say thank you. His eyes have already switched back to looking into the distance, expecting to see something before anyone else does.
“Well, ok then,” I say, feeling more awkward than ever. “I guess I’ll go back inside.”
His eyes don’t move. I turn away from him, and the moment I touch the door to push it open, I hear his voice.
“Thank you.”
I acknowledge it with a barely visible nod, and a smile that belongs only to me. I return to the kitchen, and see that Anderson has finished with his food and has already washed his plate.
“Coffee?” he asks, drying his wet hands on a kitchen towel.
“Sure,” I nod, sitting back down.
“I’m afraid we don’t have milk, but we do have some creamer.”
“That’s fine.”
I see him hovering over a small, vintage looking coffee machine that chortles out a small coffee in one big splat. He puts it carefully before me, then hands me the creamer.
“Let’s see if it thinks I deserve a coffee as well,” he chuckles, but as soon as he presses the same button as before, nothing happens. He tries a few more times, but doing the same thing over and over again rarely produces different results. “Stupid son a bitch machine…” he whispers to himself, but I hear him loud and clear.
His curse attack makes me laugh, and it feels good, like I haven’t laughed in a long time.
“Sorry,” he tells me, gesturing at himself helplessly. “I can be pretty crude sometimes.”
“You’re fine,” I assure him.
“Can I get you anything else?”
“A glass of water maybe?”