by S. Ann Cole
I haven’t been able to digest anything other than fruits, vegetables, nut, or beans. Anything else and it comes right back up and leaves me with either terrible nausea or a fever. We’ve hired nutritionists and food psychologists to “fix” whatever’s broken in me but to no avail. My digestive system is shot to hell, and it’s just something I’ve had to come to terms with.
A door slams downstairs, then, “Lyra!”
Holly.
“Oh, dear,” Eloise murmurs. “That one can eat a cow under the table, and I do not think I have enough food prepared.”
Dad and I laugh at that as we all head downstairs.
We find Holly in the dining area, stealing a slice of roast from the table.
“Good evening, Holly,” Eloise says tightly.
Holly jumps and hides the evidence in her mouth before whipping around. “Oh, hi, Miss Jones,” she squeaks around a mouthful of stolen roast.
I can’t help smiling. Short auburn curls, emerald eyes and a peppy personality, Holly and I have been best friends since we could crawl. We live in the same neighborhood and our dads have been buddies since college.
Outside of immediate family, Holly’s the only person who knows the truth about where I’ve been. And that’s because she was with me the night I was taken.
We’d been accepted into colleges on opposite sides of the country, so we’d made a pact that whenever we came home for breaks we would do something together where it was just us before we had to separate again. Our bonding time, to keep the friendship alive.
That night, we chose to go camping. And after a calamitous night of struggling to set up our tent, warding off bugs and learning to make fire, we’d laughed ourselves to sleep.
When I woke up, I was in Mexico.
Why I was taken and she was left behind remains a mystery. Holly is skinny and bright-eyed beautiful, in a Cover Girl close-up kind of way. While I, at the time, had been overweight with a hobo fashion sense. Her father might not be a billionaire like mine, but they’re still filthy rich.
So why me?
Why only me?
Dad shakes his head at Holly. “Care to join us for dinner?”
Holly smiles sweetly and nods, beef stuck in her teeth. “I mean, it’s not as if I deliberately timed it and came over when I knew dinner would be ready or anything.”
Laughing, I loop my arm around hers and walk her to the chair next to mine. “Come on, long belly.”
Holly’s favorite thing in the world to do is eat. She’s never not chewing, sucking, or gulping something.
As everyone settles at the table, another slam of the front door echoes through the house, and a few seconds later my stepbrother comes into view.
“Patrick,” Eloise croons in that fixed motherly tone of hers. “I thought you were working tonight.”
“Yeah, there were some last-minute shift changes.” He rubs his palms together with a silly grin. “Which apparently got me here just in time for a proper dinner. If I had to eat another tuna sandwich...” He makes a puke face and I grin.
Appearance wise, Patrick is not the kind of guy that women notice right away. Like neutral tones, he just blends in. Standing somewhere right under six feet, he’s soft in appearance, with a small, pudgy nose and a bulbous chin. But he’s sweet, and caring, and always looks out for me. Though I’m tepid toward Eloise, I do love having Patrick as a brother. I only wish his way of speaking wasn’t as stilted as his mother’s. According to Eloise, she grew up Amish and was taught to speak “proper.” It would seem, for them, “proper” means no contractions ever. Just weird. Even though they’re no longer apart of the Amish community—she took Patrick and fled after her husband died—neither of them seems keen on ditching their annoyingly stilted dialog.
Patrick goes over to Eloise and presses a kiss to her cheek. Then rounds the table to me and presses one to mine. “Hey, Ly.”
Patrick lives in the pool house, but his job as a nurse keeps him busy at odd hours, so he’s rarely here for dinner.
Holly swats him when he tugs on a lock of her short curls as he takes the seat next to her.
As bowls of carbs and meat are passed around the table, I pick at my salad. Feeling deprived. Envious. I might not physically be in that penthouse anymore, but not being able to eat what I want makes me feel as though I still am.
They gab about mundane things. Useless things. And, as it’s been for the past six months, I feel like an interloper. Like I don’t belong here. Like I’m locked in a bubble just watching life happen. Life that had gone on without me.
Some days are so gratingly normal that I feel as though I imagined everything. Maybe all of it had been a bad dream. Then, I’d remember Kristie, pulling the trigger and blowing her brains out...
One doesn’t experience and witness the things I have and just return to living a normal life. There is no “normal” after that. Your entire view of the world is altered. You never feel “safe.” And you realize how meaningless conversations like what’s being had at this table are. Patrick complaining about his work schedule. Holly whining about her new boss. Eloise miffed that the dry cleaner ruined her Chanel dress. Dad carping about all the obstacles with his new venture.
I can’t blame them, though. Even though they’re all aware of what happened to me, they could never fully understand the impact. No matter how deep my resentment, I would never wish this kind of mental anguish on anyone. So I let them be happy with their non-problems. Ignorance is bliss.
“Ly,” Holly says with a full mouth, “I think it’s time you brave the waters. Let’s go to the movies tonight.”
Oh, not this again. “Sure, there’s a movie den downstairs.”
“Yeah, except that it’s not outside this house,” she says.
Knives and forks pause as everyone stops eating to look at me.
I snort. “Considering where ‘getting out of the house’ landed me the last time, I’m fine where I am, thank you very much.”
“You have to fight back, Ly,” she pushes. “Take your life back. This—This isn’t you. You’re the most outdoorsy person I know. It really pains me to see you like this.”
“Yeah well, being abducted, sold, raped, imprisoned, and prostituted changes a person,” I bite out. “The girl you knew is dead, Holly. She no longer exists. Get used to it.”
Dad’s gaze drops to his plate, fingers balling into fists on the table.
“Sweetie,” Eloise starts, “I know none of us here can even begin to imagine what it is like to have gone through what you did—”
“No, you can’t.”
“But,” she goes on, “if you surrender like this, they win. Some of those girls will never get out. You did. You get a second chance not only at life, but at freedom. Why use it to remain a prisoner?”
Holly takes my hand and squeezes. “Even if you don’t want to live for yourself, at least live for Kristie.”
I shift my gaze to my father. “Is this what you think, too?”
A lone tear rolls down his face. “I just want you to be happy, Lyly. And you aren’t.”
I clench my jaw. “And you all somehow think going to the movies is going to make a difference?”
“It’s a start.”
“If it will help to make you feel safer being outside, I can tag along tonight,” Patrick offers.
I glance around the table at all of them, one by one. And it’s then I realize this for what it is. An ambush.
“Fine. I’ll go to the fucking movies if it will make you all feel better and comfortable.” The chair screeches as I shove to my feet. “I’m sorry for being such a morose and burdensome wet blanket for you guys.”
“Sweetheart, that’s not what—”
“I’m going to my room,” I mumble. “Patrick, Holly, do let me know when you’re ready. And Eloise, congrats, you’ll finally have him to yourself.”
I run upstairs to my room and lock the door. Leaning back against it, I let my body slide right down until my butt hits the floor.
>
I draw my feet up to my chest, wrap my arms around them, and drop my chin to my knees, counting as I breathe.
There’s nothing in my room but a bed and a dresser. In the first week of being back, I’d gotten everything cleared out. All the “stuff” had made me feel claustrophobic. The luxury of them felt like needles digging into my skin. So, I got rid of it all and painted the walls stark white, leaving them bare.
Sometimes it reminds me of the “dark room” I used to be punished in. But mostly, it’s symbolic of me, how I feel on the inside. Stark and sparse. I’m no longer the girl I used to be, but I also don’t know who I am now.
They assume I’m cooped up in the house because I’m afraid to go outside, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. I’ve locked myself inside because I don’t know where to go from here. What to do.
Before my life was rudely interrupted, I was two years into college, majoring in business and finance. I’d had dreams of becoming like my hero—my dad. Mitch Henderson is a self-made billionaire. He started out as an indie movie producer before moving up to the big leagues. After getting three Oscars under his belt, he launched his own streaming service and production company, which is what catapulted him to billionaire status. I’d wanted to do great things like he’d done, not just reap the benefits.
But now I realize that my motivation was based on money, notoriety, and his approval. All things that no longer mean anything to me. Sixteen months was all it took to strip me of that glittery, superficial drive. And now I’m lost.
In the first two weeks of being back, we argued a lot. I wanted to go public about what happened, but they didn’t want me to. Two officers came discreetly to the house in the middle of the night and took down my report of everything. They’d showed me pictures of missing girls, and I was able to ID a few, eager to help in whatever way I could.
Dad paid them off to keep all information about me sealed. He told me he was doing it to protect me. Going public meant my face would be all over the news and internet, and I’d forever be “the girl who was sold into sex slavery.” Talk shows would want to interview me, use me for views, twist my words.
Though I’d remained obstinate at first, I eventually capitulated when I was reminded that Igor thinks I’m dead. That reminder was enough to shut me up.
It was cemented even further when Kristie’s—whose real name I’ve since learned is Sarah Lette—parents came to visit me. They were distraught and aggrieved, and begged me to never repeat a word of what happened with their daughter to anyone. They, too, chose to keep their daughter’s fate off the record. Even now, their ministry still accepts “Find Sarah Lette” donations and hold monthly vigils.
All of it has skewed my view of the world. Of people. And that is why I’m stuck. Void. Desolate. As blank and empty as my walls.
So no, I’m not afraid of going outside.
What I am is fucking pissed.
ONCE I HEAR screeching chairs and clanking dishes downstairs, I peel myself up off the floor and pad to the bathroom to grab a shower, then get dressed in jeans and a plain tee and pull my hair back in a ponytail. Minimal effort.
Sometime later, Patrick comes knocking.
“You do know we love you, right?” he says when I open the door. “No one thinks you are a burden. We just do not like seeing you like this.”
I roll my eyes and start down the hall. “I assume you’d want to get some rest after the long shift you had. You don’t have to come, you know.”
He wraps his arm around me and pulls me into his side. “Hush. You are not getting rid of me that easily.”
I rest my head against his shoulder as we trek down the stairs. “I hate that Dad’s so sad because of me.”
“You are the apple of his eye, Ly. You cannot expect him to be happy if you are not.”
“But I’m not unhappy,” I say with a groan. “I’m just...”
“Lost?”
My chest rises and falls with a deep sigh. “Yep. That’s exactly it. I’m lost.”
He squeezes me to his side. “Well, I will just have to help you find yourself again. I am not giving up on you, little sister.”
~
“SEE, THAT WASN’T so bad, was it?” Holly says as we amble out of the theater.
We watched a movie, but if someone should ask me what it was about, I wouldn’t be able to tell. I’d zoned out five minutes in, and my mind was everywhere except the present. On a boat in Mexico, on a stage in Columbia, in a stark room in Russia, in a burning night club... I couldn’t focus. I’d have much rather been at home getting lost in a good book.
Stories have become my safe haven.
“Yeah, it was okay,” I lie.
She loops her arm through mine. “We can do something like this once a week. Little by little. Until you’re comfortable with being outdoors again.”
“Sounds good,” I say, with no intention of following through. “So, how are things with Toby?”
“I think I’m gonna break up with him.” She sighs dramatically. “I’m bored.”
“Do you think maybe you’re just gay?” I ask through a short laugh. “Because every guy you date seems to bore you.”
“Nope. Not gay.”
“How do you know?”
“Because my roommate was gay. I kissed her and I did not like it.”
I giggle. “You’re something else.” As we exit the building, I glance around. “Where did Patrick go?”
“He’d left the theater to take a call but I don’t—”
“Hey, wait up!”
We turn to find Patrick jogging out of the building. He swirls his car keys around his finger when he catches up to us. “Did you ladies forget that I am your ride?”
“You’re the one who disappeared on us,” Holly gripes. “Some chaperone you are.”
He slings his arm around her shoulder. “Would you like to get ice cream on the way home?”
“Totally down,” she agrees as we start across the street to get to the parking lot.
“Sure,” I answer through a breath of sarcasm, “and then I’ll just hurl it all up l—”
“Watch out!” Patrick shouts, and I’m jerked, almost toppling backward as Holly’s arm separates from mine.
It’s too late for me. I’m too far out into the road. Whether I jump backward or forward, I’m still going to get hit.
One minute the sporty black car was parked on the side of the road, and the next it’s swerving right at me. There are no headlights to blind me, and no horns to warn me. Just the roaring of an engine at an unstoppable speed.
And the last thing I think before the impact is made and I’m sent tumbling over the hood of the car, is, this is not an accident.
I hear and feel the crack in my ribs as my body hits the asphalt. Holly’s scream pierces through the loud din rushing in my ears, while the roaring engine of the car fades, drawing farther and farther away.
Something wet trickles down the corner of my mouth.
As frantic and alarmed shouts increase around me, my consciousness dulls, dimmer and dimmer, until it flickers out into nothingness.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“She’s not broken, she’s angry.”
Torin
“WHAT PART OF I’M ON VACATION does everyone not understand?” I growl the second the elevator slides open.
Guy sidesteps out of my way but falls into stride with me. “We’ve tried to tell him that, boss, but he won’t deal with anyone else. And since he’s a big account, didn’t think you’d appreciate it if we told him to fuck off.”
Shit’s sake.
I’m so goddamn exhausted I’m borderline homicidal. If so many people didn’t depend on this firm, I’d shut the entire operation down. When I started Red Cage, it was in honor of Ray, my stepdad. Didn’t expect it to become what it is right now. Successful. Needed. Necessary. Which all totals to a giant pain in my ass.
I’m the shoulders that carry it all now. The one the business can’t seem to run without,
no matter how well I train these men.
At thirteen, I was so in awe of Ray, an army veteran turned private investigator and commando, that I told him, “When I grow up, I want people to need me like they need you. I’m gonna have a business just like yours and be the best at it like you are.”
He’d looked at me grimly and said, “Bein’ the best at what you do is more a curse than it’s a blessin’, son. So’s being needed. Go on to become an accountant or somethin’. Promise you’ll be happier.”
I’d told him he was insane and held on to the dream of being just like him. My hero. And after he died, that decision crystallized.
Except that what Ray’d had was a small office buried in the Colorado mountains and surrounded by booby traps. That was what I’d imagined.
My reality:
A four-story building erected in the middle of downtown L.A.
A staff of over a hundred.
A multi-million-dollar business.
A clientele consisting of millionaires and billionaires.
A family.
It’s on days like this, when I’m mentally and physically worn, and the migraines are ceaseless, and on hour thirty-six of my vacation I’m forced into the office because a client refuses to deal with anyone else, that I remember Ray’s words and think, “You were right, old man.”
Being needed is a curse.
When we get to the meeting room, I find Mitch Henderson seated at the table with his head in his hands. He glances up at the sound of our entrance and relief flits across his face.
He stands and thrusts his hand out to me. “Thank you so much for agreeing to see me, Mr. Garza.”
I give his hand a brief, but firm shake. A man’s handshake will tell you everything you need to know about him, Ray used to tell me. “Less than two days in on my vacation.”
“Sorry about that,” he mumbles, not sounding sorry in the least. He’s a man who wants what he wants and I’m what he wants right now. The man didn’t become a billionaire by taking no for an answer.
I round the table and sit across from him. “What can I help you with this time, Henderson?”