Holding

by Jillian Quinn

  “Yes, of course. I even waited until Ella disappeared up your driveway.”

  “It must be that stepmother of hers. What a foul woman that Clarissa.” She shakes her head in disgust. “I bet she has her locked away inside that house.”

  “Well, we need to find her,” I say, looping my finger through the handle of the cup.

  “At my age, I won’t be of much use to you, but I can show you how to get through the secret entrance between the properties. Maybe you can find a way to free our Ella. That poor girl deserves so much better than the hand she has been dealt.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” I sip the warm liquid down in a few gulps and wait for Mrs. F to finish. “Would you mind showing me the way? I have to know if she’s safe.”

  The corners of her mouth turn up into a tiny smile. “Of course, my dear.” She grips the edge of the table to stabilize herself, and I get up to help Mrs. F to her feet. “Ella was right about you.”

  “Does she talk about me a lot?”

  “You are the reason we had met in the first place. Ella was only going to that party to see you.”

  Her words bring a smile to my face. “Thank you for helping Ella. If we had never met, I don’t know where I would be right now.”

  “You were meant to find each other. Things happen for a reason. I strongly believe in that. I’m glad she found you. Otherwise, I’m not sure if she would have found the strength to disobey Clarissa.”

  Unhooking my arm from Mrs. F’s, she insists that she walk on her own and without my help until we reach the front door. She grabs a winter coat from the closet and a flashlight to lead the way.

  “I didn’t mean to get her in trouble. All I wanted was to take her out on a real date, the kind of date she deserves. She misses too many things with being locked up inside that house all the time. I guess I shouldn’t have talked her into doing that, huh?”

  “She could have said no. Love makes you do stupid things.”

  “You think she loves me.”

  I can’t see her face in the darkness, but I catch the slight bob of her head. “I just met you, and I can already tell how much you care about Ella. You love her, too, don’t you?”

  For as many times as I have thought about my feelings for Ella, I have yet to say them aloud. “Yes, I do.”

  “Be good to my niece. Make sure you treat her right. Girls like Ella are tough but also fragile. She needs someone even stronger than her to be the force in the relationship.”

  “Not a problem, Mrs. F. I would never do anything to hurt Ella. I will be the strength she needs.”

  She clutches my arm and stops in front of a tall row of hedges that reach up to the tree line. “That’s good to hear. Now, go get our girl back.”

  I thank her several times before I sneak onto Ella’s property through the makeshift door, hoping to find Ella, so I can tell her how I feel.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ella

  The longer I sit inside this room, the denser the air becomes, and I cannot breathe. Judging by the sunlight that creeps through the blinds every morning, four days have passed since my date with Shawn. Until now, I had only missed a few days of school for the flu back in junior year. I pride myself on showing up on time and making good grades.

  For years, school was all I had going for me. Because of that, I had put the time and effort into being good at that one thing. My dad was so proud when I’d received my acceptance letter to Strickland University. I remember the smile on his face and the glow in his eyes as if it were yesterday. Somehow, I feel as though I have failed him and failed myself for messing with the order in this house so close to graduation.

  Shawn was worth it. From the start, one night was all I had ever wanted from him. But he has given me so much more. I have to find an escape from this bedroom. Despite its renovations, the attic is freezing and much colder than the other rooms in this ancient house. Bundled up in the few blankets I found in the closet, I curl up on the bed and listen to my teeth chatter.

  Once a day, Clarissa opens the door a crack and slides a tray of food across the floor, before slamming it behind her. Feeding time has come and gone, and yet what I assume is oatmeal remains untouched on the floor. At first, I tried not to eat just to spite her. But, after I’d accepted this might be my permanent home, I gave in and practically licked the plates clean.

  This is stupid.

  Sitting here rolled into a ball isn’t going to get me out of here. Untangling myself from the blankets, I leave them in a pile on the bed and drag my sore and tired body to the closet to find something to wear. One nice thing about the renovation is that my parents had a bathroom with just enough room for a sink, toilet, and tiny stall shower installed. At least I don’t have to be a complete dirtball while trapped inside my cage.

  After I find another set of navy-and-white pinstripe pajamas that had belonged to my dad, I set the clothes on the toilet seat and turn on the shower, soaking in the warmth from the water on my hand. I undress and slip inside the stall, but it takes several minutes before my body temperature returns to normal.

  I do this every time the cold is too much for me to bear. I curse Clarissa as I stand under the water, soaking in its warmth as it rushes over my head and runs down my face.

  How can Clarissa hate me this much? Was there ever any love inside her heart? Did she ever care for me father?

  Of course, she’d wanted his money, but so did every available woman in town once they had found out Connor Fitzgerald was a widower and the Mainline’s most eligible bachelor. My mother was the only woman who saw him for the sweet, loving man he was and could have cared less about the money. She favored necessity over luxury.

  Dad loved her because of her pure heart and the love she showed to others. Before he died, my father told me I was just like her, pure of heart and full of love. Maybe that’s how Finch and I ended up together. Maybe that’s why I put up with Clarissa and her daughters for all these years. But I am done being nice. Kindness can only get you so far, and in my case, it has gotten me nowhere but sentenced to a life of servitude in this miserable house.

  As I dress, I consider all my options and weigh the good against the bad. I have nothing to use to pick the lock on the door, and even if I did, how would I get through the second or third lock? What kind of person installs three locks on an unused attic door?

  Clarissa would do something this ridiculous. But why? She never does anything without a purpose, which tells me she’s hiding something. But what? What could be so important for her to keep this room sealed up for all these years? My father built this room. What if he had kept it sealed up?

  On the surface, the room has the appearance of any other in the house. There is nothing special or at all unique about it—except for its contents. The first few days, I dug through the closets and drawers, hoping to find not only something warmer to wear but also a key or some way out of here. But all I discovered were my father’s belongings. His old sweaters—even the ugly ones he wore for Christmas to get my mother to laugh—were some of the few items I’d gone through, along with shoes, dress shirts, and other clothes he’d wear to work.

  Clarissa sold everything my father had owned and yet she stashed his personal belongings in the attic. That doesn’t add up. Why would she do that? She must have cared for my father more than she led me to believe. Has she taken her sorrow out on me? Am I the reminder of the husband she lost? Why would she treat me this way if she had ever cared about him, knowing this form of treatment would have broken his heart?

  I had never met someone as cruel as Clarissa, someone with such darkness inside her until my father was gone. Was it all for show? Was she always this vile? A small part of me always believed she was involved in his death, or at the very least, he died from a broken heart. Losing my mother was hard on both of us.

  One more time, I go through the closet, wondering if I could make something strong enough to hold me, as I shimmy down the back of the house. While Clarissa had thought
to lock the door, she forgot the window. I guess Clarissa hadn’t thought I would get desperate enough to consider scaling the side of the house as if I’m Spider-Man on a mission.

  What other options do I have?

  I’m not about to rot inside this attic and wither away to nothing while the man I love worries sick about me. Shawn must be beside himself by now and wondering if I’d made it inside the house that night. If not for me, then I have to do this for Shawn.

  Combing through the closet, I throw every piece of clothing or fabric onto the floor behind me. While this is not one of my finer ideas, I think of Rapunzel and how she used her hair. So, why not clothes?

  Once I strip every hanger and empty all the drawers, I spot something I hadn’t noticed before. My father’s old footlocker from the Marines is hidden in the corner of the closet beneath shoes wrapped in long plastic bags. It still amazes me that Clarissa had kept these things. All this time I held onto the charm necklace, thinking it was all I had left of my father.

  Being around his things once more fills me with so much happiness that my stomach hurts from dwelling on every memory we had shared. But this trunk holds a much different meaning. In fact, it’s the reason my parents met. Careful not to make too much noise, I drag the chest across the floor and plop down in front of it.

  Adrenaline courses through my veins, causing my heart to pound from the nervous anticipation, as I flip open the lid. My dad was a neat freak, and true to form, everything inside has a certain order that only he must’ve understood. I’m shocked Clarissa didn’t bother to go through it. Why waste the time to drag it up here along with his clothes and not even peek at its contents?

  If she had opened the trunk, the papers, journals, and personal items would be in complete disarray. But they are in perfect condition. Taking my time, I sort through family photos. So many memories are on these pages that I hold each album against my chest and try not to think too long about everything I have lost. I have to focus on what I need to do now.

  The journals contain what appear to be financial records and notarized papers for my father’s company. Held together by rubber bands are a few stacks of handwritten love letters my dad had sent to my mom while they were dating. I would not want my children reading personal notes I’d sent to their father. I skip over those.

  After I empty the contents on the floor, I fold one leg over the other and stare at the stacks scattered around me, wondering how this is everything my dad had left behind. He was a man of few words as well as possessions.

  I’m about to load it back up when I notice something white sticking up from a tear in the corner of the trunk. The lining is slightly worn, though most of it is in good condition, except for this one spot.

  Peeling back the fabric, I discover a small white envelope. My father had scrawled my name on the front in his meticulous handwriting. I slide my index finger beneath the seal to tear open the envelope and remove a few sheets of paper folded into squares.

  As I read the note from my dad, tears well up in my bottom lids and spill down my cheeks.

  Ella,

  If you are reading this, then my time has come, and I am truly sorry for leaving you. Being your father was my greatest accomplishment. My sweet girl, I love you more than life itself. I’m so proud of you and everything you have to offer this world. Never stop being the girl I raised to become a strong, smart woman.

  My company, the house, the cars, and everything I own, I leave to you. If you followed in my footsteps, then you will know what to do with my will.

  Love always,

  Dad

  Unable to breathe, my chest is tight from all the air sucked from my lungs by the news. My dad wrote the will right after my mother had died, long before he’d met Clarissa. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I study the Last Will and Testament of Connor Fitzgerald, naming me the sole beneficiary to his estate. This changes everything. Clarissa was never entitled to a cent. For a second, I feel victorious, until it sinks in that nothing can change until I get the hell out of this attic.

  I gather up the journals and letters and place them inside the chest, staring at everything one last time before I close the lid. Pushing myself up from the floor, I clutch the will in my hand and think of my next move. Then, I stuff it in my pocket for safe keeping. It’s worthless in Clarissa’s hands and even less useful if I lose it. I check my pocket three times just in case before I continue with the rest of my plan.

  Can I tie the blankets and clothes together to make something strong enough to lower myself into the backyard?

  I’m three floors above ground and not exactly limber. Even if I were, it would still take some serious skill to maneuver the windows on this side of the house without Clarissa noticing. She has this place under twenty-four seven surveillance. That must be how she knew I went out on Saturday night. I thought I knew all the blind spots around the property and inside the house, but as usual, when it comes to Clarissa, I am always wrong.

  It takes me about twenty minutes to figure out the best way to tie the shirts, pants, and blankets together to test their durability. The house has small patios situated on each floor. If I can make it to the one on the third floor without my stepsisters seeing me, I should be able to get myself down to the one off to the side of my bedroom.

  Unlike my boyfriend, I am not the least bit athletic and will probably sprain or break something. Worst case scenario I plummet to my death. Using the doorknob across the room as an anchor, I tie a knot as tight as I can, give it a few tugs, and open the window next to the bed.

  Slowly, I lower the knotted clothing and blankets outside, the chill from the cold seeping into my bones. Dressed in my father’s long sleeve pajama shirt and pants, I have to be quick about this or I will not make it long without cramping up from the weather. My body is already stiff from the conditions inside the room, let alone what awaits me on the other side.

  While I’m not super religious, I make the sign of the cross and say a silent prayer that I make it to the ground in one piece. Here goes, I tell myself, as I climb onto the sill and stare down. Why did I do that? Holy shit I can’t do this. What the hell am I thinking?

  Shrouded in darkness, I can barely make out the gazebo in my backyard, but I don’t miss the sound of someone’s feet smacking the pavement below.

  Just great. Busted, already.

  I’m not even thirty seconds into my brilliant plan, and Bitch Mother already has my number, waiting for me with her usual scowl. But the harder I focus, the more I realize it’s not a woman below. A tall man with broad shoulders sneaks around the terrace and peeks into the windows. I should be scared. What if he sees me? Okay, I’m a little freaked out. What could be worse than plunging to your death? Oh, right having some psycho do it for you.

  Paralyzed by fear, I sit there and watch him, the only sound I hear for miles coming from my teeth and the sounds of his shoes. Not until my leg goes numb from it pressing against the cold brick do I attempt to shake away the pain and almost losing my balance. A low cry escapes my mouth, and now, I have the attention of the man below.

  “Ella,” the man whispers, and I want to cry when I recognize the voice. It’s Shawn.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Shawn

  “Ella, do not even think about doing what I think you are about to do,” I whisper, trying not to attract the attention of Clarissa or her evil daughters. “We need to think of something more logical.”

  “Like what?”

  “I can call the police.”

  “No,” she cries. “Please don’t do that, Shawn.”

  “Then, I’m coming up there to get you.”

  “No, it’s too dangerous,” she says in a hushed tone. “Stay where you are. If you get hurt, you won’t have a career, and I don’t want to be the reason that happens.”

  “All I care about right now is you, so stay where you are, Ella. You will only end up hurting yourself. I will be fine. For once, just listen to me.”

  “I can come to you
. Maybe meet you halfway. Would that work?”

  Judging by the height of the patio on the second floor, I can use the table beneath it to climb up the back of the house and rescue Ella. I cannot believe it has come to this.

  What kind of person would do this to a young girl, especially one as sweet and innocent as Ella?

  Here, I’d thought my dad was an asshole for walking out on my mom and me when I was a kid, but at least he did us a favor by leaving. Putting up with Clarissa’s shit hasn’t made a bit of difference in Ella’s life.

  “I think so,” I say, keeping my fingers crossed that this turns out okay, as I hop up onto the wooden table slick from the cold. “If you lower yourself out the window and swing to the left, I can catch you from the balcony.”

  I have my doubts, and I’m sure Ella does, too. But what choice does she have? We have to work together. With my height and the table combined, it doesn’t take much for me to grip the edge of the deck. Swinging myself up and onto it, the balcony is what poses more of a challenge. Right about now, I wish I’d followed Coach’s meal plans and workouts this season. Being in better shape would come in handy.

  I can do this. Ella needs me.

  Her safety is my number one concern. After several attempts, I can hook my legs through the slots in the wood beams, using them to anchor me, as I pull myself up and over the ledge.

  “Oh, thank God,” Ella mutters under her breath, relieved. “One more, babe. You can do it.”

  With her words fresh in my mind, I think of the end game and repeat the same motions until I am on the top balcony, out of breath and gasping for air. The cold adds another complication to an already challenging task. But I can do this. Together, we will get Ella away from this house.

  “Okay, come to me, Ella. But be careful. Take it slow.”