by Emma Quinn
I swallowed at the sticky lump in my throat. “I’ll… I’ll see you at work, Stephen.”
He didn’t answer.
I left as quickly as I could, glad to finally breathe some fresh city air. It was dark out, the dim orange glow of streetlights overhead the only thing lighting my path forward. I wasn’t familiar with the area, and I didn’t feel like waiting around in the dark for an Uber to pick me up. I followed the sounds of traffic until I came to a busy intersection, which was well-lit and had street signs up in plain view. From here, I’d likely be able to orient myself and make my way home.
But before I could, I heard rushed footsteps behind me. When I turned, I found Stephen there, bent over with his hands on his knees while he panted for breath.
“L-let me at least drive you home,” he said. “It’s not safe for you to be out this late.”
“No, that’s okay. I can get home from here.”
“But you live on the other side of town. That’s like a thirty minute walk from here.”
A thought occurred to me. It chilled me to the very core.
“Hey, Stephen?”
“Yeah?”
“That time you showed up at my apartment. You said you were jogging, right?”
His expression darkened.
“Yeah, so?” he challenged, taking another step toward me.
I took retreated a single step. “That wasn’t… You weren’t jogging, were you?”
Everything about his posture was off. I wasn’t looking at the same, timid light technician that started working on my team a little over a month ago. This was someone bigger, taller, meaner –a monster finally dropping its façade.
“I thought for sure that boyfriend of yours was going to drop kick me.”
I raised a hand, tried to keep him away. “Look, just let me go home, Stephen. I’m–” I bumped into a trashcan on the sidewalk and nearly fell over. I struggled to keep my balance and continued backwards, too frightened to show my back to Stephen. “I’m going home now, Stephen. Let’s just part ways, yeah?”
If I turned and ran, would he be able to catch me? He wasn’t exactly the epitome of speed and strength. But if I ran, where would I run to? I could scream for help, but would it arrive before Stephen grabbed me? What was he even planning to do? He didn’t look to have any weapons on him. I could try my luck and make a break for it, but then what? I had to be smart about this.
One wrong move, and I could be in a world of trouble.
Behind my back, I mashed the send button my phone. I couldn’t tell if I deleted the message, made it incoherent, or actually sent it off. I was too scared to take my eyes off of Stephen to check.
At the drop of a hat, he lunged for me. I tried to scream, but he grabbed one of my wrists and yanked down hard enough to pull my arm out of its socket. He clapped his other hand over my mouth and nose, his fat palm suffocating me as I frantically tried to take a breath. I struggled with all my might. I kicked and I punched, but not before the burning sensation in my lungs took over and my vision whited out.
21
Dianna
I
opened my eyes suddenly.
I was in someone’s basement, the heavy scent of musk, garbage, leftover takeout, mold, and cigarette burning the inside of my nostrils. It was dark, a single hanging lightbulb suspended over my head illuminating the room, highlighting the glitter of dust particles in the air. I was sitting awkwardly in a wooden chair, my ankles duct taped to its front legs and my hands taped behind my back.
The urge to panic was a great one. The memories of Stephen suffocating me until I blacked out resurfaced, chilled me worse than a bucket of ice water being tossed over my head. I knew I needed to keep my mind as clear as possible. I’d seen enough true crime documentary series to know that the worst thing to do in these sorts of situations was to lose my head –both figuratively and literally.
The basement wasn’t much to look at. Exposed wooden wall frames and ceiling, ugly moss-green shag carpet. There was a couch just off to my left, some rickety old thing you’d find sitting out on the curb, abandoned and unwanted. Patches of its scratchy plaid fabric had been torn out, yellow stuffing and springs sticking out here and there. The center cushion saw the most use, made evident by the discernable ass print on it.
There was a flimsy coffee table just before the couch, covered in what looked to be empty beer and soda cans, white Styrofoam takeout containers covered in day-old dipping sauces, and a pile of comic books fanned out over its surface. There was a TV, too, propped up against the wall. It sat on a pile of books for a TV stand. On screen, the evening celebrity gossip show –In The Now– was on. The volume was quiet, but I was able to make out every word.
“Our latest story tonight,” the host said like he was a serious journalist. “Billie Whaleson has issued a public statement against the sexual harassment allegations set forth by her ex-fiancé, Peter J. Almay, and several other individuals who support his claims that Billie would blackmail him with nude pictures in exchange for gifts, sexual favors, and even –in his case– a prolific marriage. Several young men and women have come forward confirming that Billie has used her fame in the past to extort them, going so far as to get her victims intoxicated in order to take pictures of them in precarious situations.”
The television screen cut to video footage of Billie behind a wooden podium, several tiny microphones attached to grab a clear sound bite. She was dressed far more conservatively than I was used to, noticeably lacking her heavy makeup, over the top hair, and revealing clothes. Billie had a modest string of pearls around her neck, and was dressed in a black dress with a baby blue knit cardigan over top. Cameras flashed as she spoke, her eyes red and bleary.
“I would firstly like to apologize,” she aid into the microphone, all shaky. Billie kept looking down at the podium, no doubt reading off a speech that had been written on her behalf by the team of lawyers standing just behind her to the left. “I apologize for my actions and behavior. To those I’ve hurt, I can’t begin to describe my sincerest remorse. I will take full responsibility for what I’ve done.”
For the most part, her apology was convincing. I almost felt sorry for her. If I wasn’t currently preoccupied with the fact that I was being kept held hostage, I would have delved more into the story.
My phone was nowhere to be found. I probably dropped it when Stephen grabbed me. There were no windows to let in any natural light, so I had no sweet clue what time of day it was or how long I’d been here. If it had been a couple of days, Rachel would likely have tried to check up on me to see why I wasn’t at work. And if I managed to send that text to Nathan, maybe he’d be on the lookout, too.
Or would he?
I regret how we left things. In light of the whole Billie situation, maybe Nathan really had been telling the truth. I was being a jerk, and I knew it. I’d been too proud to forgive him, and now I may very well die at the hands of a psycho colleague before I got to see him again.
People said hindsight was twenty-twenty.
Looking back, Nathan really was good to me. His lie wasn’t even that big of a deal. I should have just let it slide. Nathan clearly cared about me, treated me with more respect than all of the men in my life combined and then some. When I spoke, I could tell that he was actually listening. He showered me with gifts and home-made dinners and made me laugh even when I didn’t think it was possible.
I should have listened to him.
I should have apologized. I should have given us another chance.
The basement door creaked open on its rusty hinges, a flood of light streaming in from up the rickety wooden steps. The stairs groaned in protest as someone heavy descended into the basement, smacking their lips as they devoured a burger.
“You’re up,” Stephen said flatly. “About time. I was worried I killed you.”
I spoke as evenly as I could, frightened that I’d provoke him. “Stephen, please let me go. You don’t have to do this. We can pretend this neve
r happened, alright? We can go back to being friends and go to work like we always do, right?”
He cut in front of me and slumped down on the couch, facing away to watch TV. “I thought you’d be different. You were so nice to me.”
“I’m nice to everyone.”
“That was my mistake,” he continued like he hadn’t heard me. “It’s not everyday someone stands up for me, you know? I really like you.”
“What’s your plan, Stephen? Are you going to keep me here forever? Is that how this works?”
He sighed, running a hand through his greasy hair. “I don’t know. I don’t know.” He stood up and walked over to me, kneeling down before me to place his hands on my knees. I recoiled at his touch, but obviously couldn’t move away. “If you could just see things my way, maybe we could move past this little… This little incident. I just want you to like me as much as I like you.”
“Stephen–”
“I told you already. Call me Steve.”
“Steve,” I said slowly. “Please, let me go. We can walk away from this. I swear, I won’t tell anybody what’s happened. Everything can go back to normal.”
“You don’t get it,” he snapped. “You don’t get it, do you? Look at me. You’d never pay me attention a second longer than you have to. Girls like you always want the bad boy, the rich guy. Why do you never look at guys like me? We’re good people to, you know. I’m going to prove that to you. If you have to stay here with me until you see how much I love you, then so be it.”
“Steve, stop–”
“You’ve been brainwashed, Dianna. You’ve been trained by television and movies and books that the man of your dreams is some hunk with a god-complex and rippling muscles.”
“I haven’t been brainwashed,” I replied, indignant. “That’s not true.”
“Oh, please. What about Nathan? He’s exactly like that. He owns a fucking company and he thinks he’s king of the world who can whoever and whatever he wants.”
“That’s not true,” I snapped. “Nathan’s sweeter and kinder than you’ll ever know. He founded a soup kitchen in my hometown. He’s generous and he’s funny. He deliberately didn’t tell me about his job because he wanted me to get to know him for him.”
Stephen reached out and cupped my face. There was nothing gentle or intimate about it. When Nathan held me, he treated me with care. Stephen only treated me like a thing.
“I can change,” he said, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “I’ll become just like him if it means I can have you. Please give me a chance, Dianna. I’m a good guy, I promise. I’ll take care of you. I’ll do everything to make you happy. Just– Hey, look at me. Just give a little guy like me a chance.”
He leaned in, moist lips puckering to kiss me. I tried to kick him, but the binds around my ankles were too strong. I tried to scream, but I was genuinely scared that his hands would slip down and wrap around my throat. I couldn’t even pull away because his grip on my face was too strong.
Our lips made contact, and I hated every second of it. Stephen’s breath was terrible, like he’d just woke up and was suffering from some serious morning breath. It smelled like sour milk, garbage, fatty foods, and an ashtray combined. He tried teasing my lips apart with his tongue, but I sealed my lips shut as tight as possible. I squeezed my eyes closed and tried not to think about how Stephen was slobbering all over my mouth and chin.
A sliver of my soul rotted and died. No one was going to come and rescue me. I was going to be trapped here forever if I didn’t come up with a plan. But my brain was fried. I couldn’t think straight. My hands and feet were tingling due to the lack of circulation, my head was pounding, and my heart was in a million tiny pieces. Any hope I had was now crushed beneath Stephen’s wet, forceful kiss.
When his hands roamed up my thighs, I wanted to puke. Anger blinded me. How dare he touch me like this. How dare he use me and treat me like a thing and not a person. If my hands weren’t taped behind me, I would have thrown all my fury into the punches I’d rain down on him. I’d bash in his skull. I’d scream and cry and curse until I felt better because how dare he do something like this to me, to anyone.
And then, just as suddenly as Stephen forced himself on me, he stopped. The crack of something wooden against his skull splintered the air. Stephen’s body slumped over, a spray of red decorating the side of his face.
“Get your fucking hands off of her,” Nathan hissed.
22
Nathan
D
ianna – I’m so sorry, Nathan. I might be in trouble. Can you please pick me up?
Dianna – asfj;lwe
Dianna – wqeuzcka,,we
Dianna – AWRZK,
I was confused at first. Then alarmed. What was going on? I texted back immediately.
Nathan – Where are you? What’s going on?
I paced around my apartment’s living room. Given enough time, I’d be able to groove a hole into the floor. The nerves in my spine tightened. Snapped. What the hell was happening?
I left Pelican Media shortly after I tried to see her. Dianna made herself perfectly clear. I wasn’t going to lie, when she agreed to go out to dinner with that guy, it hurt. It hurt me more than I thought it would –like she’d yanked my heart right out of my chest and crushed it beneath her heel. And the worst thing? I knew I deserved it.
When I got home, I called my lawyer. Billie Whaleson wasn’t going to get away with what she did. It was an invasion of privacy. It was sexual harassment. I was sure that once I got my lawyer on the line, she’d be able to pick Billie apart charge by charge. My reputation was on the line. It didn’t look like she sent that picture to anyone else, but if she had, the scandal and potential fallout could put my position at Monteverde at risk. If word got out and was framed the wrong way, stockholders could pull out of shares –potentially tank the business.
I walked back and forth across the living room. Waiting. What was with the quick succession of weird messages only for nothing to follow? Was Dianna alright? Was she safe?
She’d agreed to go to dinner with that tubby guy. I couldn’t remember his name.
“Stefan? Steven?” I thought aloud. I couldn’t be sure. Since Dianna wasn’t answering, I was going to have find answers all by myself. I dialed Matty’s number. He picked up on the third tone.
“What?” He said, snappier than usual. I heard a young woman giggling in the background. Was it that woman from Dianna’s work?
“Rachel Pelican,” I stated. “Is she there with you?”
“Er, yeah… How’d you know?”
“Doesn’t matter. I need to talk to her.”
“Why?”
“Matty, for fuck’s sake. Help a guy out here and put her on the damn phone. This is serious.”
“Fine, fine.” I heard a bit of shuffling going on, a bit of whispering.
Finally, Rachel answered. “Hello? Mister Alexander.”
“Dianna. I think she’s in trouble.”
“What?”
“She was talking to a guy earlier. Stef something.”
“Stephen?”
“Yeah. Him. I need his full name.”
“I’m sorry, Mister Alexander. I can’t give out that kind of information over the phone.”
“Rachel, Dianna’s in danger. I know it. I need you to give me his last name.”
“I– Are you serious?”
“Yes. Answer me.”
Rachel sighed. “His name is Stephen Gipkly.”
“Where does he live?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have that information, uh… I’m not at the office. I don’t have that info.”
Matty piped up in the background. “We’re at my apartment, dude.”
“Shit,” I grumbled. “Okay. Stephen Gipkly. Thank you. I’ll see what I can do.”
I hung up the phone before either of them could weigh me down with questions. I stormed off to my office and booted up my computer. It was directly connected to Monteverde’s secure servers so tha
t I’d be able to access my work from if the occasion ever arose.
Monteverde’s client base in California was in the millions. The likelihood that this Stephen Gipkly had used our services to purchase something was likely, especially considering we could offer free shipping with no minimum price restrictions unlike some other services. It was, of course, illegal for me to be looking up his information for personal reasons.
But I was the boss, and I decided when exceptions could be made.
This was definitely one of those times.
Gipkly wasn’t a very common name in these parts. I pulled up only two profiles with the exact name, one of which looked to be a duplicate account under a different email. It had been opened up several years ago, but hadn’t ever been used, likely because the guy forget he’d opened the account or he lost access to his previous email.
Within seconds I had a full name, order history, credit card information, and most importantly: his address. According to his profile, his shipping and billing address were the same, which meant that the likelihood that I’d find him there was incredibly high. His order history was what concerned me the most. Duct tape, condoms, rope, a pocket knife.
“What the actual fuck.”
It could all be circumstantial. It could be that he needed duct tape for home repairs. He could need condoms because he was a responsible guy. Rope could be used for a number of things like putting up a swing. Or binding people. And the pocket knife?
Okay. Maybe his shopping cart was cause for concern.
I tried calling Dianna’s number one last time. If I could just hear her voice, if I could know that she was okay, maybe I wouldn’t have to kick this guy’s door down.
“Hello?” Someone on the other end answered. It was a woman, but it wasn’t Dianna.
“Who is this?”
“You called me. Who is this?”
“This is my girlfriend’s phone,” I stated. “What are you doing with it?”