The Tutor

by K Larsen

  I turn eight shades of red and fold my hands in my lap. Holden reaches across the seats and puts his hand on top of mine. “I’m just kidding, Nora, relax.”

  Nora

  “That bastard!” Eve, I’m learning, is a loose cannon. Holden would not have liked that about her. She throws her water bottle at the wall. “Who leaves a child alone, stranded for an entire day?” she asks.

  I look to Agent Brown. “I need a break.”

  “No,” Eve says. “You haven’t said anything worthwhile yet.”

  “And I’m not going to, if I can’t think straight. I need to rest. I need . . .”

  “It’s fine. We can break. Nora, does four work for you?” Agent Brown asks.

  I nod. Eve gives me a murderous look.

  “For what it’s worth, he always made sure she was okay. He only hurt her once. I protected her the best I could.”

  Eve’s posture is rigid. “I want her back.”

  “We will get her back.”

  “What makes you so sure. Between you and me, we have no useful information.”

  “Prey doesn’t hunt the hunter.”

  “What does that even mean?” Eve shouts. Salve grabs her arm and leads her out of the room. Agent Brown circles behind my wheelchair.

  “You could be less . . . nonchalant. It’s her younger sister missing. She raised Charlotte on her own for years.” This tidbit stabs at my heart. My old heart. The one that was human and loved people. The old heart that felt the despair of being a child and losing parents. The one that had no one to look up to. I bite my lip until I taste copper. What about me? Don’t I deserve a family and love? I went for so long alone. Abandoned by the only family I had left. Holden filled a space I hadn’t realized existed. Lotte, too. We were whole together.

  “And I really wish you would stop doing that.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Making yourself bleed. Don’t think I didn’t notice your palms when Eve came in. Or your lip just now.”

  Have people always been this clever or am I just that naive?

  As Agent Brown wheels me to my room, I see Salve and Eve in the hall together talking heatedly. What would it be like to lose the one thing you were in charge of? A part of your DNA. It’s torture. It would be like death. I know because I have lost it.

  “Lotte was the only thing on my mind when I woke up. When I escaped, it was for her.”

  Agent Brown ignores my statement. “I’m concerned about your mental wellbeing, Nora. I have a psychiatrist coming in to meet with you. I want her to do a full evaluation.”

  I twist my hands in my lap as we roll down the hall.

  “Is that necessary?”

  “I think so. And better to be safe than sorry. We all need a little help from time to time.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “You’ll need to sign a waiver.”

  Him

  Lotte moans while tossing and turning. She is, no doubt, in some discomfort. I reach over and feel her forehead. This happened to Laura once, too; but Mother didn’t catch it right away and Laura almost died. She died anyway—but not then. And at least she got to have a friend for a little while.

  I wet a cloth in the bowl, then wring it out. I decide to sleep in Lotte’s room with her for this very reason. We were out—exposed—too long. She slept for twenty-four hours when we returned. She woke up to use the outhouse and went right back to sleep. Plus, if she woke in the night I couldn’t chance her running. I push her hair back from her face. Her neck is slippery with fever. I place the cloth under her neck to help cool her off.

  From the box under my bed, I pull the last of Nora’s things out. She kept a fever reducer in her toiletry bag. I pop two of them from the bottle into my hand. In the kitchen, I dissolve them in a glass of water.

  Lifting Lotte’s head, I tip the glass to her lips. “Drink, little one.” She groans and turns her head away. “Drink or I will make you.” At this, her eyes open. She looks up at me. She brings two fingers to my neck and holds them there.

  “I want to die,” she says and drops her hand.

  Red hot anger rushes through me. “You wouldn’t do that to her! You will live because she loved you.”

  “Who? Eve or Nora?” she asks. Her eyes are glassy and her lips look swollen.

  “Drink,” I bark and push the glass against her lips once more.

  This time, she drinks.

  Dr. Richardson

  “Dr. Richardson’s office,” I say.

  “Hi, this is Agent Brown with the FBI. I need to speak with Dr. Robin Richardson.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “This is she. How can I help you, Agent Brown?”

  “I need a psych eval as soon as possible at Pocketville Hospital.”

  “The hospital has many psychiatrists at their disposal, why are you calling me?”

  “Our victim is sensitive, we need a specialist. I think there’s some Stockholm Syndrome going on. My director said you’re the best in the area.”

  I sigh and look at my calendar. “Can you bring a case file over today?”

  “I’m already on my way, Doc.” The line goes dead and I let out a huff.

  I hang up the phone and roll my shoulders. I was preparing to leave for the evening as I have no more appointments but it looks as though those plans have been thwarted. Pulling my cell from my pocket, I text my neighbor and ask if he’s available to scoot to my house to let the dog out. I make a coffee, wrap my hands around the warm mug and wait for Agent Brown. Becoming an expert was something I was passionate about after the disappearance of my college roommate. She appeared over a year later in a grocery store on the arm of her captor. She was only twenty miles from school. One of her former high school teachers was there, shopping, when she spotted her. Amelia refused to speak to her teacher when approached. Long story short, my vibrant roommate was no more. The teacher called the police while following Amelia and her captor home. Of course, they arrested him and recovered her; but she was never the same again.

  I tried to help. I tried to remain her friend, but the damage was so severe, that eventually I channeled my energy into a career. I needed to understand how it was possible to force someone to love you, or at least be loyal. How someone who started as a victim, would remain willingly after time. The very idea it is possible for a person to bend and break so thoroughly, fascinates me. Occasionally, I still visit Amelia at the state psychiatric hospital. She never was able to turn her life around. After her third suicide attempt, her parents had her committed. I cried for her that day.

  The knock comes much quicker than I anticipated, then again, Pocketville isn’t a large town. Mug in one hand, I swing the door open.

  “Robin?” she says.

  “Dr. Richardson,” I say and hold a hand out toward her.

  “Sorry, Agent Samantha Brown. FBI.” She shakes my hand too firmly. Judging by appearances, she’s mid-thirties and work is her life. Her outfit is non-descript, she probably doesn’t shop much, her eyes are tired—late nights working and her hair is just long enough to be feminine but not long enough to be a nuisance.

  “Come in, Agent Brown,” I say and gesture.

  She strides in confidently and plants herself in an arm chair.

  “Tell me about this case.”

  “How long have you been here in Pocketville?” she asks.

  “What does that have to do with this case?”

  “Just wanted to know if you remember The Tutor from the news. It was fairly local to this area.”

  I blink. “I do. Yes. The man who placed a classified ad in the local papers. Young girls went missing.”

  “Well, I have one woman Eve Johnston, who escaped a little under a year ago, and now, Nora Robertson . . .” I clear my throat. “ Yeah, Nora Robertson—real name . . . who we think has been held captive by him for the last nine months.”

  “Two survivors? I thought the girls were never found.”

  “The first two weren’t. Thing is, Doc, Nora is reluctant to
share and when she does, it almost sounds like a rosy life and the other victim’s younger sister is still with him.”

  “How old is the sister?”

  “Twelve.”

  “And she’s been stuck with this man for how long?”

  “About two years.”

  “What makes you think she’s alive still?”

  “Listen, everything you need to know is in this file. Can you do the evaluation or not?”

  She hands the file to me. This case has piqued my interest. I nod and take the file from her. “I’m going back to the hospital to speak with her some more.”

  I stand. “Don’t do that.” I check my watch. It’s four p.m. “You questioned her today for how long?” Agent Brown shoots me a weary look.

  “A few hours.”

  “And she’s injured—physically?”

  Agent Brown nods. “Yes.”

  I shake my head at her. The first cardinal sin is wearing a victim out to the point of not cooperating. And if she is or has suffered a mental break, simply being surrounded by people could cause her to shut down further mentally.

  “Let her rest. No more questioning today. I will see her bright and early in the morning. Go home and get some rest, Agent.”

  She shoots me a curious look but says, “Deal,” and leaves.

  Agent Brown

  I slide off my shoulder holster and hang my jacket on the hook by the door. Boxes still line the living room wall, despite my having lived here for two years now. I’m barely home enough to care. The kitchen, bathroom and bedroom are unpacked and apparently house everything I need on a daily basis so why bother with the rest?

  There was a time when my emotions would have clouded my ability to do my job but not now. I need to get Nora talking. I can’t afford to go easy on her or to let my emotions rule our interactions. Of course, I have compassion for the situation, but I can’t let it govern this investigation. I swing the fridge door open and grab a beer. Using the countertop, I pop the cap off and take a long pull of the hoppy flavor. I need to nail this case. I’m counting on it. I blew the last case I was assigned and my shot at the promotion I’d been vying for. All because I’d let my feelings usurp protocol. My director had alluded to it being because I was a woman. I’d almost earned a suspension for my rebuttal.

  I slide open the back door and light up a joint. It keeps the guilt at bay. I’d be jobless if caught but it’s the only thing that relaxes me besides alcohol. Jenny Tamway. The case that almost cost me my life and my career. She is always on my mind. I lost her after promising to keep her safe. I lied to her. I close my eyes and inhale. I let the smoke seep out slowly. Abducted at fifteen. Escaped three months later. Golden hair. Big innocent eyes. The serial killer we’d been trying to catch for over a year, now desperate to make sure Jenny never talked. I’d been at her parents’ house with her for questioning when Bill Clancy Delong broke in. Shots were fired. Bill was hit. So was I. Mr. Tamway was grazed by a stray shot as Bill dragged Jenny from the house. I didn’t call for backup. I didn’t call for an ambulance for Mr. Tamway. I didn’t follow protocol. I chased them. Alone. I was so close, too. But Bill won. He drove him and Jenny through a guardrail and into a ravine. Neither lived.

  So this case has to go well. I take another hit before heading back inside. I spread out Eve’s file on the kitchen island, while I take another slug of my beer. I need to find concrete connections between the two stories. There must be facts that can help find Lotte and Holden. I won’t let another one slip from my grasp.

  Nora

  Just the other morning, I was with him. I woke up with his arm heavy across my waist. Content. He heard my prayers. He cared. Now I’m here, doused in fluorescent light and noise. There is no more silence. No familiarity or comfort here. Does he know to read to her in bed every night? Will Holden know to braid Charlotte’s long hair before she sleeps, so it does not tangle? Anxiety stiffens my body as I lay trapped in the hospital bed. If Agent Brown hasn’t gotten the information she needs, she will become desperate. Desperate is bad. I know desperate. I lie in bed the rest of the day, thinking of Holden, wondering how I am to answer their questions, while keeping the Clarks safe, while keeping Lotte safe.

  I have not yet finished my breakfast when my door swings open.

  “Hello Nora, I’m Dr. Richardson but you can call me Robin, if you like.” She extends her hand but I do not take it. I like the name Robin. It reminds me of the birds at the cabin. Agent Brown hovers in the doorway.

  “You’ve got an hour,” Agent Brown says and closes the door.

  Dr. Richardson is in her fifties with short, light curls, a full mouth bracketed by deep smile lines, and a no-nonsense manner.

  “What do you do?” I ask.

  “I help people work through their problems.”

  I push my breakfast tray away. “I think that’s going to be a problem with me.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I don’t have any issues.”

  “What do you have then?” She asks.

  I think a moment. “I have a ruptured mind.”

  “Okay then, I mend ruptured minds,” she says.

  I have nothing else to say, so I say nothing. We pass thirty minutes like this. In a battle of will. She takes notes—of what, I can’t imagine. I twist my hands in my lap.

  “Nora,” she says. I don’t like the way she says my name. “Why are you so reluctant to speak to me?”

  “It’s not you. I’m doing my best to keep everyone safe.” This has nothing to do with Holden and is true. It is safe.

  Dr. Richardson cocks her head and stops writing. “Who’s everyone?”

  “The Clarks and Lotte.”

  “Who are the Clarks?”

  “They are the only family I have. They aren’t really family. Just my best friend and her family.”

  “Why aren’t they safe?” I shake my head at her. “Okay, what can you tell me? What information is safe to share?”

  Nora

  Lotte has taken me to the river. Holding her dress in her hands, she wades in the clear river water. I weave another daisy into my flower crown for her. “Keep going,” I call out. She tosses me a look over her shoulder, but proceeds to the eight times table.

  “Eight times six is forty-eight,” she says, as I stand up. Her eyes glint with mischief as I walk to her. My second step into the cool water, Lotte crouches.

  “Do not do it you, little punk,” I warn. She cocks her head and before I can turn away, she lifts her hands and with them, a wave of water. Clutching the flower crown I made for her, I use my free hand to wipe water from my eyes. I stomp out of the water, toss the crown on the bank of the river and sprint for her. Lotte squeals and tries to move, but she is not as fast as I am. I snake one arm around her and plunge us both under water.

  “I’m gonna be in trouble,” she says with a pout.

  “For what?” She gestures to her soaked dress. “Oh, please,” I say.

  Charlotte leaps toward me. I catch her in my arms—just barely—and spin us around before submerging us again.

  When we come up for air, I grin at her. “We need to go over vocab. It will give you time to dry off, though.” I ruffle her hair as I head back to shore. She follows closely. She places the daisy crown on her head and beams at me. I lie back in the grass, soaking up the sun. “Let’s start with Fastidious,” I say.

  Lotte scoots her chair closer to my end of the table. I smile at her. She eyes the wild flowers on the table Holden picked for me wearily. Holden carries his plate and sits.

  “Tell me what words you learned today.” Lotte and I look at each other for a moment before bursting out in giggles.

  “Fastidious and imperious,” she says, stumbling over the pronunciation just a little.

  Holden cocks his head. “And what do they mean?”

  Lotte stares at her plate. “Demanding and domineering.”

  He blinks. His eyes vacant. “Why was that so funny?” Holden asks.

&nb
sp; “It wasn’t,” she mumbles. Her body is rigid and she doesn’t make eye contact with us. Fear rolls off her in waves. Not innocent, ‘oops, I-spilled-milk-I’m-in-trouble-but-not-really,’ like real palpable fear.

  “Holden, relax,” I say. He inhales deeply but doesn’t take his eyes off Lotte. The rest of dinner is spent in awkward silence.

  We all clear the table and while Holden washes the dishes, I read to Lotte. It’s a welcome distraction. Something about dinner rubs me the wrong way. It doesn’t sit well in my gut. I am not family, I remind myself. I am an employee. It’s none of my business how Holden raises Charlotte.

  I focus my energy on Lotte. I can still turn the evening around and go to bed, knowing she will have a smile on her face. “So how are you liking the book? Are you understanding it?” I ask.

  Lotte presses her fingers to my neck. She has a habit of doing that while I lay in her bed with her to read. “I don’t know. It’s good but we’re almost done with it.”

  I smile. “That’s okay though, we have more books to read.”

  “But . . .”

  I pull her hand away from my neck. “Why do you do that?” I ask, while holding her hand. They are small and despite working so hard daily, are soft.

  She shrugs and rolls facing away from me. “It proves you’re here.”

  I cock my head. “Why wouldn’t I be here, Lotte?”

  “I used to see Eve—after she left. But I couldn’t touch her. I like to touch things to feel they’re alive,” she whispers.

  I roll Lotte over so we’re almost nose to nose. I pretend to take her pulse at her neck. She half smiles at the gesture. “She was my sister.” Her voice is so small, that I end up squinting, as if that will help me hear her better. I want to cry. I understand her. I remember thinking I heard my mom after she died. Sometimes, when I was waking from a night’s sleep, I could have sworn I smelled her, too. I don’t know how long Holden and Eve were together or why Lotte lives with him, instead of her parents, but she clearly felt strongly about her. My heart breaks for her. “I didn’t know you felt that close to her but sometimes relationships don’t work out. You have me for now. Am I okay to hang out with?”