Torment

by Dahlia Kent

  “He was fine when I got home. Kyle put him to watch TV and that’s how I found him. He’s an easygoing kid.”

  “Did you tell … Sheila? … uhh … Matt’s mom when she came to pick him up?”

  “It’s Shannon. Yeah, I told her. She freaked and cursed out Kyle.” Her voice was monotonous as if she were reading aloud a grocery list. “Then he cursed me out. He said I had no right to tell Shannon. He said it was my fault he was never going to see his son again.”

  “It’s not your fault, Sophia. He’s an irresponsible father and he knows that. He just wants someone to blame. Don’t accept it. You did the right thing.”

  “The right thing was to mind my own damn business because no good deed goes unpunished.”

  She rubbed her arm and winced. She was wearing long sleeves today. In the time I’d known Sophia, she always wore clothing that advertised skin.

  Had Kyle done more than curse her out?

  “Sophia … did Kyle hurt you?”

  Heavy silence stretched on as Sophia’s expression cycled through discomfort, shame then anger.

  “He didn’t.”

  You’re lying.

  I moved closer. “If you need to talk to someone, I’m here.”

  “Thanks, but that’s not necessary.” Her tone was sharp as she dropped her arms to her sides. “There’s nothing to talk about so stop bugging me about it.”

  With the swiftness her anger rose, it lessened and visible remorse took its place.

  “I’m sorry, Grace.” She briefly shut her eyes and shook her head. “I’m really sorry I spoke to you that way. That was rude and uncalled for. I—I should get back to work.”

  She turned and hurried out the door. Tension persisted between us for the rest of the day. I hid in my backroom and worked on Elena’s dress. Yesterday Sophia had offered to stay late, but I told her it was fine for her to leave at her normal time. It was a relief when she accepted. We said our goodbyes and wished each other well for the coming weekend.

  My relief didn’t last long. Standing by the door enjoying the summer warmth and alone time, I remembered the man from yesterday. Along with the disturbing clarity of his handsomeness came the sense of foreboding he’d inspired in me. I closed earlier than usual again, promising I would stop this idiocy next week.

  A mild antibacterial scent hung in the air when I got home. Our cleaner, Rose, must have just left before I arrived. It was a testament to how early I closed today because I rarely saw Rose unless I took a day off. I showered then got dinner started. After I ate and washed the dishes, I sat in the living room with my laptop to catch up on admin work.

  I fiddled with my online advertisements to improve their performance, then updated my accounting spreadsheets. The tedious task of replying to customers was almost at an end when I received an email from my bank.

  WITHDRAWAL SUCCESSFUL read the subject line. What? I didn’t make any recent withdrawals. It had to be some sort of scam. Nevertheless, I opened the email.

  Hello Grace Kennedy, this is an automatic notification that the money withdrawal of $36,730 (USD) conducted today at 3:23 EST was successful. Please do not reply to this email.

  A lurching sensation filled my stomach, my entire body frozen. Wide-eyed, slack-jawed, I reread the sentence twice. A third time. Then a fourth. The alarming text remained the same. I quickly opened a new tab and signed in to my online bank account.

  It took an eternity for the page to load. Every spin of the dark blue loading circle against the white background elevated my heart rate. Please wait while we load your details, it asked in a cheery note, unconcerned that I was on the brink of panic.

  Then the loading page disappeared revealing the horrible truth. A sound of dismay escaped me and I clapped my hand over my mouth. I stared in horror at the bold, black digits beside the name of the joint account Robert and I shared.

  Gone was the tidy figure of $36,730.23 we’d worked so hard to save for the past six years.

  In its place glared three ugly digits: $0.23.

  That’s impossible.

  But a click through the transaction history revealed it happened. The customer service rep over the phone confirmed it too.

  “Our records show the transaction occurred via teller service at your local branch, and was approved by one of the joint account holders.”

  I’d worked a myriad of customer service jobs in the past. My level of helpfulness lowered to zero whenever I encountered an impolite or belligerent customer. However, my fury prevented me from masking the bite to my tone.

  “There must be a mistake. Only my husband and I have access to the account. My husband is in Michigan and I certainly did not authorize a withdrawal.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I understand your frustration.” Her tone was cool professionalism unlike mine. “But if you did not authorize the transaction then maybe your husband isn’t in Michigan.”

  Silence hung between us before I wordlessly ended the call. I stood and paced to exert the angry energy coursing through me. I needed a clear head while I formulated what I would say to Robert.

  Confident I wouldn’t launch into a tirade the moment he answered, I dialed Robert. The call immediately cut to his voicemail.

  Several calls and texts throughout the evening and into the night ended with the same infuriating result. The CSR’s words circled in my brain. Each iteration eroded my disbelief until I was forced to accept the truth.

  Robert was not in Michigan.

  If he was ever there at all.

  Why would he do this? Was he in trouble? Why would he lie about his whereabouts? He knew I would be notified about the withdrawal. He knew I’d be concerned, yet he turned off his phone.

  So I can’t contact him and he doesn’t have to tell me the truth.

  He took our money to do who-knew-what with it. He took my money. He might have added to the savings, but I made most of the contributions.

  My mind buzzed with too many questions and not enough answers. Frustration and anxiety clawed at me, making me restless. My concentration shot, I couldn’t focus when I tried to finish my work. I abandoned my attempts to contact Robert for TV. I needed to numb my brain, to drown out the worry and anger nagging at me.

  The second episode of the TV show was on its last quarter when my eyes began to droop. Sinking into the couch, I was on the cusp of dozing off when a key turned in the door.

  Robert. He’s home.

  The door creaked. Footsteps thumped inside.

  Too many footsteps.

  Is he alone?

  Alert, I stood, ready to demand answers about the money as soon as he showed his face.

  He appeared at the living room’s entranceway, his brown eyes like two dark holes in his ashen face.

  And he was not alone.

  Two mountainous, hard-faced men dressed in black suits over black shirts flanked him. The warm living room light added a gleam to their shiny black shoes and dark sunglasses. They would have passed for twins if one didn’t have blond hair like Robert’s and the other a swarthy complexion.

  Robert’s voice wavered when he spoke.

  “Grace, I’m sorry.”

  Dread slithered down my spine and leadened my stomach.

  The blond man to Robert’s right smirked and pointed a gun at me.

  “Come along, Mrs. Kennedy. Let’s all go for a drive.”

  Four

  —

  The blindfold over my eyes trapped me in the dark.

  At first I panicked when the big, blond man tied it on, but I found a modicum of calm in the darkness. Loss of sight meant I avoided facing the horrible truth. Easy to pretend the drive was by choice and not by gunpoint.

  If only zip ties didn’t bind my wrists together. The hard plastic dug into my skin and into my desperate fantasy that all remained under control. Every pinch reminded me two dangerous men invaded my home, forced me to the parking basement, bound and blinded me, shoved me unwillingly into a car, and currently held me captive as they
drove to god-knew-where.

  The car’s gentle vibration hummed through me as we drove at a moderate speed. Cars rumbled past us. It disturbed me the passengers of those other cars were unaware of my predicament. Of course they were. They lived their lives with their own worries and fears. At some point in the past, I must have been as oblivious to someone else’s misfortune.

  Still, I wanted to roll down the windows, stick my head out, and scream for someone to help. I couldn’t. The blond man hadn’t covered my mouth, but his threat to put a bullet in Robert’s head if I so much as sneezed kept me silent.

  While I couldn’t see Robert or touch him, I smelled his stale cologne above the car seats’ leathery scent and the linen-flavoured freshener. His presence beside me gave little comfort. With no explanation why the men took us, outrage and blame tainted my thoughts.

  Robert caused this. I suspected it had something to do with the money he withdrew from our account. My suspicions he had a secret turned out to be true. Somewhat. It didn’t involve an affair. Or maybe it did? Maybe he’d slept with someone’s woman and they’d threatened to kill him. Maybe he offered them our money for mercy but it wasn’t enough.

  Maybe they wanted to make him suffer by hurting me as well.

  The darkness no longer calmed me. My thoughts reeled with terrifying scenarios of what lay in store for us. My heart threatened to burst out of my chest. Warmth spread across my skin, sweat forming on my forehead. My clothing weighed me down in the seat.

  A ringing in my ear.

  My breathing coming faster.

  Not enough air.

  The little in existence too thick for me to breathe.

  Oh god, I can’t breathe.

  I can’t breathe.

  Calm down.

  You’re panicking again.

  Calm down.

  You’re a survivor. You’re resilient.

  Calm down.

  You’ve been through hell in the past and you can do it again.

  Calm down.

  It took several repetitions before the panic eased. It threatened to return when the car slowed to a stop, but I balled my fingers into a fist and the zip ties dug deeper into my wrists. I welcomed the pain. It helped me focus all my energy into being alert.

  Doors opened, then the car dipped and lifted. I flinched when the door on my side swung open, admitting a gust of cool night air.

  The blond man’s gruff voice broke the quiet. “Let’s go.”

  Rough hands grabbed my arms and I yelped. I threw my hands up and reared back but the man yanked me out onto my feet.

  His steel grip on my left arm tightened, destroying my plan to break free from his grasp and run.

  Another voice barked behind me.

  “Move it.”

  Thump.

  Then a male cry was followed by swearing.

  My heart rate spiked, dread tightening my stomach.

  They hurt Robert.

  Why should you care. He caused this.

  He’s still my husband.

  I stopped and fought against the man’s hold to look over my shoulder.

  It was no use because I couldn’t see.

  “What are you doing to him? Stop it!”

  The blond man shoved me forward, his voice harsher than before.

  “Shut up and keep walking.”

  Our footsteps thudded forward, the sound muted by the pounding in my chest.

  Focus, Grace. Focus.

  In case Robert and I escaped this nightmare alive, I needed to identify my surroundings to the police. The blindfold temporarily robbed my sense of sight but I still had touch, smell and hearing.

  We walked on paved ground, an earthy scent permeating the air. Night creatures’ chirps echoed around us, the wind occasionally rustling through trees. How long did it took us to get here? I wished I’d kept track instead of wallowing in worry. Anyway, I doubted we were in the city.

  They had taken us to a secluded area where nobody would hear us cry for help.

  A door opened and the man gripping my arm pushed me forward. The outdoor noises ceased when the door slammed shut. Startled, I flinched, but the man kept us walking.

  The moderate temperature and our footsteps echoing on tiles suggested we were inside. Amber light pried at the dark cloth over my eyes, yet not enough for me to see. Fragrant lavender welcomed us, the lovely scent at odds with the ugliness occurring now.

  Finally, we came to a stop. Two short knocks sounded in front of me and I went rigid.

  A muted, masculine voice followed.

  “Enter.”

  The soft creak of another door opening, then the man marched me forward.

  “’Night, boss. Package delivery as requested.” Abruptly, the man relinquished his grip on my arm. He retreated from me. Some insane part of me almost begged him not to leave me by myself. I hated his hand on me. I hated its absence even more.

  “Thank you.”

  The man named boss possessed a smooth, measured voice of indefinable age. I instantly despised him. The mere fact he’d orchestrated my and Robert’s forced capture proved him an unscrupulous bastard. I wanted to see his face and catalogue every detail for when I spoke to the police.

  If he doesn’t kill me tonight.

  Footsteps approached, slow and ominous. He’s coming. My breathing deepened, my overworked heart beating at a higher than normal rate. If boss didn’t kill me, prolonged terror would instead.

  Five

  —

  The footsteps stopped and he loomed in front of me. I inhaled the woody notes of his aftershave. His warmth touched me, his silence terrifying.

  I struggled to subdue the trembling. I refused to be a wilting flower. I refused to show cowardice.

  All my convictions flew out the window when his fingers trailed across my cheek. I gasped and quickly stepped out of reach. He followed me and cupped my face with his hands.

  “Stay still and let me remove the blindfold.”

  A part of me wanted to disobey him but I also wanted to see.

  I remained still and he removed the blindfold. I blinked, my eyes gradually adjusting to the light. Then I froze as I stared up at a familiar face.

  A familiar face with the same quirk to his lips that wasn’t quite a smile.

  Bright hazel eyes filled with amusement, and now, triumph.

  The man who stood outside my shop yesterday.

  The monster.

  My lips parted in shock. “It’s you.”

  His lips spread into a fuller smile. “Nice to see you again.”

  He wore a tailored, dark grey suit over a white shirt, with a matching grey tie around his neck. Yesterday, I found him attractive in his casual jacket and jeans. Today, the metal-grey blazer’s perfect fit over his broad shoulders made him even more appealing.

  Disturbed by the thought, I looked away from him and darted a glance about the room. Directly ahead of me sat a large desk, neatly arranged with a computer monitor atop it. Visibly expensive paintings and photographs in golden frames occupied the walls. Robert stood a few feet next to me, still blindfolded. The two men in suits guarded the black door.

  Scowling, I met the man’s gaze again. “Who are you and where am I?”

  “I am Nicholas Vidal. You are in my office.”

  “Why? Why were my husband and I forced by gunpoint to come here?”

  He made a short hum and approached Robert. His movements were rougher when he yanked the blindfold from Robert’s face.

  “Mr. Kennedy. Care to answer your wife’s question?”

  Pale and shaky, Robert raised his bound hands in a pleading gesture.

  “Please, Vidal. Give me more time. I just need a little more time and I swear I’ll get the rest of the money.”

  “There’s none left to give.” Dislike laced Vidal’s chilly voice. “Now look at your wife, Mr. Kennedy, and answer the question.”

  Robert’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he turned to me. He opened his mouth, his lips working to form words but
no sound came out. In the heavy silence, cold dread inched down my spine. I waited for an explanation from my husband on how he knew this awful man and why he begged him for ‘more time.’ None came.

  Nicholas Vidal and Robert were of similar height, but Robert’s hunched shoulders and wobbling chin made him look smaller. Weaker. Resentment lashed at me. For myself, that I drew comparisons between my husband and another man and judged my husband the lesser. For Robert, because he didn’t have the balls to tell me the truth.

  “What’s going on, Robert?” He didn’t answer. “Robert? Robert, answer me!”

  He hung his head and turned away.

  Nicholas shook his head. “You owe your wife the truth, Mr. Kennedy. I have never been married, but I’m certain honesty is one of the most important tenets of marriage.” Then he moved back to me, sliding his hands inside his pants pockets. “Since your husband refuses to speak, I’ll tell you why you’re here.”

  “No! Don’t tell her!” Robert finally spoke, but Nicholas ignored him.

  “Mrs. Kennedy, your husband is a thief and an addict. He has been stealing from his employer to fund his gambling habit.”

  The revelation winded me like a punch to the gut. It was too difficult to accept without fighting back with disbelief. No. Nicholas Vidal was lying. I’d known Robert for nearly a decade. Surely I would have known he had a gambling habit? That he was involved in theft?

  You knew he was hiding something. Now you know his secret.

  “Is this true, Robert?” Again he didn’t answer, but the sag in his shoulders was enough. As I absorbed the awful truth, the rest of this unfolding nightmare became clearer. “He borrowed money from you.”

  Nicholas nodded once. “After he lost the money he stole and his employer started asking questions about the missing funds, he came to me, desperate for a loan to cover his tracks.” He sneered at Robert. “But instead of replacing the money, he gambled it as well and lost again.”

  “He paid you back, didn’t he?” I licked my lips. “He took money out of our savings.”

  “The thirty-six grand he repaid is less than a quarter of what he owes.”

  My mouth went dry. Thirty-six thousand dollars was less than a quarter?