Terry decided he was overthinking it. He convinced himself that people run away all the time. He thought that maybe she just decided to up and leave, ditch her past behind. Maybe she decided to quit her job without quitting and leave her house without leaving, and start a new life, completely unencumbered by her past mistakes. Maybe she decided that a new year meant a new start, and she cut ties. Although, why would she do this without telling her own family? Why would she leave this brand new luxurious condo that was completely paid for?
As much as he tried to deny what seemed obvious, to explain his way out of the inevitable dark thoughts, Terry arrived at the only conclusion that seemed logical: that, on the most dangerous night of the year, in a massive city, something bad happened to Zoey.
Rounding the corner of his block, Terry was miserably cold. The biting sting of the wintry weather seeped through his jeans and shoes, stiffening his legs and toes. The coat did not prove a very effective armor for his hands either, as they were numb from the cold. He picked the pace up as he reached the steps leading up to the front porch, gaining speed still into the house. The sweet warmth embraced him, making him feel better, but still slow to cure his ailments.
Now that the cold was an afterthought, all he could do was conjure up gruesome images of Zoey lying dead somewhere in a ditch, yet to be found. His mind wandered and pictured her being run over by a car and killed on impact. Although that can’t be possible, because that would be reported at some point. A girl cannot lie in the street for a week without being noticed and identified. Images of her going home with a stranger were gross enough, but the thought that she may have picked the wrong stranger were worse. Images now came to Terry of a murderer burying Zoey in a shallow grave, and then the notion of all of these scenarios being a possibility only stressed him more.
Feeling useless, Terry took to his computer for closure. Since there was nothing he could do about it, he could at least check the internet for any stories of people being killed or severely injured the morning of the New Year. It was a long shot, but he deemed it worthy of his time.
In the search bar, he typed, Dallas New Year’s Eve, and some stories with accompanying pictures popped up of people celebrating in the street. There were some more stories of fireworks, and firework-related incidents and injuries, then some webpages advertising big parties that were going to be hosted that night. Dead end.
Terry re-consulted the search bar with Dallas New Year’s Eve accidents and injuries and was greeted with slightly more interesting stuff. There was some more firework stuff; apparently someone had blown off a couple fingers on his hand in a drunken accident. There were some stories about car wrecks and accidents on city streets and the highways that run through Dallas. Most of these stories did not provide much information, usually not naming any victims, but rather focused more on the people responsible for the accidents. Several assault arrests, even more drunk driving arrests, but alas, there was nothing of use.
It was a shot in the dark, and it proved useless. Obviously, if the information were so easy to access on the computer then there wouldn’t be much of an investigation. If she was hospitalized, that record would have turned up and it would be an easy trace, but the police were stuck at the same brick wall that stood before Terry. If she were reported dead, investigation over. But neither of those things had yet happened, and Zoey was still missing.
And there was virtually nothing Terry could do about it, so he refocused his energy on work.
THREE
SATURDAY, JANUARY 9TH
Two days have come and passed since my last meal. That is what I’ve been reduced to: an animal in a cage that must eat every occasionally.
I think I’m hungrier now after two days than I was in nearly a week. Probably because I vomited up everything that I ate. I regret doing that, because of the pain I’m in now, but what other choice did I have? Submit? Maybe I can lose some weight while I’m at it. When life gives you lemons, right?
His personality is totally erratic. I have noticed some days that he will drop by several times, sometimes even multiple times per hour. And it’s always the same thing: door swings open, he stands there for a second, door slams shut. Is he making sure I haven’t escaped? Is there something he’s hiding from me? Is this an experiment to see how I react? But if he was checking on me to see if I’ve escaped, wouldn’t that mean there was a way out? I’m too weak right now, but the next time I get a chance to eat, I think I’ll keep it down and use the energy to finally start doing something productive. If there is a next time.
It’s possible that if I have enough energy and strength from eating and drinking, I can start to dig closer to the walls. They haven’t been dug into yet, and maybe I can create a hole that leads to the other side of the wall, then dig straight up to freedom. It seems like an impossible task, armed with nothing but my hands. I don’t have a fork, or spoon, or stick even to help, so digging a hole far enough and wide enough for me to crawl through probably isn’t a realistic goal.
Maybe I’ll drop that fantasy and focus on more important things, like conserving my energy for survival. Maybe if I have find a way out of this pit, I’ll get the chance to make a break for it and find a neighbor, or a phone and call the police. Maybe I can call Terry, and he can be my knight in shining armor, coming to my rescue, as he always has.
I chuckle at the picture of that: Terry dressed in his gray plaid suit and pocket square, armed with his legion of businessmen marching to my aid. Seems a little farfetched. I think I’ll stick with calling the police.
These thoughts comfort me as I lay on my stomach on the incline of the pit. I rest my head on a makeshift pillow I’ve fashioned out of a mound of soft dirt, and easily drift to a pleasant slumber.
---
Sunday, January 10th
The feeding has come later in the day, I think. Generally, I’m already awake when the floor starts to creak and the door swings open. This time, though, he wakes me with an air horn and lowers me down a bucket of a much different kind of slop. This time it doesn’t smell like Sunday morning sausage and eggs. It has a much beefier smell, and the powerful odor quickly shoved its way in, mixing and mingling with the other smells of the room.
“It’s chopped steak with onion soup.” The plump man waits for a moment after saying this, just kind of looking at me, and then turns back up the stairs and slams the door.
The food bucket I’ve been getting, which is not as large as it sounds - probably about thirty or forty fluid ounces, and hasn’t yet once been filled to the brim - this time is much more liquid than it is food. It’s really not even slop; it’s just potato and onion soup with chopped up steak mixed in. The bucket is very hot to the touch, so I use the handle to grab it and move it back into the center of the pit. This is the only flat part of the room, so it’s the only place I can set the bucket without it tipping over. I’m more comfortable on the incline of the pit furthest away from the door, in the corner of the room, because sitting in the center of this room makes me feel exposed and vulnerable. At least when I’m in the corner I’m as far away as I can be, and I have my back to something. It’s no safer, but it feels like it is.
The soup is very hot and thick, but luckily, he was kind enough to provide me with a ladle for eating with this time. The first time I ate, I didn’t wipe my hands off enough, and I got some dirt in my food. I didn’t realize I had done it until I was chewing and felt moist dirt cake the rim of my back teeth. Chewing the dirt made a sort of weird crunch, and the texture alone was enough to make me feel sick. I think the worst part about eating the slop with my hands, though, was the stickiness afterwards. I couldn’t waste the precious drinking water on washing my hands, so sticky they stayed. Being an obsessive person, it has been extremely bothersome.
I bring the ladle up to the front of my face and stop just to inhale. I can feel some steam come off the liquid in the ladle, and as it makes contact with my lower lip, it condenses into a thin layer of moisture. The feeling against
my dry skin is a relief, and I impatiently take my first bite. The burn is comparable to boiling hot coffee, much hotter than I had originally anticipated, and I’m forced to spew it back out over my shoulder. After a bit more waiting and blowing, I gingerly take my second ladleful.
The relief of the liquid on my tongue is indescribable. I feel pampered almost, even though I know that’s ridiculous. This isn’t quite up to par with the pampering I was accustom to in the home that Terry and I bought for ourselves, but this is a little closer to what I deserve.
I’m so preoccupied with the satisfaction of eating this soup, that I didn’t even hear the creak of the floor, but I am alerted to his presence when the light fills part of the room, still leaving the corners dark as usual. He reaches the bottom step much faster than usual, and stands there still, watching me as I take my third bite. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even make his breathing apparent, as he watches me take my third, fourth, eighth, and tenth bites and so on, until I finish the bucket in its entirety.
He orders me to put the ladle back into the bucket and tie it to the end of his rope. As he hoists the bucket back up onto his dock, he says, “Here,” and tosses me down a bottle of water, this time a larger one. It’s a full liter, rather than a standard sized water bottle. It feels like Christmas.
As he turns his back to walk out, I quickly unscrew the lid and chug down half of the liter. After I finish gasping for air, I go in for round two and finish off the bottle. I thought maybe the liter would quench my thirst entirely, but I’m sorely disappointed as I’m still craving more.
I should count my blessings, though. I’m fed, quenched, and still on the earth.
---
Tuesday, January 12th
He’s now given me water three days in a row. He gave me a liter once with dinner about two days ago; he threw me down a liter from the door yesterday, and again today. Neither time did he even bother to come down the stairs and drop it down, but from the doorway, almost out of sight from my angle, he tossed the bottles down towards me, nearly hitting my foot yesterday. I must admit, my spirits are high and I’m feeling lucky for this new side of him. I think he’s starting to care for me a little more. Maybe it’s because of the weight I’ve already dropped. I have no scale, so I have absolutely no way of telling accurately how much weight I’ve lost, but I think it’s over ten pounds. I’m proud.
I don’t even feel thirsty anymore, but I am still hungry. It’s been two days since I last ate, and I’m starting to feel that pit in my stomach that I’ve grown so used to. The weakness I have now is nothing like it was when I was going on a week with no food or water. Maybe I found the sweet spot. Maybe if we can establish a routine together where I eat every two days, I can lose weight and be the size I want to be, like the other secretaries that worked in my office.
They were all so pretty, with perfect figures. One girl, Jen, was the picture-perfect icon for what I wished I looked like, down to the thick golden locks of wavy hair. She wore glasses in front of her green eyes, but that only added to her beauty. I was wondering what she was doing breathing the same air inside the law firm as me, and not out making a name for herself as a model. Sometimes I would feel self-conscious standing next to her, because I know any man would choose her over me. I often thought Terry would too, given the opportunity, and I even showed him pictures of her once to see what he would say about her, and of course he denied even thinking she was pretty.
I used to catch myself looking at her, not because I felt attraction towards her, but because I truly wondered how someone could be so perfectly sculpted. Her beauty was a marvel and, quite frankly, she was just nice to look at. Like a nice painting on the wall you would catch yourself zoning out on, Jen was aesthetically pleasing.
Maybe if I keep this up, and I only eat when I’m supposed to, I can look like Jen. Maybe even when I get out of here, Terry will look at me with the desire he used to have in his eyes. I think when Terry realized his own worth, he realized he was too good for me and that he could do better. I’ve never blamed Terry; I’ve been furious and upset, and depressed, but I never blamed him. After all, he didn’t force feed me unhealthy foods for the last eight years; I did that. Maybe if I take away the thing that Terry hated so much about me, he’ll finally think I’m worthy of his time. Maybe he’ll take me back into the wonderful home we found together. Maybe we’ll go skinny dipping in that massive pool we had installed just weeks after closing on the house. Maybe we’ll lay on the couch that we found together and watch old movies we’ve seen together, on that huge TV we bought together. Maybe he’ll invite me back into his life, and I can get a piece of my life back again.
---
The more I think about it, maybe I can drop weight even faster if I go a full three days without eating each time. I’m not a specialist, but maybe if I can establish a routine, my body will get used to it, and it won’t seem so bad all the time. Maybe, if after each time I eat, my body expects it will be another three days before I eat again, I’ll get used to it and the weight will drop faster and faster until I’m back to regular size.
I’m excited at the idea of it. I am just lying here, picturing myself skinny. I don’t even know how to picture it, because I haven’t been a healthy weight since I was thirteen years old. I can hardly even imagine standing in front of a mirror, not being disgusted at what stood before me. Having pride in my figure was an alien concept to me; it didn’t exist; it wasn’t possible. I have always been fat, and for the longest time I thought I would always be fat, but this unfortunate situation has presented me with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. This pit is a blessing; it’s giving me something I’ve never had before: discipline and self-control. It’s forced portioning. Maybe, just maybe, this pit is the thing I’ve needed all along. Maybe I’ve needed this kind stranger to take me under his wing and teach me how to be healthy. Maybe I shouldn’t be so scared or so ungrateful. He’s doing me a service.
He deserves my gratitude, I think.
So, it’s settled then. The next chance I get, I’ll try and arrange a deal. If I don’t eat again for another few days, I won’t complain about it. But if he brings me food later today, I’ll ask him to wait until tomorrow. And if I see him tomorrow, I’ll ask that he only feed me every three days.
It’s possible he’ll respect the initiative. Maybe he’ll be proud for making me a better person - someone with a little more sensibility. Is this what he wanted all along? To force some self-discipline into me and make me more responsible with my body?
But then again, maybe he’ll be furious. Maybe he’ll get angry at me for wanting control of the situation. Maybe he will feel emasculated, like a woman is dictating the rules. Maybe he’ll feel like his power over me is slipping and he will want to reestablish authority. Maybe the cigar will make an appearance, or something even worse.
What am I worrying myself for? He’s a good guy, I think. I have nothing to be afraid of.
---
He hasn’t come back today. I haven’t even smelled cooking from above, so I assumed he isn’t home. The only time I’ve seen him today was when he tossed the water down to me, and then disappeared.
This is around the time he normally cooks, I think, but there’s no sign of him. No laughing at the TV or footsteps above; there’s no creaking outside the door, or the sound of the entrance to the home opening or shutting. I picture the house above me as dark right now, much like it is down here. I picture it cold and empty, no movement, no sounds.
I wonder where he is. I wonder if he has bigger fish to fry somewhere else, doing something else. Maybe he’s with someone else. Maybe he isn’t so nice after all.
FOUR
TUESDAY, JANUARY 12TH
DALLAS, TX
Marco Moretti pulled into his parking spot at 6:58 a.m. He’s traditionally pulled in just a couple minutes early so that by the time he gathers up his things and gets to his office, he’s walking it at seven a.m. on the dot.
Marco’s always been a punctual fell
ow. Anywhere he has gone, he gets there just a couple minutes early, so as to be perfectly on time. He’s never late, and he’s never drastically early, but he is always on time, guaranteed.
Marco turned the key and shut the engine off, but the music kept playing. He reached to the passenger seat and gathered up his coat and computer bag. This computer bag was a rather nice one: a gift from his father shipped all the way from Italy, shortly after Marco was promoted. The brown leather bag contained Marco’s personal laptop, a sturdy silver beauty constructed from forged aluminum. It was a brand new one he purchased just weeks ago to celebrate the raise that was allotted to him along with his promotion. Next to the computer bag was his small leather-bound notebook, which also was brand new. He hadn’t even yet had a chance to use the notebook, as he had just completed training the day before, on Monday. But Marco was especially excited for work on this day; it was his first day as a detective for the homicide division of the Dallas Police Department.
Marco stood up and got out of his car, with the coat over one arm while throwing the bag over his shoulder with the other. While wrapping the coat over his shoulders cape-style, he turned away and behind-the-back kicked his car door closed, and walked toward his building.
The station was a three-story complex, and it was one of three in the city. This station in particular was the hub for specialized units, like Homicide and Narcotics. The first level of the station was mostly a check-in lobby with beefed up security. The second floor housed Narcotics, Homicide, and Sex Assault departments, and the third was used up by the other smaller divisions of the department and higher-ranking police officials.
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