by Pamela Crane
Considering this was his first—and only—kidnapping, he had no idea what he was doing. His demands would be simple: Josephine must run away with him, and Amelia wouldn’t be hurt. A simple request, and even more simply executed. He would lock Amelia in the bedroom he had set up for her and only disclose her location once he and Josephine had safely fled the country. After this unsatisfying taste of parenthood, he had no intention of keeping the child. His Plan B, however, was still a question mark. If things went awry, he’d need to get rid of Amelia, though what he would do with her and how, he wasn’t sure yet. Killing her would be tough to stomach, for sure, since he wasn’t a murderer. A little violent, maybe, but he only dished out what was deserved. But with the girl’s constant fussing and complaining and need for entertainment, the thought of smothering her grew easier to stomach by the hour.
There was always the other option, to keep his hands clean and make a little cash on the side. Thanks to his time on the inside, he’d met certain people that dealt in this kind of trade. After a few phone calls, he got the name and number he needed. George Battan. A man who paid for children—and paid well. Where the child went after being sold wasn’t his concern.
The line trilled. Voicemail.
“Hi, George, my name is … well, never mind that. I may have certain merchandise I was told you may be interested in. Call me back at this number to discuss terms.”
That was as good a Plan B as any, though unlikely he’d really need it. He was sure Josephine would comply. She had to. This all had to work the way he dreamed it would.
Unfortunately, he found himself winging this whole thing, and it was a prickly thought just how deep he was digging himself into this mess. All he wanted was to rush forward to the outcome of this whole ordeal. He had enough money to pay for two economy class airfare tickets to London—Josephine had mentioned it being the top place she wanted to visit one day—and a list of cheap hostels where he and Josephine could stay until they found jobs and a flat to live in. That, along with the two fake passports a buddy from prison had hooked him up with, would get them safely out of the country and into their new life.
He expected Josephine would be reticent about running away with him, but he hoped the life of her daughter weighed more heavily than her urge to flee him. The looming threat of what his prison inmate friends—and their friends on the outside—would do to her children might be convincing enough to keep Josephine in check. Regardless, he sensed that in time he would win her over, remind her of the passion they once had, if even for a night. And if it didn’t work … well, then he’d discard her like the trash that she was. Like the garbage all women proved to be. He hoped Josephine was the rare exception.
“I’m tired of this game,” Amelia grumbled, wiping her eyes sleepily. “When can I see Mommy?”
“Soon, little one. I promise, I want you to go home just as much as you do.”
“I’m hungry.”
The child’s voice grated on him. How did parents deal with this day in and day out? He reconsidered the idea of building a new family with Josephine. Maybe just the two of them would be idyllic enough. Who needed kids when you had an epic love?
“How about a snack?” he offered stiffly, ready to toss the twerp in bed and smother her with a pillow.
“Okay. I want ice cream. With hot fudge.”
He closed his eyes and counted to calm himself. By the number five he felt composed enough to appease the spoiled brat. “You got it. Want to watch Shrek again?”
She made a face. “No, something else.”
“I’ll see what I have.”
As he headed to the kitchen to prepare an ice cream sundae, she trailed behind me chattering.
“I don’t want ice cream now. I want chicken strips.”
“Chicken strips?”
“With ketchup. Lots of ketchup.”
Another demand he couldn’t meet.
“How about fish sticks? They’re practically the same.”
“No! I want chicken strips!” she belted out.
An urge to strangle her piercing voice swept over him. Picking her up a little too roughly, he held her in the air, pressing his face up against hers and sneered.
“You will eat fish sticks or you will eat nothing, little girl. What will it be?”
Her eyes were wide, a mixture of shock and fear. Then she melted into a puddle of tears and even louder screams. He pressed a hand over her mouth, stifling the sound as best he could. But the wailing continued at a higher pitch.
His urge to squeeze her neck was interrupted by a knock on the door. No one knew he lived here. He’d used a fake name and paid with cash. And the neighbors weren’t exactly friendly. Had someone heard her cries and decided to check on it? Certainly no one in this part of town would give two thoughts to a shrieking child.
Whatever waited for him on the other side of the door could be nothing but bad news.
Chapter 37
Jo
It had been four hours since I’d received June Merrigan’s phone call identifying the partial license plate number of the man in the picture holding hands with my daughter. Four hours since I gave this information to Detective Tristan Cox. Four hours and still I’d heard nothing. Four hours of torture waiting, wondering, worrying.
Did they find Amelia? Was she hungry and dirty but okay? Had she been raped or molested or beaten? Was all that was left of her a rotting corpse? I wondered grimly if I’d be planning a reunion or a funeral for my daughter today. I knew that since her kidnapper was negotiating with me, and that I was his true objective, not sadistic pleasures with a child, it was likely she was still alive and unharmed, but I couldn’t stop my mind from venturing into extremes.
Pacing the living room floor, I was sure I was wearing out my sneakers on the hardwood floor. But what irritated me most was how casually Jay sat there, legs crossed on the sofa, playing on his phone, doing God knows what while we waited for the cops to bring us news. Detective Cox assured me we’d know something more today. With a partial license plate number and the make and model of the vehicle, he was confident a suspect would be brought in for questioning. And that someone was most likely “our guy,” as Detective Cox had put it.
I headed to the kitchen to make some coffee—I needed a caffeine boost to stay alert and awake tonight. I wouldn’t sleep until Amelia came home, no matter how much Jay chastised me for it. He, on the other hand, didn’t miss a wink, snoring so loudly at night that it shook the bed. And I despised him for it. I didn’t know what to do about the anger I felt, since I knew Jay hadn’t done anything wrong—I was to blame for everything, after all. I had lost our daughter, but his recent laissez-faire attitude poked me like a scalding iron.
“Are you just going to sit there all night?” I asked, biting back the tension in my voice.
Jay glared at me. “What else am I supposed to be doing, Jo? Wearing a path in the floor like you?”
“No, but it seems like you don’t even care.”
“Why would you assume that? Because I’m not constantly speculating over it?”
“Well, yeah.” That was exactly the case.
“Just because that’s how you process this whole thing doesn’t mean that’s how I process it. Do you think I want to dwell on what may have happened to Amelia? Do you think I want to imagine all the horrors she might have experienced? Just because I’m not losing sleep doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about my baby girl every minute of every day. Maybe sleep is the only respite I get from my worry. Maybe my phone is the only distraction that will keep me sane, keep me from breaking down and losing it. I’m sorry that I’m not dealing with my suffering the same way you are, but don’t you dare question if I care about our daughter. I’m feeling every terror she’s enduring and then some. So don’t tell me I don’t care.”
Apologetic silence was the only way I could respond. He was mourning with me, worrying with me, hoping with me. I simply hadn’t noticed. Maybe his calm was the only way I could get through it.
“Thank you for being you, Jay.”
He offered me a sad grin. “I love you, Jo. I just hope we don’t have to survive without our baby girl.”
“I know …” I whispered. “Me too.”
With my back to Jay, I clutched the edge of the sink. I didn’t know how to survive anymore. As I busied my hands scrubbing the coffee pot, the warmth of Jay’s chest pressed up against my back. His arms circled my waist, and I couldn’t help but lean into the comfort of his body. He squeezed me tenderly, kissed my cheek, then whispered against my hair, “I love you more than anything, Jo. No matter what happens, I’ll always be there for you. I’ll always adore you. Don’t give up on us, honey.”
My throat tightened with the unspoken words that dangled between us. We had gone through too much, and yet he still loved me, still wanted me. My knees weakened, shaking and ready to drop me to the floor. After all I’d done, Jay still loved me. But I hadn’t loved him enough to tell him the truth.
Even if Amelia was okay, even if our family was restored, the lie I’d buried for my entire marriage wrapped itself around me like a strangling grip. The weight of my affair was a burden I could no longer carry.
I turned around in his arms, gazing up at him. His brown eyes searched mine knowingly, as if he’d already forgiven me for my sin against him. But what if I was wrong? What if he couldn’t forgive me?
“Jay, I have to tell you something,” I began, forcing a courage I didn’t have.
Before I could speak the words I dreaded ever having to say, a knock rattled the door. Pushing out of Jay’s arms, I ran toward it with Jay close behind, flinging the door open. And there she was, standing hand in hand with Detective Cox, the same sweet little girl I’d lost, her pigtails swinging, her eyes sparkling, her baby teeth gleaming as she smiled up at me.
“Mommy!”
Amelia was finally home and in my arms. And everything else—the fear, the past, the confession—melted away.
Chapter 38
15 Oleander Way
No one could ever understand love like I did. The sacrifice you make as it takes everything from you. The passion you feel as it gives much more back to you. The pain you endure when it’s stripped bare. This is love. And love makes you do crazy things.
Like kill.
I’m not a killer. When I catch a spider in the house, I let it go outside. When my daughter lost her first tooth and it bled, my knees trembled like jelly. I can barely tolerate a paper cut.
But something changes inside you when day after day you feel hopeless against life. When you’re dragged down into the depths of nothingness and no one cares if you ever surface … except for one person, the one that you love. To my husband and children I was nothing but a caretaker, a baby maker, a cook, a maid, a therapist. I could fall off the face of the Earth and their only concern would be who was going to make dinner tonight.
Then there was the constant screaming. Screaming for food. Screaming over toys. Screaming because I hadn’t laundered the outfit they wanted to wear today. Screaming about our financial problems. Screaming just for the heck of it. There’s only so much verbal assault one can take before they crack.
And I had cracked.
I had seen her slow demise, much like my own. Once upon a time she had been a beautiful person—full of vibrant dreams and hopes. She had wanted a career, she wanted to serve a bigger purpose, she had dared to do great things. I saw all of this in her. I supported her. I encouraged her to grab those reins and ride that horse all the way to the finish line. I even envied her drive, so opposite from my own apathy for—well, everything.
I guess she was my idée fixe—the only thing I wanted out of life.
Then she met her soon-to-be husband. Although he didn’t nurture her dreams like I would have, he didn’t suffocate them altogether … right away, at least. He entertained her passions for a brief time. Just until the wedding bells rang and she was his.
It was all downhill from there.
Baby number one came and canceled out any chance of a career. Held captive to her kitchen and laundry room, she served her masters—her family—and became a silent slave. I would have never done that to her, stifling who she was. Had we had children, we could have worked together as a team—me nurturing her dreams, her fulfilling mine simply with her love. She would have lived the amazing, exciting life she deserved.
But she chose him over me. Not that I had ever really made known my intentions. When I first met her, the only label I had for what I felt was deep friendship, a soul mate kind of bond. It was only with time that I realized I loved her in a not-so-platonic way. I was in love with her—with who she was, who she wanted to be, and who she saw me as. And my love was reciprocated in its own unique way.
I wasn’t a doormat with her. I wasn’t a maid or a cook or a sex slave. I was a person with feelings, a woman with value, a friend with something interesting to say. With her I was words, thoughts, creativity, beauty, importance, contemplation, fears, silliness. I was so much more than this empty shell I’ve become.
Because of her love I owed her this. I owed her a real life, free from the chains that bound her: her self-absorbed husband and ungrateful children.
She’d complained enough about how horrible they all were to her. Her husband took what he wanted from her and then left her to rot in her own self-loathing. He stole her youth then betrayed her, unwilling to give her lifelong devotion in exchange. And her kids treated her like garbage, sassing her with harsh words, sucking every last morsel of good out of her. They were just as bad as he was. Truly his progeny.
I didn’t want to hurt them. I didn’t want to manipulate my way into the house with the intention of killing them. I didn’t want to, but I had to.
The letter was written and in hand when I rang the doorbell. Tears streamed down my face and I mourned the loss of this family I had grown to care about for so many years. While I hated them for what they’d done to her, I wept at the memories. Memories of birthday parties and backyard barbeques and shared meals and milestones. They were like family to me—and right now I resented them almost as much as I resented my own.
“Hey, is everything okay?” he asked me upon opening the door.
“I know she’s not home, but mind if I come in?” I asked timidly.
He opened the door wider. “Of course. Have a seat.” He waved me to the living room, a gesture I’d been offered many times over the years.
That was his first mistake.
“What’s going on?”
I handed him the letter. As he bent his head to read my scribbled prose, I reached into the purse slung over my shoulder and grabbed the knife I had hidden in it. It was a typical butcher knife—a quiet weapon of choice that wouldn’t alarm all of Oleander Way—and as I clutched it, the indelible shower scene from Psycho flitted through my mind.
Blinking it away, I pulled the knife discreetly out of my bag, ready to thrust it into his gut.
“What is this?” he mumbled, his eyes still on the page.
“It’s a goodbye.”
Just as he glanced up, I inhaled a deep breath and stepped forward, thrusting the blade into his throat. I leaned upward, pushing the tip in up to the hilt, then stood there, both petrified and fascinated. A moment later a jab to my chest pushed me backward as he staggered toward me. I stumbled a few steps into the sofa as he pulled the knife out and tossed it to the hardwood floor. It clattered a few feet, then came to rest beside my feet.
That was his second mistake.
Blood seeped into his collar, spreading through the fabric, then trickled down the front of his shirt. He grabbed his neck, stared at his blood-soaked hands, then looked up at me.
“What the hell? Why would you …?” His words were wet and raspy, then wobbly as he swayed woozily. At last he slumped into an unconscious heap.
His gurgles faded moments later.
But the job wasn’t done yet.
After picking up the knife, I headed upstairs, where the
racket of a kiddie program grew louder with each step. Whatever the show was, the theme song was annoying and loud—deafening enough to cover what had just transpired downstairs. When I arrived at the playroom door, neither glanced back as I greeted them with a chipper “hi.”
I walked in front of the sofa between the kids and the television, hiding the knife behind my back.
“I said hi. You should acknowledge it when someone speaks to you.”
“Move, freak.” The girl had always been strong-willed, her parents preferred to call it, as long as I could remember, shoving my kids on the playground and starting fights at every opportunity. I ignored it all those years, hoping she’d grow out of it, but clearly I was wrong.
“That’s not polite to talk to an adult that way—or another peer, for that matter.” My voice remained cool and calm, but my annoyance bubbled under the surface.
“Do I look like I care about being polite? What are you doing here, anyways? I hope you didn’t bring your retarded kid with you.”
The boy laughed from his seat on the other end of the sofa, and I turned sharply toward him.
“Is that funny to you—calling other kids retarded?”
“Well he is, isn’t he?”
And that was it. Conversation over. They’d sealed their fate and marked their graves, the insolent little brats.
Assuming the boy would be faster and stronger, I lunged at him first, hefting my body on top of his as I stabbed him once, twice, in the gut. He screamed, and the girl shrieked and scrambled to get away. But the coffee table blocked her exit, giving me enough time to heave myself across the sofa cushions, arm extended, as I sliced at her. I made contact at least once when I felt the blade get stuck in her abdomen, then I ripped it back and jabbed again, connecting with more tissue. She cried and dropped to the carpet, scurrying away on her knees. I watched her make progress halfway across the room before the injury caught up with her and she sank face-first into the carpet with a muffled thud.