by Tara Wylde
The afternoon does end up perfect: we stop for a late lunch/early dinner after the museum, and Nick offers to drop Joey home with Maria, so I won’t have to do the usual mad rush for work. It’s so perfect it’s almost... I don’t know. Too perfect?
A chill goes down my spine as we stand beside his car saying our goodbyes. I glance around: nothing’s threatening, nothing’s out of place, but I can’t quite shake that sense of dread. On impulse, I snatch my lipstick out of my purse, flip it open, and apply a tiny smear to Nick’s cuff. He cocks a brow. “What was that for?”
“Okay—don’t laugh. It’s just... You know on TV, when two people share this incredible day, and you just know one or both of them’s about to be written off the show in a horrifying way?”
“Oh, yeah—like, that impossibly beautiful, sugar-crusted moment, where they’re saying the perfect goodbye, without a clue that’s what they’re doing?”
“Exactly.” I take my thumb and smear the lipstick around. “So I’m making our goodbye that tiny bit shitty, so this won’t be the part where we kiss and never see each other again.”
“Don’t even say that.” He leans in and kisses me and doesn’t let go till we hear wolf-whistles. We’re both slightly flushed when he lets go. “Even if you stepped back and fell into a manhole that went all the way to hell, I’d be like Orpheus, rescuing you from the underworld.”
I can’t quite shake that uneasy feeling. “That story didn’t end well.”
He pulls me close again, kisses me on my forehead, both cheeks, and the tip of my nose. “This one will.” He presses even closer, to whisper in my ear. “Your cruel master wouldn’t let you vanish into the pit.”
That gives me a whole different kind of frisson. I smile, relieved, and in that moment, the sun breaks through the clouds. My anxiety seems foolish in the warm, bright light. That chill down my spine—cold, and nothing more. I’m just doing that thing I do, where I freak out over stuff that hasn’t happened yet, and probably never will.
When he gives me a last lingering hug, a smudge of lipstick transfers itself from his cuff to my shirt. I choose to take that as a sign everything’s going to be fine.
151
Nick
The call comes in just after three, two days after our museum date. I’m out of breath, fresh from the gym, and my “Hello?” comes out more forceful than intended.
“H-hello?” It’s a nervous female voice—one I don’t recognize. “Is that Nick Carter?”
“Yes, it is.”
“And, uh... Are you the Nick Carter who knows Joey Petrov’s mom? Elina Petrova?”
I almost trip over my own feet. My gym bag hits the ground. “Yes—who’s this?”
“Oh, thank God—you’re the ninth Nick Carter I’ve tried! I was starting to think—uh, sorry!” I hear fast, panicked breathing on the other end. “It’s just, Miss Petrova was supposed to pick Joey up from preschool three hours ago, and no one can reach her. Mrs. Dz—Dzoh—ah...her emergency contact said she’d been seeing a lot of you, so I thought you might’ve seen her.”
I flash back to our last goodbye. But...she wrecked my shirt. She can’t have— What am I thinking? There’s no jinx. Everything’s fine. She’s stuck in traffic. Her phone’s dead. We’ll see each other tonight, and laugh our asses off at how for one terrible moment, I thought....
No. I’m not even putting words to it.
“I haven’t seen her,” I say. Something else occurs to me: “Is anyone coming for Joey?”
“His grandpa’s on his way.”
Okay. Okay—that’s good, at least. “And... Has anyone called the cops?”
“The cops?”
“Yeah. It’s probably nothing, but she has an ex, kind of a stalker type. I don’t know if he’s dangerous, but I’d say it’s at least worth having them swing by and check on him. Just in case.” What the fuck was his full, real name? She told me—it was— “It’s Giuseppe Bentivoglio, but he goes by Joe.”
“Oh...oh, yeah. He’s on our no-pickup list. I’ll do that. I’ll call right now. Thanks.”
“Sure. Let me know if you hear anything, or if there’s a problem with Joey being picked up. My phone’s always on.”
I hang up the phone and pick up my gym bag. And stand there, feet rooted to the ground: where was I going? I glance at my watch, as if I’ll find the answer there. Three hours—it’s only been three hours. A lot of things can make a person three hours late, but... Damned if I can think of many that would also prevent a “Hey, I’m running late!” call. Lina’s not the type to drop the ball when it comes to her kid.
Her kid—that’s right. Katie. I was picking her up from school. She’s got that piano exam. Or—no. That’s next week. Today... We’re getting her a new winter coat. Because I bumped an open bottle of nail polish onto her warmest one. I toss my bag in the back seat and get going, before I wind up leaving my own kid hanging.
My phone doesn’t ring all the way to Katie’s school. It keeps right on not ringing through store after store, rack after rack of coats that don’t meet Katie’s standards. By the time she’s settled on a flared red wool thing that strikes me as way too sophisticated for a nine-year-old, it’s five o’clock and I’m seriously starting to worry.
Maybe the playgroup lady forgot to mention she’d called me. Maybe Lina’s back in the arms of her family, having rich Russian snacks with Vanya and Joe.
Katie’s busy checking out fuzzy mittens, so I give her a try. Straight to voicemail. I hang up and text her instead: hey, you ok? joe’s teacher was looking for you. ended up calling me.
I watch the screen, but no little dots pop up to indicate she’s typing.
“Dad, can I get these?” Katie plops a pair of black cashmere mitts directly onto my phone. I rub them between my fingers: nice and soft.
“Yeah, go ahead.” I look her up and down—anything missing? Can’t tell. “Need anything else? Boots? Earmuffs?”
“Ew, so dorky!”
“What?”
“Earmuffs.” She wrinkles her nose. “Can we get avocado melts?”
“Yeah—yeah, just... At least pick out a hat first.” I don’t want her out there with nothing on her head when the cold settles in.
“I have a million hats.” She gives me a funny look. “What’s the matter with you? You’re, like, glued to your phone. Did that lady from the museum ghost you?”
“No, she didn’t ghost me.” At least, I don’t think she did.
“Keep telling yourself that, Dad.”
“Hey, c’mon—it’s not nice to mock people’s suffering.” I can’t help but check my phone one more time. Katie treats me to a theatrical eyeroll. I resolve to quit looking at my phone, at least till we’ve eaten. What is it they say about a watched kettle? Probably applies to phones, too.
Halfway through our avocado melts, my phone finally rings. I snatch it to my ear so fast I don’t even have time to check who’s calling.
“Hello?”
“Ah...yes. Hello.” It’s a man on the other end—a man with a thick Russian accent. Shit. No chance this is good news. “Yes: this is Ivan Vasiliev—Vanya. Lina’s father. I, ah...I am told you are friends with her?”
“Yeah. Yeah—is she all right?”
There’s a lot of noise in the background—people shouting, milling around. None of it sounds good. “We’re at the police station, her mother and I. They’re not listening to us. Lina doesn’t do this. She never is late. So I’m asking, anything you know—anything she’s said—she was with you this morning?”
“No, not this morning. We had plans for tonight, but I haven’t heard from her since yesterday.” I look up. Katie’s stopped eating. I swivel in my seat to hide the expression on my face. “You want me to come down there? Maybe I can talk to them, or—“
He cuts me off with a forceful tchah sound. “No use. They say, well, she’s adult—we have to wait a whole day. Adults don’t have parents who worry? Agh!” He hangs up on me. Can’t blame him: he’s got enough
on his plate. I blow out a long breath.
“Dad? What’s going on?”
“I’m....” How much do I tell her? “I’m not entirely sure.” I force a smile. “Probably nothing. Lina’s just running a little late, and her dad wanted to know if she was with us.”
Katie’s face falls. “Sorry for making fun of you earlier.” She pushes her pickle toward me like a peace offering. “Here. I know you like her. I liked her too.”
“I’m sure everything’s fine,” I say, as much for my benefit as Katie’s.
But the evening wears on, and nobody calls or texts. Midnight comes and goes. I check and recheck my phone more times than I can count, but the battery’s always charged; the ringer’s always on. I haven’t missed so much as a Facebook alert.
Some time between the wee hours and the ass crack of dawn, I give up on sleep. It’s no use: every time I start drifting off, I swear I feel my phone vibrate next to my pillow, and I’m back on high alert. I give in and fire off another text: you end up getting home ok? hope I’m not waking you! :-)
This time, she starts typing right away. Relief floods over me, so powerful my head swims. And then... It stops. I wait thirty seconds, a minute. It doesn’t start again.
I’m getting a sick feeling about this.
I know you’re there. I saw you typing. ;-)
Nothing.
listen, if I did something wrong, if you don’t want to talk to me, fine. just tell me you’re ok.
This time, the reply’s almost instant. I stare, stunned.
take a hint bernie madoff scum
ure yesterdays news
bubye
Bernie Madoff... What?
who the fuck is this? Whoever it is, they’re not even trying to type like her.
who the fuck you think?
A strange, grim calm settles over me. This fucker wants to play? I’ll make sure texting me back is the worst mistake he ever makes. I switch over to my laptop to reply.
I know who you are.
I know WHERE you are.
tap to see how.
I drum my fingers on my leg. This guy seems like a class-A dumbass, but there’s a chance he at least knows not to download anything from an unknown sender. Almost a minute ticks by, and—hallelujah! Bait taken. I’m definitely talking to a moron.
He keeps texting, mocking me for sending him a broken file, while I wait for the malware to finish installing itself. I’m on a weird kind of high, hopped up on exhaustion and adrenaline. Got a song in my head—Rat in the Kitchen. I’m tapping my foot to the rhythm, singing off-key. Feels like a screw’s come loose in my head.
An alert from my laptop snaps me out of my fugue. Two clicks later, I’m looking at Lina’s phone interface. Activating the camera doesn’t help much. All I can see is someone I recognize from the news stories as Joe Bentivoglio pecking at the screen, no doubt peppering me with abuse. BFD; already knew it was him. I take a screenshot anyway, while I wait for him to put down the phone. The second he does, I navigate to the GPS. Elsinboro—what the hell’s out there? I screenshot that, too, archive her phone to my laptop, and shut down the connection.
Now the cops’ll have to do something.
152
Elina
Worst headache ever. And why... Why’s it so dark? Shouldn’t it be—what time is it?
I sit up, but....
What the fuck?
My head smacks into something cold and unyielding. When I go to rub it, there’s something digging into my wrists. Something—a rope. I’m...tied up. And moving.
Oh—oh; it’s a dream.
I close my eyes, relieved. Drift for a while.
Hard to get back to sleep, with the pillow all flattened out, and so hard. And the quilt must’ve slid off. I grope after it, but....
A rope? Wait—that’s real?
A sudden earthquake rattles my teeth and bounces my head off the carpet. I blink, but it’s no use. Can’t see a thing. What... What was I doing?
Breakfast—I was about to make—
No. Did that. Dropped Joey off at preschool. And then...what?
I kick out experimentally. I’m tied at the ankles as well. Fuck—fuck. That wasn’t an earthquake, either. I’m in the trunk of a car, on a bumpy road. I was at Walmart, picking up training wheels, and then I was.... Did I get on the bus?
Doesn’t matter. It’s not like I can go back and not do whatever I was doing when this happened.
I call out experimentally. “Hey!” No one’s going to hear that over the sound of the engine. The carpet, the small space, they’re deadening my voice. Still, I can’t just do nothing. I try again, louder. “Hey!”
If anyone can hear me, there’s no sign of it. I’ll have to get the trunk open. Or kick out a taillight. Something other drivers would notice. Isn’t there supposed to be some kind of glow in the dark release lever, so your kids won’t get trapped playing hide and seek? Can’t see it—can’t see a fucking thing, and of course. Of course. I’m facing the wrong way.
Deep breaths.
Rolling onto my back is easy enough. Helpful...not so much. The release lever’s there, all right: glowing merrily on the floor by my head, cut off from whatever it’s supposed to be attached to.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
Speaking aloud helps a little. It’s reassuring to hear my voice come out more pissed than scared. I hold onto that thin comfort as I start groping around with my bound hands. Maybe there’s still something I can use: a crowbar, a box cutter, a goddamn air horn. Anything that can get me loose or make some noise.
My fingertips brush against something soft and bulky, cheap vinyl fabric stretched tight. A bag, I think. I scrabble some more and find a zipper, with a familiar Koosh key fob clipped to it. My gym bag. So, someone snatched me and my sweaty workout clothes?
Doesn’t make sense. The bag’s way too full, anyway. They must’ve...what? Broken in to grab whatever they missed the first time, caught me at home, and decided to steal me too?
No.
Something else occurs to me, something disturbing: I haven’t heard the whoosh of another vehicle passing by in... Actually, I’m not sure I’ve heard one at all. And we haven’t stopped at a single light. We must be on the highway, but... Why’s the highway so bumpy? Where the hell are we?
My stomach dips as we do a sudden swerve. Gravel rattles on the hubcap. So, we’re...where? On a dirt road... Where would you even find a dirt road around here? Jersey? Further afield?
Getting the trunk open suddenly seems like a better way to freeze to death than attract attention. I focus on the bag instead. Maybe there’s something warm in there. A coat, a blanket, a—
The car jerks to a stop. Guess this is the moment of truth. Should’ve tried harder to untie myself—and what the hell do I do now? Pretend to be unconscious? Try to kick out? No time to think: I hear a door slam, and footsteps in the dirt. Just...just... I need a minute. I need—
Don’t panic.
There’s a dull thud, and the trunk swings open.
“Hey, Ellie.”
I can’t see his face, with the bright afternoon light glaring in mine, but there’s no need. Only one person ever called me Ellie. My headache pounds and throbs behind my eyes.
“Joe, what the fuck?”
“Welcome home, sweetheart.”
“This is not—“
“Hey, hey—you haven’t even seen it yet.” He looms over me. I shrink away, terrified he’s going to kiss me, or worse. “Oh, relax. I’m not going to rape you. Just gonna untie your feet, so you can walk up your new driveway like a lady. Or would you prefer I carry you over the threshold?”
Ugh. “Just untie me.”
He cocks his head, making a show of thinking it over. “You know, I don’t think I will. I actually kind of like the threshold idea. Never did get to do that.”
And whose fault was that? “Come on. This is stupid. I can tell we’re way out in Buttfuck, New Jersey. What am I going to do, run?”
“Nope. ‘Cause I’m not giving you the chance.” He hoists me over his shoulder, bumping my head one more time on the way out of the trunk. “I’ll let you go later. Once you’ve seen what I’ve done for you.”
I desperately, vehemently don’t want to see. I jerk my legs blindly, hoping to kick him in the nuts, but I can’t get any kind of momentum going.
“Ssh. You’ll love this, I promise. It’s what we always talked about.” He pats my ass in a way that’s probably meant to be reassuring, but just makes my skin crawl. And... What we always talked about? I rack my brains. We always talked about money—how much he had, to begin with; then, when it all fell apart, how little I made. What did he do, rob a bank?
I’m starting to get dizzy from hanging upside-down when he comes to a stop. A key rattles in a lock, followed by a rusty creak, and the smell of old mildew hits me in the face. I’m a hundred percent positive we never talked about this.
He bangs my thigh on the doorframe, getting me inside. The ache’s just starting to subside when he tosses me on a lumpy couch—definitely the source of the mildew smell. Or one of the sources. This place is disgusting.
“So? What do you think?”
I shouldn’t antagonize him. But I’m cold and I’m angry, and I think I’ve got a concussion. I can’t help myself. “It’s...a haunted house?”
“In the country! It’s a house in the country! Just like we always wanted!”
I never, ever wanted a house in the country. I... This is.... “If you’d ever listened to me, even once, you’d know I hate the country. Bugs, dirt roads, nothing for miles around—what would possibly make you think—?”
He slaps me. My ears ring, but it’s the shock that shuts me up, more than the pain. He’s never hit me before. He’s thrown things at me, assaulted my furniture, literally pissed in my cereal, but—
“You!” Suddenly, it all makes sense. The break-in, my pissed-on clothes, Joey’s missing presents—“It was you!”
“What was me?”
“You know what! The breakin, the...the... You took Joey’s Christmas presents! You stole from a four-year-old!” I’m fuming. We’re in uncharted territory, here, territory where he hits me, territory where he might actually kill me, but my outrage is boiling over. “What the fuck, Joe?—just what the fuck?”