She struggled in the chair and against the tape, unable to reach up for the strop of leather choking her. Panic made her wild.
After a moment, the belt loosened and she felt blood surge into her head. She took a deep breath. To her left, Evan was screaming through his gag. She hadn’t been able to hear him before, but now that the belt was loose, she could. The intruder ignored him and leaned down close to her face. If she could’ve spit in it, she would’ve, but she couldn’t get a breath to force what little moisture was in her mouth past her lips. Her tongue protruded.
“You going to be a good girl? Or do I need to tighten the leash again, bitch?” He jerked the belt. The buckle shifted and this time pressed right up against her windpipe. Fresh tears sprung to her eyes.
She shook her head.
“No? You’re not going to be a good girl?”
Nelle nodded. She wanted to tell him she’d be good. That she’d do whatever he wanted. Just not to pull the belt tight again. She couldn’t get the words out. So she nodded. Good girl. Good girl.
“That’s more like it,” he said. “You know, you got a dirty mouth. Guys would like you better if you acted like a lady.” From the small of his back, he pulled the gun out of its holster. Evan began to buck against the weight bench. The man turned and pointed it at him. “Settle down, or I’ll settle you down.” Evan reluctantly complied. The man returned his attention to Nelle.
He traced the line of her cheekbone down to her jaw with the muzzle of the gun and then tilted her head up so she’d look at him. The front sight dug into the flesh under her chin and made her wince. It still hurt less than being choked. “Good girl,” he whispered. “Now, you have to make up for offending me.”
“What do you want?” she choked.
“I want you to be nice.”
She tried to blink away her confusion, but nothing resolved into any greater clarity. The man stared at her, brow furrowed as if she’d done him wrong and not the other way around. No part of this made sense to her. She nodded at him.
“Say it.”
“I’ll . . . be nice.”
He let the belt around her neck loosen. “I know you will. Because if you don’t, I’ll kill him and make you watch.”
You’re going to do that anyway.
She swallowed the thought, hiding it deep down in her belly so he couldn’t read the words on her face. “I’ll be nice,” she whispered. “Just tell me what you want from us. We have money. Is that what you’re here for? The money?”
“The money,” he said. His voice was flat.
She perked up. If that was why he was there, he was still likely going to kill them both after they gave him the bank account numbers. But the thought he might not was a single thread of hope. A very narrow, short thread that she intended to hang on to as tightly as she could. “We’ll give the money back. I mean, we spent some of it, but the rest is still—”
He yanked the leash, reducing her voice to a strangled whimper. His face purpled, it had filled with so much blood. She imagined it reflected her own, except he wasn’t being strangled.
“You people think you can buy anything you want. You think you can buy your way out of trouble? You think you can buy me off?”
She shook her head, not wanting to argue, but feeling unable to let the accusation go unanswered. “I don’t—” she choked.
He stomped heavily on the concrete floor next to her foot to shut her up. His tan work boot thudded dully, but still made her shudder. She couldn’t move out of the way of his next stomp if he chose to bring it down on her toes or her instep.
His face was redder than ever and his red-veined eyes bulged. He stared as if expecting an answer, some kind of rationalization or continued bargaining, but she couldn’t find the right words. “You’re going to start with an apology. And if I don’t like it, he dies.”
“I don’t . . . understand.”
“APOLOGIZE!”
“I’m . . . s-sorry. I am sorry for upsetting you,” she said in a measured tone she hoped wouldn’t antagonize him further. “I swear.”
Holding on to the belt, he shoved his gun back in its holster and started undoing his pants. “You’re going to make me feel better. And then we’ll talk about what else you can do for me.”
Nelle turned her head away. The man yanked her face back toward him, hurting her neck. His grip on her chin pinched painfully. He squeezed tighter and glared, as if wanting to see the look in her eyes that told him she felt him. She tried to give him the look he wanted. He let go and pulled his zipper down.
Evan began thrashing against the weight bench again.
The man whipped around. “SIT STILL AND SHUT UP!”
With a look, Nelle tried to implore her husband to be calm. To quietly and covertly work at the tape like she’d asked him. His brows knitted, and she nodded slightly. Tears filled her eyes, but the weight bench stopped rattling with his struggles.
The man refocused on her. “You’re going to give me the apology I want.”
“I’m sorry, I swear. I swear.”
He leaned in. “If I don’t like it, I’m gonna take my knife to him and really give you something to swallow.”
“Don’t do this. Please don’t.”
He let go of the belt and grabbed a handful of her hair and said, “Be a good girl now.”
20
Evan struggled to remain still. He’d thrashed and fought, and all he accomplished was reclining the back of the weight bench even more. His line of sight from this new angle was worse. And the man kept looking back at him, making sure he saw. As if his reaction was part of it. As if it got him off to be seen like that. For Evan to see her like that. He wanted to take that away, to frustrate the man’s pleasure, his satisfaction in knowing he was seen. So, he closed his eyes and turned his head.
Hot shame burned in his chest at looking away. Stopping the man was a thing beyond his ability. The son of a bitch had blindsided him. Clubbed him unconscious and tied him up. That wasn’t his fault. When Nelle looked in his eyes, though, and he looked away, that was the failure of his heart. The beginning of the end of everything. Shame filled him so full he felt like bursting. Shame at his weakness, shame at his inaction.
He felt shame at turning away from his wife. At not wanting to see.
21
Nelle felt like she was floating a foot behind her head, as if her consciousness couldn’t quite stay seated in her skull. Her thoughts were unmoored from the present, finding shelter in the past instead. Evan’s voice slipped through the fog, whispering words of encouragement like he always did when things were difficult. You got this, he’d say, like she was standing toe-to-toe with her problems, capable of fighting. But today she didn’t feel like a warrior on the battlefield; she felt like Giles Corey being pressed to death under stones. Corey wanted to defy his accusers and die faster, but she didn’t want a heavier burden. She wanted to live, and she wanted not to be in the cellar, in this chair, with this man standing in front of her. She wanted to follow her conscious mind and float right up out of the house and away. But she was rooted to the spot.
She tried to focus, force herself back into her body and brace herself for what was about to happen—the intruder’s hand gripping her hair, pulling her head forward as everything in her wanted to lean away. She waited for the sight and smell of his cock and the feel of it against her lips. She forced herself to let her jaw relax and stop clenching her teeth together as tight as a sprung bear trap . . . because she wanted to be an open one instead. She resolved in that instant that she’d suck him off for a few seconds—not much longer, just enough to let him think she wouldn’t fight—and then she’d bite down as hard as she’d ever bitten into anything in her life. She wanted to spit it at him and watch him fall down and bleed and scream all day long while she and Evan freed themselves. Of course, as soon as he felt her teeth, he’d probably pull that gun out of the back of his pants and shoot her. She was a dead woman anyway if she didn’t do anything at all. He�
��d broken into their house, tied them up, beaten them, and was about to rape her. Murder was, without any doubt, a part of the plan. The end of the whole affair. No one in their right mind would do all those things and then think they could just walk away, leaving her and Evan alive. It was beyond naïve to hope for that end. Nelle gave herself permission to keep fighting, even if it meant dying, because it meant dying on her own terms. The alternative, going along, ended the same way, but with more suffering.
Bite.
The man shoved her face into his groin mashing her nose and lips against skin and hair. The rough fabric and open zipper of his jeans dragged against her lips and cheek. His cock was limp. She didn’t care if he couldn’t get it up. Her teeth would go through his dick better if he was flaccid.
Her phone on the plastic box behind him buzzed and chirped. The man glanced over his shoulder at it, still holding her hair firmly in a fist. He turned his wrist, and her neck bent back, pulling her face away from his body. The cell chirped a second time, and he let go and took a step away from her. Nelle felt a fresh wave of despair come crashing down.
She whined a little when he stepped away. The intruder looked at her with surprise and a little confusion on his face. His expression said he didn’t know how to process the idea that she might’ve wanted this. She didn’t. And she did. Letting him in her mouth was at once the very last thing she wanted in the world, but she had the nerve to fight right now. Later, she might not have the guts. This was the moment. Right goddamn now.
He turned toward Evan and smiled. It was a cruel look that overtook his face. “Did you know that about your wife, Evan? Is it a thing with you two? Are you a cuck?”
Evan looked at him with undisguised hatred. Nelle feared that look turning toward her. She didn’t want that man in her mouth; she wanted a chance to hurt him. Take the risk. Do the terrible thing to try to buy any chance at all. Though the man had removed her gag, she couldn’t find a way to talk to her husband. The words wouldn’t come to her lips, though they raced through her mind at light speed. I’m sorry, Evan. I’m sorry, but it’s what I have to do to save us. I can’t do anything else, but I can do this.
“You wanna lose that look, cuck. I mean it, or I’ll come cut it off your fucking face.”
Evan didn’t change a thing. He stared at the man with a thousand miles of hate behind his eyes.
“Leave him . . . alone,” she eked out. The man’s eyes flashed at her with contemplated violence. His knuckles turned white as he gripped her phone in his hand. His face reset, and he took a deep breath, getting himself under control. Everything he did was deliberate. He was in control. But Nelle could see he was close to losing it. A push too hard and he’d snap. Considering what he was willing to do with a clear head, she didn’t want to think about the things he was capable of if he lost control. Then again, the end might come quicker if he let loose. That might be another weapon in her arsenal. Or at least a quick way to end it—suicide by psychopath.
“So, you want to suck my dick?”
Her voice was low and meek, but she tried to sound convincing. “Yes.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you do.” He stuffed himself back into his pants. He looked at her phone and stabbed at it with a stiff finger. His face reddened and clouded as he read whatever it was that had been sent to her. He looked at her and said, “You’re going to make a call. You’re going to do what I say, say what I tell you to, or else I’m going to fuckin’ kill him and make you watch me do it. You get me?”
She nodded. She didn’t understand who he could want her to call, but then she didn’t understand anything he was doing. If he was there for their money, why were they tied up in the cellar? Why wasn’t he asking them about it? Why was he so preoccupied with her cell phone?
She said, “The signal down here is—”
“SHUT UP! I DIDN’T SAY YOU COULD FUCKIN’ TALK!”
Nelle clenched her jaw. She opened her eyes wide, trying to convey that she wanted to help. He took a deep breath and blew it out long and slow. “Tell me.”
“The Wi-Fi makes it seem like it should be good, but our phones always drop calls in the cellar,” she said, testing. When he didn’t snap back or threaten her, she continued. “E-mails and texts go through, but you have to go upstairs if you want to make a call.” Go upstairs. Go and make all the calls you want. Call your bestie and talk until I run out of minutes. Please.
“Where’s the best signal?”
“In the Prince Room.”
“The what?”
“The . . . f-front room. The one with the l-lavender walls.”
The man didn’t smile at their cute nickname for the front room. He stared at her blankly for a second. He bent over and picked his belt up off the floor, Nelle flinched, waiting for him to lash her with it again. The buckle jangled as he threaded it through his belt loops. “Good girl,” he said, taking a step back as he refastened his pants.
He clacked his teeth at her.
Blood flushed in her cheeks and ears. He knew. She wouldn’t get the chance again. Not like that. Nelle let her head drop and stared at her lap. Though she felt a small measure of relief at not having to do what she had been prepared to, she still felt ill and not quite there, as if she still had to pay the emotional toll of going through with it without any of the payoff. She felt far away and dull, like time had slowed and parted to flow around her instead of carrying her along into the future. There was no future, she realized. Only the present, and this room, this man, and her and Evan, unable to reenter the flow of time before it ended for the both of them. There was only right now. Not a minute ago, not five minutes ago, not an hour a day or a week. All that was past was prologue. There was only now and no future. Wondering how she’d gotten to this place was worthless.
A shadow in the corner seemed to resolve into the shape of the little mortally wounded girl peering at her from behind the water heater. Her half caved-in face and hair matted with blood and stuck to her cheek, obscuring the eye she couldn’t open. She tried to smile with half her mouth. Her eyelid fluttered, and Nelle felt her saying something. The girl’s voice was inside of her.
This is dying. Why fight it?
Nelle pictured her body on the cellar floor. Evan’s next to it. The two of them, gone.
She went behind her eyes, and the image of herself on the embalming table at the Tremblay Funeral Home came rushing back. A collection of tools arranged on the surface beside it ready for use. She stared at her body, discreetly covered by a white shroud while her boss leaned over her getting ready to work. It wasn’t the first time she’d imagined herself lying on the table—not even the first time that day—but it was the first time she couldn’t banish the image from her mind by turning on NPR or sending an affectionate text to her husband as a distraction.
No darkness. Only light.
Except the dark vision intruded and she welcomed it and watched as Tony pulled the zipper on a PVC bag down slowly, revealing her white face and purple throat and the paper hospital gown she’d undoubtedly be in. He’d cut that away, revealing her shoulders and the tattoo of sparrows under her collarbones holding a banner in their little claws that arced across her sternum above her breasts. True Until Death. The ring in her navel and her earrings and wedding ring and the necklace her mother had promised to send her would all already be in a personal effects bag.
No. Not the necklace. She didn’t know where that was. The mail had never come.
Since she wanted to be cremated, he’d return those things to whoever was there to collect them. Likely her mom. Everything except for the necklace.
In the mortuary register, Tony would fill out her name, the date she died, her age, where she’d been transferred from, and who brought her to him. He’d write the same things on the whiteboard for his assistant to see—though she was now dead and wouldn’t see.
Like she’d done with the girl, he’d treat her with care and respect. He’d wash her with disinfectant and massage and bend her limbs to break
out rigor mortis, in order to get her into her clothes. He’d put in eye caps to keep her eyelids from looking sunken and close her eyes before gluing them shut. Then he’d sew her mouth closed—through the gums so it wouldn’t show. He’d remove whatever blood was still in her body after her autopsy. She knew she’d have an autopsy because she was a murder victim, and they’d have to perform one. He’d fill her veins with formaldehyde, glutaraldehyde, methanol, ethanol, phenol, water, and a little dye to give her skin a lifelike color for the viewing.
She concentrated on a good death.
No light. Only darkness. Forever.
The little girl stepped back into the shadows behind the water heater and disappeared like she wasn’t really there, because of course, she wasn’t. But Nelle was beginning to lose her hold on what was and what wasn’t, and the girl was her guide into that world of disassociation. She would lead Nelle away from the really real world, so she could let go and die more easily.
The man slapped her, forcing her to return to the cellar, and said, “I’m gonna cut you loose. And we’re going to play Simon Says. You do anything I don’t say, and you’ll regret it. You and me, we’re going upstairs to make that call.” He stopped and narrowed his eyes. “Do you get it?”
Nelle nodded. He hadn’t needed to ask; she understood his threat the first time. He thought he was clever. Letting him know she didn’t agree was dangerous. She tried to look suitably frightened of his threats. It wasn’t difficult.
She wished the girl would come back. But she was only a coping mechanism of a mind that couldn’t process everything it needed to.
“Got it,” she said.
He knelt down beside her and sliced at the tape around her left ankle with his knife, then repeated the gesture on the right. He cut her wrists free and moved up to the strip around her midsection. She was free. Free to stand and run or fight. Though she couldn’t do any of those things, since her hands and feet were numb. And he hadn’t said. She sat in the chair, waiting.
Closing Costs Page 9