eventually getting up from the bed to take the empty glass and dirty bandages with him. I crack my eyes open and watch him cross the room.
He’s almost out the door when I speak again, my voice a whisper of sound splintered apart by my tears.
“I wasn’t always like this, you know?”
Ari stops, eventually turning to watch me with assessing eyes. “Like what?”
“A victim,” I answer. “There was a time in my life when I used to fight.”
Something unreadable flashes across his face, an unspoken thought that is there and then gone again.
“I know,” is all he says before leaving the room entirely.
The door shuts with a quiet click.
A lock slides home with finality.
Ari
I spend the following week paying penance for my crimes.
Every day I watch the news, listening to the bullshit sensationalist pieces about how poor Grant Cabot, millionaire and entrepreneur, had his sweet wife taken from him during a home invasion.
Pictures of Adeline flood the screen, ones taken during their wedding and honeymoon, others from her social media accounts during those first few months when she was being trained to schedule dinner parties while he chipped away at who she really is.
Grant claims to have fought the attacker, thus excusing his busted knuckles, but insists whoever has taken her was too strong.
That admission makes me a little happy because when the day comes that we meet again, he will find that there is the tiniest glimmer of truth to his bullshit story.
Per the news and every official briefing given by the police, they suspect a man had been blackmailing Adeline. The public is being asked for any information regarding Harrison Nash, a confirmed false identity that may still be in use while he smuggles Adeline across the country.
What the fuck ever. Adeline is right here, locked in a room in my penthouse, still barely speaking to me while she recovers from the beating her husband gave her.
Still, the media spectacle continues as they search for any video that gives a face to the name of the supposed attacker. Unfortunately for them, the hotel didn’t preserve their tapes from the company event, and when they approached the gallery, they were told no tapes existed there either.
The media descended on the gallery since it was the last place I was seen, but both owners refused to give a filmed statement, opting for a written one instead.
We wish we could be more help in locating the person of interest in this matter. However, any recordings taken during Ms. Cabot’s show have been accidentally erased. We at the Weeping Willow are saddened to hear of her recent abduction and wish to express our sympathies since it is our upmost belief that the abduction and exploitation of women in any capacity is reprehensible. It is our sincerest hope that Adeline Cabot is unharmed wherever she may be.
Like everything else, it’s a load of shit, but I keep up with the daily logjam of information, knowing my face will never appear in any of it. I’ve had years learning the art of covering my tracks.
This investigation was over before it ever really began.
The only possible connection the police had directly to me was Steven Turner. However, he had a run of bad luck in the days following Adeline’s abduction and was found hanging in his apartment with over ten million dollars in illegal gambling debt, as proven by receipts found in his high rise apartment.
Thank you very much, Lincoln.
I would have felt bad for Steven’s untimely demise, but that would require a conscience about these things. And considering Steven had been the reason for several other unfortunate accidents and deaths, he probably had it coming sooner or later.
Thankfully, he isn’t my only source of business, so I won’t have to regret a loss of income either.
All in all, it’s going well on that end. As for the situation in my penthouse, that’s a different story.
Six nights in and Adeline only says the same eight words. She hasn’t screamed. Hasn’t demanded information. Hasn’t asked a shit ton of questions. Only one.
“Will you let me out of this room?”
I answer no, and she lays in bed staring at a wall when she isn’t sleeping.
It’s when she’s sleeping that she screams.
Fights.
Cries.
Fists her hands in the sheets while her body curls over itself.
Every night.
For hours.
She got up once and tried to walk around while I stood in the dark watching her. I led her back to bed, but then backed away again to watch from across the room.