by Jette Harris
“Bigger monsters,” he finally answered.
72
When Heather woke the next morning, Rhodes was gone. He didn’t return for hours. Pressing her ear to the door, she could hear a great deal of scraping, as if Rhodes were re-arranging furniture downstairs, and hollow thudding, like a basketball, only heavier. The faint, acrid smell of bleach seeped under the door.
Heather did not want to stay in bed anymore. Her back hurt from lying down for so long. Even though she was sore, it felt good to stand up and move around. Picking up the guitar, she strummed it absently. Her eyes landed on the chair, which had been kicked to the foot of the bed. She had been staying in the Bedroom for several days now, but she had never once sat in that chair. Shooting a quick glance at the door, she strummed a few chords to tack down her courage, then plopped into the chair. She groaned as pain radiated from her cracked ribs.
On the opposite side of the wall, Monica stirred in the Camera Room. The water came on in the other bathroom. Heather followed the sound, climbing onto the counter. Pressing her ear to the wall, she could hear thumps and taps against the counter as Monica washed up. The bathrooms mirrored one another.
Hesitantly, Heather tapped the wall. The noises stopped. Monica tapped back.
“Can you hear me?” Monica’s voice drifted through the wall.
“Barely.” Heather glanced around to make sure Rhodes wasn’t sneaking up behind her. “We shouldn’t talk.” Heather did not want to test how far his new-found affection extended.
“I wanted to say I’m sorry,” Monica said.
Closing her eyes, Heather leaned her forehead against the wall. She took a deep breath and nodded. “I’m still going to get you out of here,” she whispered. Monica did not reply.
Sniffling, Heather sat on the counter and leaned back against the wall. She began to play an upbeat and spirited song. Monica began to sing along. There was no way Rhodes would not hear the music, even over the ruckus he was making. Heather did not attempt to muffle the sound. That way, he would not feel the need to prevent it. Heather hoped Rhodes would believe they were just a couple of bored kids, singing through the wall. He would not suspect she was attempting to give Monica hope.
Heather was playing too loudly to hear the door open. Rhodes stormed into the bathroom and snatched the guitar. Stepping back into the hallway, he raised it over his head and slammed it into the floor. He then proceeded to smash it to pieces against the floor and walls.
Heather watched the carnage from the door, a hand over her mouth. She flinched with every impact. When nothing remained but the stretch of neck in his hands, he looked at it, then tossed it over his shoulder. He ran an anxious hand through his hair and turned back to Heather. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. He was covered in sweat, grease, and what looked like rust grit. Her startled expression sobered him.
“Oh, love,” he stammered, looking at the destruction around him, “I—I’m sorry.” Cringing, he grabbed his hair and turned away. (Why am I apologizing to her? To anyone?) “No!” he shouted, then, shaking his head, murmured, “Yes, yes… I’m sorry.”
He stood before her, sniffling. Taking the pick from her hand, he inspected it, then tossed it, too, over his shoulder. He lifted her face and kissed her. He smelled like the undercarriage of a car. She did not resist for fear of his erratic behavior, but he sank to his knees and leaned his forehead against her belly. He wrapped his arms around her legs.
“Tell me everything’s going to be fine,” he demanded.
“Everything’s going to be fine.”
Scoffing, he raised his face to her. “You’re not very convincing.”
Sighing, she steeled herself. Lifting her hands, she ran her fingers into his hair. He lowered his face again. “Shhh…” then, in a sing-song voice, “Everything’s gonna be alright...”
With a shuddering breath, Rhodes slumped down. All his muscles but his clinging hands went limp. Swaying, he rose to his feet. Taking Heather’s hand, he led her back to bed.
73
The sun was up. Rhodes’s eyes were still closed, his breathing even. Heather studied him for a few minutes before holding up her arm. There were six tallies scratched into the soft flesh, ranging from healed to fresh. Curious, she slipped out of the bed and went to the window, looking up at the sky. The sun was overhead, somewhere out of sight. She sighed in frustration, not knowing whether she had slept through the night, or only a few hours. She thought it had been early when Rhodes took her to bed.
“What?” Rhodes grunted. He had woken when she moved, and noticed her frustration.
“How long was I asleep?” She sat on the edge of the bed.
“Fuck if I know,” he yawned, pulling himself up against the headboard. “I was asleep.”
“Did night fall?” she persisted. “Is it morning or evening?”
Her anxiety perked his interest. “What difference does it make?”
Heather shrugged as if it were not a matter of life and death. “It’s just nice to know.” She ran a hand over her forearm, then froze when she realized she had done it.
“Oh, I see.” He had noticed the scratches, but had not thought anything of it. He grabbed her arm and stretched it out. She shrieked, fighting to pull it back, but pain shot through her collar. He pulled her down and pinned her hand with his knee. He racked his brain for an explanation. His face fell when he realized what it was.
“You’re counting down.” He released her. She hugged her arm to her chest.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied. Rhodes glared at her for a moment, then smacked her up the backside of her head. “Ow!”
“Why?” he shouted. “Why do you insist on acting like I’m an idiot?”
Heather squeezed her mouth shut.
Donning an apologetic expression, Rhodes wrapped his arms around her and pulled her back against his chest. He growled into her ear, “Your count is off.” He began to rock her side-to-side. “It’s evening. There are three days until the end of the month.” He kissed her ear. “But there will be a slight change-of-plans.”
“What are you going to do then?” She tried to pull away. “Take us home and lock us in your sad little house?”
“I would take you,” he murmured. “And you would love my house. It’s actually very large. Larger than I’ve had use for. Five bedrooms. Six acres, with a tire swing out back.”
Heather’s anxiety mounted, hitting the flashpoint when Rhodes squeezed her in excitement from the thought of what they could do together in his house.
“No!” She broke his grip and stood.
“No, what?” His tone wasn’t angry; It was surprised.
“No,” she repeated. “What if I don’t want to go to your house? What if I don’t want you to hug me?” She stormed away from the bed and stood in the middle of the room. Her throat was tight. The walls seemed much closer than that had the day before. He climbed across the bed, and she reeled on him. “What if I don’t want you to fuck me? Does it matter to you… love?”
Rhodes licked his lips, knowing his answer was not what it should be. He was at a loss for words—another new, horrible feeling. He reached out to place his hands on her shoulders, to calm her, but she slapped them away. His face flushed.
“You’re the last person I want to touch me—ever!” she yelled. “You say you love me, but we’re here—in this house—under your absolute control.” She gestured to the house around them, then turned on him again. “I fuck you to feed Monica.” Her voice was cold and sharp. “Because I love her. She doesn’t love me back, but I’m fine with that. I have to be. It’s her choice. I can’t force her”—her voice broke, and fought the tears rising in her throat—“to love me!”
Face burning with rage, throat tight, Rhodes grabbed Heather’s wrists and forced her to her knees. Shrieking, she pushed back. Despite pain shooting through her shoulder, she almost regained her feet, but he was far stronger.
“Stop it!” she shouted. “Stop.” T
here was no panic or fear in her voice, only anger. Rhodes stopped pushing and held her there, breathing hard through clenched teeth.
“What?”
The iron in Heather’s eyes faded. She forced her fists to unclench. When Rhodes felt it, he also loosened his grip. She took a deep breath, composing herself.
“You can be in love,” she told him, “or you can be in control. But you can’t be both. You have to choose.”
This new concept tore at Rhodes’s mind. Roaring, he threw Heather to the ground. He straddled her and punched the floor next to her head. Pain radiated up through his fist. He bellowed in her face, unable to assemble words.
Heather closed her eyes and forced herself to remain calm and weather his storm. (That’s why I love her, isn’t it?) Regaining control of himself, Rhodes leaned up. He waited for her to open her eyes again. When she did, he saw hope there.
He had to force himself to choose control.
74
He fucked her until she cried, then spent much of the night atoning for it. Remorse was another emotion he was not accustomed to experiencing on Sabbatical. (At work, yes, but here?) Heather slid from his grip to the far side of the bed. She lay there, impassive, until he gave up trying to rouse a response from her. Clinging to her despite the heat, he pressed his face into her hair and fell asleep.
When Rhodes jerked awake, he was certain he was going to find the FBI agent still standing by the bed, watching him with his impenetrable expression, hands tucked into his suit pockets. He was relieved when he found himself alone, except for Heather. She was no longer at the edge of the bed, but sitting with her back against the headboard. In the early-morning light, he couldn’t read her expression.
Wrapping his arms around her hips, Rhodes laid his head upon her lap. He was about to doze off when she spoke:
“When I first moved in with Grandpa, not a night went by that he didn’t wake up screaming. He hadn’t gone to bed sober for… decades, I reckon. He would wake up screaming, or crying, in terror or grief. Eventually, he told me why: He was an EOD tech in Vietnam, and Intelligence picked him to go on some special mission. They never found what they were looking for, and that mission killed every man in his squad—everyone but him. It took him months to sleep without nightmares.”
She was running her fingers through his hair. (She probably doesn’t even know she’s doing it.) Rhodes nodded, enjoying the sensation. He had heard a version of this story. Heather’s wasn’t entirely accurate, but he wasn’t about to correct her. He didn’t want to think about what might be going on outside.
“What helped?” he asked. “With the nightmares?”
“Talking about it.”
Pressing his face into her robe, he shook his head. “Not here.” He leaned up with a heavy sigh. “Not now.” He backed against the headboard next to her. Taking her hand, he gave it an affectionate squeeze and ran his fingers over hers.
Outside, the sun was rising beyond the woods. Despite her comforting words, her expression was the same impassive iron she had worn the night before. She wore it so often now. It challenged him as much as it hurt him; He want to break through it, break her.
There was much to do today. Rhodes had to get ready for his Sabbatical to come to an end. He didn’t want to consider what his options were—he was already having nightmares from the stress. The best thing for him was to focus on preparation. Climbing out of the bed, he searched the floor for his pajama pants. Heather picked them off the floor on her side of the bed and threw them at him. He couldn’t imagine how they got all the way over there.
Chuckling, he pulled them on. “You’re always taking care of people,” he said. “Your grandfather, Moné-sha… me.”
“I just didn’t want to see you naked anymore.”
He scoffed. “I don’t mean finding my pajamas. I mean your dream about drowning, then yesterday, when you comforted me.”
“You told me to do that.”
“Yes, but you didn’t have to be sincere, to… to care, but you did.” Rhodes climbed back onto the bed. “Why?”
Looking away, Heather shook her head. “It’s what I do.” She avoided his gaze. “It’s the moral imperative.”
“The what?”
“The moral imperative.” She turned to him with a raised brow. His field was narrower than he had led them to believe. “Kant?”
“That’s a name I haven’t heard since undergrad,” he snorted, shaking his head.
“It’s kind of like the Golden Rule, but applied to everyone,” she explained. “By caring, I hope—hoped—to invite others to care. Likewise,”—she glared at him—“by raping, you condone rape, and invite others to rape you, your loved ones, your—”
Rhodes’s smile vanished. His hand took her off-guard. The force of his slap knocked her side-ways. Straddling her, he slapped her again. She yelped in fear and pain.
“Take it back!” he screamed, slapping her again.
“It’s just an analogy!” She held her arms up to protect her face.
Realizing he had lost control, he forced himself to lower his hand. Still furious, he shoved her off the edge of the bed. Groaning in pain, she clutched her side, certain he had just cracked her ribs more severely. Shocked, confused, and in pain, Heather stayed on the floor, trying to quiet her sobs.
It took a great effort, but Rhodes left her there. Grabbing his robe from the bedpost, he pulled it on and turned to leave the room.
A sharp, high-pitched noise demanded their attention. They jerked their heads toward the window, wide-eyed. Heather stopped crying as she pulled the noise from a far-flung memory of Byron and Kondorf offering her a ride home in their patrol car. Her breath began to come in ragged—and hopeful—gasps.
Scrambling to her feet, she threw herself at the window and saw it: a Cobb County patrol car had pulled up in front of the house. A lone officer, hat pulled low over his dark face, stood in the open door of the car, speaking into the radio.
Emerging from his initial shock, Rhodes jumped over the bed and followed her gaze. When he caught sight of the cruiser, he clapped a hand over her mouth and jerked her onto the bed, out of view.
Heather squealed in alarm, but fell still. She twisted in his arms, looking up at him with wide, desperate eyes. Reading her expression, he released her slowly. Pulling the keys off from around his neck, he went to the bedside table and pulled out the gun.
“No!” she cried in a hushed tone. “No, please don’t hurt him!”
“I can’t take any chances.”
“You won’t be!” she promised him. “Please, let me—let me warn Monica we have to be quiet, and he’ll have no reason even to come upstairs.”
Ignoring her, he hurried toward the door. She grabbed his arm and jerked him to face her.
“Avery, please!” she begged. “Some of my best friends are cops.”
Knocks on the front door thundered through the house. Rhodes pulled away, but paused with his hand on the knob. He turned back to her. Half of her face was pale with fear, and the other half was red and blotchy, her nose seeping blood, but her eyes met his as if the attack were forgotten.
Stuffing the gun into the pocket of his robe, he wrapped one side over the other so the bulge was concealed. “Go warn Monica,”—he opened the door—“and stay away from the window.” He released her onto the landing. She was confused to find stacks of old, used tires piled in each corner. Before she could wonder at this, he grabbed her by the back of the neck and pulled her back to him.
“One noise,” he warned her, “and everyone dies.”
Heather nodded. He kissed her hard and hurried down the stairs. She pushed open the door to the Camera Room.
Monica had heard the siren chirp and the knocking. Standing, wide-eyed, by the door, she was shocked to see Heather walk in.
“What—”
Heather silenced her with a hand over her mouth. She glanced around and was surprised to find the cameras were gone. “We might not have much time,” she whispered. �
�There is at least one police officer at the door. Av—Colossus is going to kill him unless we are very, very quiet.” She held a finger to her lips.
Monica nodded, and Heather lowered her hand.
“He has been cracking,” she continued, “and there is no telling what is going to happen downstairs, or when the officer leaves, but he’s going to be upset and vulnerable. If we work together, we might be able to escape.”
“You’re insane.” Monica shook her head.
“What?” That was the last thing Heather had expected to hear.
“The month is almost over!” Monica said. “He could let us go! And you—you’re just going to get us killed!”
Heather’s chest tightened. She wasn’t prepared for this. “Monica—”
“I’m not going to risk a small chance at freedom for something that is guaranteed to get us killed!”
“Shh!” Heather covered her mouth again, shoving her against the wall. “We only have two days.” Her voice cracked. “Avery was never planning on letting us go. He is going to kill us, and burn this house to ashes, and go back to his life as if nothing ever happened. That was his plan the entire time. He has done this before.”
Monica shoved her away. “I don’t believe you.” She folded her hands over her abdomen. “I can’t afford to.”
Desperate, tears began to rise in Heather’s throat. She didn’t understand. Before she could argue her case further, a gunshot made them both jump.
Monica stared at the door, hand over her mouth. Heather fell to her knees with a hand over her mouth. “Jamal…” she sobbed. Tears began to stream down her face.
They expected shouting, for the door to burst open, but it didn’t. Instead, they heard the thud of bare feet running throughout the house. When the footsteps came upstairs, Heather closed her eyes. But the door didn’t open. They could hear the splashing of liquid spilling onto the floor. A thin rivulet ran under the door. They stared at it as it spread toward them.
