by Kitty Thomas
Maybe I’d been lying to myself about going crazy from the silence. I was really going crazy from how relieved I was to have it. Running water and silence. The motherfucking lottery.
“Shop.” He sat in a chair next to mine so he could watch me. I barely had time to marvel at the continued existence of the Internet.
“I-I don’t know what to get or how much. How will I pay you back?”
“I don’t need you to pay me back. I need you to look like a normal person in my house and not a kidnap victim. Decide on a new hair color and style also. I’ve got to get stuff for that. And we’ll get you colored contacts. No high heels. Every picture they showed of you on the news was in something nice enough to wear heels. People probably imagine you a little taller than you are. Flats only.”
I looked through the sites he’d picked out. It was all nice stuff. “So I’m going to leave the house and see other people?” I asked.
“At some point.”
“You aren’t worried I’ll say something? I thought that was the whole reason you didn’t give me a choice about coming with you?”
“I said you couldn’t be free range. I didn’t say you’d never see other people. You saw what happened at the castle. Do I seem in any way traumatized by it?”
I shook my head. I’d tried and failed multiple times during the trip to his house to not think about how matter-of-factly Trevor’s killing and disposal had been carried out.
“I don’t mind a body count. Don’t put me in a situation to make one or to make you part of it, and you have nothing to worry about. Deal?”
Sure. Nothing to worry about. But I nodded quickly and went back to looking at the sites.
Something else occurred to me suddenly. The ever-looming feminine protection quandary. “I... I need some... some toiletries,” I mumbled. That was the most tactful way I could put it.
Shannon studied me for a moment. “You mean tampons.” Off my shocked expression he said, “Don’t look so surprised. I was raised by a woman, not by wolves. My dad went on a lot of tampon runs when I was growing up. I’ll take care of it. Just write down anything that will help me out in that department. They have a lot of options out there—probably a lot more now than when I was a kid.” He opened a drawer and took out a notepad and pen and put it beside me on the desk.
“Thank you.” I was so ridiculously grateful that not only had I not had to explain to him what I meant, but that he hadn’t made me feel awkward or dirty. It was so strange—yet in hindsight made so much weird sense—that I’d hidden the entire thing from Trevor, unwilling to bring it up under almost any circumstance, yet, I’d somehow been able to tell Shannon, however subtly. Why did I trust this guy when there seemed no rational reason for me to?
“Shannon?”
“Yeah?”
“Why did you bring me home with you? Why didn’t you just kill me back there?” Probably not the best question to ask a guy like this, but I had to know what had been going through his head. Why not just keep things neat and tidy if he didn’t mind such ugliness?
“I don’t know.”
It was a far less comforting answer than I’d been hoping for. I had a feeling that the amount of emotion and empathy I’d seen on his face when he’d discovered me with Trevor was about the most he’d ever shown. Somehow, despite knowing he’d been traveling with others that night, I imagined him as a person who lived completely alone.
But I was wrong about that. A fluffy white cat sauntered into the room. She jumped up on Shannon’s lap and started to purr, giving me a disdainful glare as if to say, Bitch, no way am I sharing him with you. I worried the cat might scratch my eyes out while I slept.
“What’s her name?”
Shannon just stared at me for a moment, completely baffled. “She doesn’t have one.”
“How can you have a cat without a name? Is she new?”
“No.” He stroked the back of her neck, and she pressed harder against his hand. “I’ve had her for a long time.”
“How old is she?”
“I don’t know. We could cut her open and count the rings.”
I wasn’t sure if he was serious.
I couldn’t believe it didn’t occur to him just how fucking weird it was to have a pet in your house that you chose not to give a name to.
“If she doesn’t have a name, then what do you call her?”
“I don’t need to call her anything. She comes to me on her own when she’s ready. We communicate just fine. She doesn’t have a name for me.” The words were almost defensive, but he didn’t sound defensive when he delivered them. It was more like he was just rattling off a list of logical facts that should be obvious to any thinking person.
The cat probably did have a name for him... it was just some version of a meow that didn’t translate straight to English.
“I thought sociopaths killed small animals.” I don’t know why I felt the need to say that. It was out of my mouth before I could stop it. It seemed unwise now that it was out there—like making unappreciated commentary on someone’s handicap.
He gave me a dark look. “You watch too much TV.”
“I don’t remember ever watching TV.” Except the movies at the castle. He must have forgotten the amnesiac trapped in a theme park for months situation.
“You must have watched it at some point. Where else would you get your ideas about sociopaths? The abnormal psychology fairy?”
Had he just made a joke? Possibly his second in the space of a couple of minutes? It was so odd even thinking about him making a joke. I swear his face just had that one expression. I wasn’t sure how he got on in life without every single person near him clearing a big wide path in terror. I thought sociopaths were supposed to be outwardly charming. He was really attractive, but I wasn’t sure I’d call him in any way charming.
“There are plenty of low-level sociopaths in the world who get a lot of evil accomplished with very little feeling involved. More than you’d care to know about have wives, kids, dogs. For most, those things are camouflage.”
“Is your cat camouflage?”
Shannon shrugged. “Not a lot of things make me feel things. When they do, I don’t let them go.”
I’d made him feel something.
I couldn’t bring myself to ask more. He already seemed like he’d hit his human interaction quota for the day, and more frightening than making him feel something where he wouldn’t let me go, was not making him feel something so he would. I was sure with Shannon, letting someone go was pretty much final.
When I was finished shopping, he ushered me out of the office and locked the door.
“I have to finish cleaning up. I’m going to lock you in for a while.”
“I... um... finish cleaning up?”
Shannon looked at me like I was a mental patient. “The body?”
“Oh.” I’d somehow almost forgotten about Trevor’s charred remains. “Okay.”
"I'll get your... toiletries while I'm out."
When I was alone, I finally had time and space to think. I searched the house. Nothing weird anywhere. There were a few locked doors, including what I thought was probably Shannon’s bedroom on the second floor. There was no land line phone anywhere in the house, and no computer outside the now-locked office.
The white cat followed me from room to room yowling in an irritated fashion like she was going to tell on me for checking things out. But everything looked normal. So normal, in fact, that for a moment I could pretend that Shannon was just a regular nice guy and that all the nasty business with Trevor had never happened.
But it had happened. Intellectually I knew I should be searching for a way to escape, but I couldn't bring myself to believe that a man who wanted me dead would have just spent so much money buying me new clothes.
Chapter Five
Eventually, we settled into something resembling a routine. I finally stopped fearing that he’d throw me down and take my imagined virtue, or that he’d kill or otherwise har
m me. Shannon treated me like I was his roommate—his deadbeat mooch of a roommate who didn’t pay rent. I actually started to feel guilty about it. I was wearing clothes he’d bought, using his water and electricity, eating his food, invading his space. And so far he hadn’t asked for anything in return.
But still I felt like it was coming. I expected any day now to see some version of an invoice slipped under my door with a demand for immediate payment.
This invasion was clearly uncomfortable for him—like my existence interrupted the flow of his space, like I’d thrown off the feng shui or something. But he didn’t comment on it. He didn’t act like he was going to get rid of me. The cat followed him everywhere, shooting me dirty looks whenever she passed by. If anybody was planning my demise, it was that freaky nameless cat.
So far, despite Shannon’s promise, I hadn’t left the house yet, even though my hair had been short and black for two weeks now instead of its previous long blonde. My eyes were now chocolate brown instead of blue. Or they would be if I ever left the house and wore the contacts. They mainly just sat in their case. A part of me doubted I’d even remember to put them in if and when he ever let me venture outside.
When I looked in the mirror, I felt like even more of a stranger to myself, as if a new wave of amnesia would come along and drag me under its empty dark water, erasing everything before I’d met Shannon.
He left during the day sometimes. Not every day, but most days. And it wasn’t a set schedule like he was going to the nine-to-five grind. Sometimes he was gone when I woke. Sometimes I was sure he left in the middle of the night. Sometimes he left around noon. There was no set schedule, no rhyme or reason. I’d asked once or twice where he went, and he would say, “to the gym”.
I think he probably did go to the gym sometimes. Sometimes he was dressed for it. And there was a gym bag that often left with him. Being as paranoid as he seemed to be about everything, it wouldn’t surprise me if he constantly varied his routine, working out at bizarre hours to throw whoever off this trail.
Why would a man need to be that paranoid if he wasn’t doing something wrong or dangerous? But then, I don’t think I’d ever believed Shannon was a nice guy with a normal job. He was dangerous like a wild animal was dangerous. Whatever it was that had come along and civilized humanity so we could function properly in groups, had bypassed him. He was his own law.
One evening at dinner, Shannon dropped an orange manila envelope on the table in front of me.
“What’s this?”
“It’s you.”
I stared at it. “What do you mean?” But I knew what he meant. I was just stalling.
“Open it.” He slid a silver letter opener across the table.
I stopped it with the edge of my hand and slit the envelope open. Inside was a dossier. On me. There was also a DVD. A shiver traveled down my spine. He’d been out there stalking my information. I wasn’t sure if this felt like a kindness or a threat. I couldn’t bring myself to read the details just yet.
“Where did you get all this? H-how did you get all this? How do I know this is the truth? You could be lying like Trevor.”
Shannon shrugged as if it didn’t matter to him one way or the other what I believed. “I could be. It’s up to you whether you want to believe what’s in there. But it’s a narrative that doesn’t include the end of the world. Do what you want with it. I need to make some calls.”
He got up and put his plate and glass in the sink and ran some water over them. Then he went to his office down the hall and closed the door.
I put the papers back inside the envelope without reading them and took them upstairs to my room. I slid the envelope under my mattress. I wasn’t ready for more stories about me. Even though I had a strong feeling these were the stories that were true. Now that I held it in my hands I was afraid to know that truth.
What kind of a misfit hermit had I been if no one had called the hospital or police to claim me? Maybe I was afraid to see a bunch of wasted time staring back at me—no accomplishments to speak of. Nothing the world cared about. As long as I didn’t know, I could pretend I’d had a meaningful impact, even though I knew that couldn’t be true. If it were true, someone would have called. Someone besides Trevor would have missed me.
When I went back downstairs, the office door was still shut. I eased up to the door and pressed my ear against it. I could hear Shannon on the phone. Just barely. He didn’t have a land line, just what he called a burner. It was a simple black pre-paid cell phone. He routinely disposed of them and bought new ones.
“I told you I’ve been busy... I got a new pet. I needed to get her housebroken and acclimated... of course another cat... you know I can’t have a dog with my travel schedule...” Why did I think I was the cat in this scenario? Shannon could be lying about how long he’d had the white cat, but she was far too territorial to be new. “... No, the money’s not the problem. It’s our agreed rate. You said it wasn’t dire, so I took you at your word. But I’m ready now. It’ll be done within the week. Be out of town next Thursday with people who can account for your whereabouts.”
When the call ended, I practically flew to the living room couch, and sat there trying to look like I hadn’t just heard what I was nearly a hundred percent certain was a discussion about killing someone.
Shannon came out and looked at me for a long moment. Then his gaze shifted to the dining room table. “Elodie?”
“S-sorry.” I got up and quickly took my plate and glass to the sink and put it in the warm water. I don’t know why I got so freaked out whenever that tone came to his voice. Actually, I did know why. It’s just that he’d never done anything personally to me to illicit this fear.
Shannon was so fastidious. I was sure he would just snap if something was left sitting out... if a towel was left crumpled on the counter... if a box of crackers fell over on its side. It wasn’t like he’d ever harmed me for leaving anything out. He’d never hit me or yelled at me or smashed or thrown things. It was just... this disappointed tone like you get with a kid who eats an unauthorized cookie before dinner. I hated doing something wrong in his house—especially given how much he provided for me without asking for anything in return. I felt like my behavior had to be... perfect—to somehow compensate for what an inconvenience I must be.
I also felt like I had to somehow make him trust me so I could be a free range human again. I liked the comfort of his home, but it felt like a clock was running. At some point, he’d get bored with the novelty of another person taking up space like the white cat. He had to believe I could be trusted or... I didn’t want to think about the or right now.
“I’m tired,” he said. “I’m going up to bed. I’m having a party tomorrow night, and I’ll need you to stay in your room until it’s over.”
“O-okay.” The next day was Sunday. Was he killing someone tomorrow? Or was he really having a party? Aside from his supposed urban exploring friends, Shannon didn’t strike me as a super social guy. What kind of a party could he be having?
“Shannon?”
He stopped at the bottom of the staircase. “Yeah?”
I was afraid I might make him mad, but I pressed on with my question anyway. “We disguised my appearance. The media has forgotten about me. Why can’t I go to the party?”
He offered me a kind smile, which I swear he must have stood in front of the mirror for hours practicing because it didn’t look right on his face. “It’s not your kind of party. Trust me. I’ll take you out next weekend if you want. I’m sorry I haven’t been a better host. Oh, and I’ve got to be out of town a few days next week. Business.”
Then he drifted up the stairs. Moments later, I heard his door click shut.
I’d tried to sneak into his office early on, but he kept the door locked at all times when he wasn’t in there. And I wasn’t foolish enough to think it would be any different tonight. There were a few other doors in the house he kept locked all the time as well. But he pretended as if those doors
didn’t exist, and I wasn’t dumb enough to let him know I was aware that they did.
I sat on the sofa and looked around, at a loss for what to do. It was only nine o’clock and felt way too early for sleep. The cat sat on a chair opposite from me, glaring, plotting.
I went back up to my room and took the envelope from under the mattress. There was no way I would be able to sleep with my life lying a few inches underneath me. I came back downstairs with it and dumped the contents out on the coffee table.
The DVD was in a clear plastic freezer bag and just said “Cache” on it. I set it aside for the moment and turned to the information Shannon had somehow acquired about me.
“Elodie Rosen. Age: 28. Graduate student of Botany at University of Washington.”
Washington state was on the other side of the country. Did Trevor live and work there? Had he taken me all the way across the country, or had I gone to where he was? Maybe spring break or something.
But why had nobody called? The story must have made national news if Shannon heard about it, unless he’d been traveling in the area. For business. Maybe I’d been wrapped up in my studies and had no close friends. But no family either? Didn’t my professors give a shit about me? Or did they think someone else would come forward?
I looked back to the list. It didn’t appear that I’d had a job. I’d mostly kept to myself. But according to Shannon’s search, I didn’t have student loans, either. Had I inherited a lot of money? Surely I had to have money. And nobody was speaking up for me?
People really didn’t like to get involved in things. It was just like what Shannon said. I could have screamed my head off, and that kid at the motel might have pretended he couldn’t hear me—anything to not get involved. What was wrong with people?
