Social Media

by JA Huss

  Eyes brown. Hair, probably brown. Maybe six feet tall. Less than two hundred pounds. Skinny, actually. Birds are singing, a small plane can fly overhead, and we’re on a farm.

  I make my checklist.

  This is how I got through the years after I came home. Checklists. I organized everything around me. Took notice of everything. I practiced closing my eyes so I could remember the way a place sounds. I noticed the little things. I saw the details.

  And I planned.

  Because even though I don’t remember him saying he’d come back for me, I must’ve known it all along. A man does not kidnap you, keep you prisoner for eight months, and then let you go with no intention of returning.

  I knew he was coming.

  And I’m ready.

  I took self-defense. I learned how to shoot a handgun. I took yoga to help me stay calm. I studied the geography of the Midwest, because even though I never knew where I was, I knew I was on a farm. One that had both cattle and crops. He came in smelling like them both at times. Sweat and soil. That’s what he used to smell like.

  He smelled like it when he stole me, and he smells like it now.

  He might not have changed much, but I’m as different as the furniture in this house and there’s no way I’m going down without a fight. It took me years to reclaim my mind after he warped it with his talk of a demented future where I’d be his wife and we’d live out our lives together in marital bliss. And if he thinks—

  I’m smacked to the floor with a hard fist across my mouth. More blood.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Daisy. And I don’t like it. Get up.”

  I can’t get up, my fucking hands are bound behind my back. He knows this, but he rolls me a little with his boot. “I said get the fuck up.”

  I wiggle around until I can roll over and get to my knees, then I rock forward and stand, my leg muscles straining to lift me up without the use of my hands.

  “Sit,” he barks.

  I sit again. And then he plops a laptop down in front of me.

  “You are a disgusting whore, Daisy.” He points to my Twitter account. “Password.”

  Is this a battle I need to fight? I’m not sure, but the blood is still dripping down my face, so I decide that’s a big no. If he wants to play around on my Twitter, more power to him. “My friends will all know it’s not me.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. It’s you. Password.”

  I turn my head up so I can meet his half-hidden eyes again. “My password is ‘I heart Vaughn Asher.’” He grits his teeth, clenches his jaw. I’ll probably be hit again for that, but I don’t care. “The heart is a less-than sign and a three.”

  He types it in and pulls up my profile, then gives me a sidelong glance. “We’re gonna cure that affliction right now. Break up with him.”

  What?

  “Give me a Filthy Blue Bird-worthy tweet that will let him, and the police, know that you left of your own volition and don’t want to be bothered. One. Tweet. And it better do the job, because if the police come here, I’ll kill both of us. I will never let you leave again. I told you back when I let you go, you are mine. I always mean what I say.”

  And then he stares at me so hard and for so long without blinking, I have to turn my head away.

  “You have one minute.”

  I drop my head and stretch my neck. God, that feels good. I do it again and I can almost feel his anger. A clock is ticking on the wall, and I count those seconds as I imagine the thin hand sweeping around the center, counting down to my captor’s next act of violence.

  I wait until the minute he straightens up. I imagine his hand drawing back as he plans where he will strike me. And then my mouth opens and I feed him the words he thinks he wants.

  “‘Hashtag time to delete. I’m over it. Have a nice life, bitches.’”

  I look up at the masked man to see what he thinks.

  “Delete?”

  I nod. “Yes, I’ve been meaning to do it since I left Saint Thomas. I want to stop all this. So type that and delete the account.”

  I know he’s got a mask on, but I swear to God, I see him smile.

  Asshole. He’s just another asshole who thinks with his dick.

  “You’re done with Vaughn Asher?”

  “So done.”

  “He married you.”

  That’s right, let’s play, you psycho. I keep my edge hard, I make myself stare him in the eyes. And then I tell him what he wants to hear. “Vaughn can’t marry me. I’m already married. To you.”

  Chapter Sixty-Five - Vaughn

  #Not #Walking #Away

  I KNOCK again. “Gra-aaace.” I blow out a breath of air and look over my shoulder at Bigmy. “She’s still here, right? I mean, she never left last night.”

  “She never left, boss. Someone was here all night.”

  “What time did you leave?”

  “Hmmm.” He hums as he thinks. “The guard from Ray’s team relieved me around midnight, I think? I got called back after a few hours. You were already asleep on the couch. The doorman saw me.”

  I knock again, but the feeling in the pit of my stomach can’t be denied.

  Something is wrong.

  “Grace,” I call out, pressing my forehead to the wooden door. “Answer me or I’m coming in.”

  I press my ear up against the door and listen.

  Nothing.

  “Here.” I thrust the coffee and muffin at Bigmy and fish through my pocket for the key to Grace’s apartment. I push it into the lock and twist the handle. “Grace?” Maybe she’s sleeping. I walk into the entryway and then turn down the hallway where her bedroom is. The cat comes out of the door, meowing. “Hey, kitty. Where’s Grace?” The cat rubs up against my leg and I peek into the room.

  Nothing.

  “Fuck. Bigmy, what the fuck? She’s not here!”

  “Let me check the rest of the apartment.”

  He goes off to do that while I call Ray. He picks up on the first ring. “Yup.”

  “Ray, she’s gone. Did you see her leave last night?”

  “No. She never left. We had guys outside, both front and back. And the paparazzi was here all night too. They’d have seen her.”

  “Not here,” Bigmy says as he comes back into her bedroom. “No signs of a struggle.”

  “Did she get any calls last night, Ray?”

  “Let me log in and see. I’m on my way up.”

  I end the call with Ray and take my attention back to Bigmy. “Who was the guard last night?”

  “I’m new, Mr. Asher. I don’t know your men. He had a security badge. Ray sent him up. He came up from downstairs.”

  “You said you left around midnight, so why were you called back?”

  “He said his wife needed him and could I fill in his shift. I said OK.”

  Ray comes down the hallway, breathless from running up three flights of stairs. “She got a text, Vaughn. Two, last night.”

  “Who from?”

  He throws up his hands. “Unknown number. The first one told her to come up on the roof.”

  A shooting pain runs across my shoulders as I tense up.

  “She must’ve hesitated, because she didn’t text back. So the next message asked if she was coming. That’s it. That’s all there was.”

  “What time?”

  “Twelve twenty-five.”

  I push past them and run down the hallway. I exit the apartment and take the stars up to the roof three at a time. The door is not even closed all the way.

  “Fuck. You didn’t secure the roof? The buildings next door are all connected. This is a huge fail!” I look at Ray like he’s an incompetent asshole and he goes still.

  “Boss, look—”

  “She’s been fucking kidnapped! That freak came and got her. Took her right out of her apartment and you assholes never even saw him!”

  “Vaughn,” Ray says, his hands up, palms out, like he’s warding me off. “We have cameras in all the hallways like you requested
. We can look at the footage—”

  “Then go look at it, Ray! For fuck’s sake! She’s been missing all goddamned night! Go check the fucking footage!”

  “You think the guard was the kidnapper?” Bigmy asks.

  I watch Ray as he disappears down the stairs and then turn back to Bigmy. “Do you?”

  “We should call the police.”

  A ping distracts me from any thoughts of the police. It’s coming from Grace’s desktop. I walk over to her desk and stare at the screen.

  “Twitter,” Bigmy says.

  “Yes, thank you. I can see it’s Twitter.” But the part I’m having trouble with is that Grace just posted an update.

  Grace @FilthyBlueBird

  #TimeToDelete. I’m over it. Have a nice life, bitches.

  I take out my phone and press Grace’s number. Is it possible she just left? She walked out on me? She walked away from her whole life?

  No.

  No, she’d never do that.

  Except she already did once. She got herself a new identity and walked into the sunset, leaving behind everything she ever knew.

  I bend over the desktop and grab the mouse, then click refresh on her profile page.

  Sorry, that page doesn’t exist!

  She did it. She deleted her account.

  My phone buzzes in my hand. I press accept and put it to my ear. “Yeah.”

  “We got the footage. She leaves her apartment at twelve thirty-five and never comes back.”

  “How the fuck does that happen, Ray?”

  “Vaughn, I was here for eighteen hours yesterday. I have to sleep sometimes. This guy on camera, he’s legit. He’s my guy.”

  “So where is he? Bring him in. I want to talk to him.”

  “I already called him. He’s on his way.”

  “Good. You let me know where he gets here.”

  “Should I call the police? Or should we wait and see?”

  I scrub a hand down my face as I try to work through the consequences. “Yeah. Call them. Tell them Grace has been kidnapped and we need to bring in the FBI.” I end the call and look back at Bigmy. “Do you think she just deleted that account?”

  “Well… you did piss her off. She was pretty hot last night when she kicked you out.”

  “It almost doesn’t matter, does it? I mean, we can call in the police and FBI all we want, but the truth is, that last Twitter message is the only thing they’re gonna care about. Couple that with the fact that she’s already pulled a disappearing act when her life spun out of control, and I already know where this is going.”

  “What do you want to do, Asher?”

  God, that hurts too. No one calls me Asher but Grace. I find a contact in my phone and press send. Three rings later and the call is picked up. “Conner. She’s gone.”

  “What?” He sounds asleep.

  “Grace. She’s been taken again.”

  “Vaughn, fuck. How do you know?”

  “She’s missing and she got a text last night to go up on the roof. She never came back. And… and she just deleted her Twitter account. She’s being erased. That sick freak is erasing her as I stand here. I need you to check all her accounts. Her bank, her credit cards, her Starbucks. All of it.”

  “Yeah, sure, V. I’m on it. I’ll call you back as soon as I know anything.”

  I thank him and end the call and then immediately place another one. This time I get Grace’s voicemail.

  “You’ve reached Daisy Bryndle.”

  I put it on speaker.

  “I’m deleting this number and moving on. I can’t live in the public eye. I need my privacy. Thank you and goodbye.”

  “That’s wrong.”

  “What?” Bigmy asks.

  “She would never call herself Daisy Bryndle.”

  He huffs out a long gust of air. “We need to call the police, Asher. And the FBI. Every minute that passes, she gets farther away.”

  “Yeah, but they’re not gonna believe me.” I turn to face the giant man. “She’s leaving breadcrumbs that will make the police and FBI ignore this. Call her a runaway wife. They’re gonna tell me to give her space or some bullshit like that. She’ll come back on her own.” Bigmy frowns at me. “She’s setting me up to let go. But I’m not gonna let go. She’s crazy if she thinks I’ll let go. Whatever the reason for this disappearance, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll never stop looking for her. Not until I find her. I’ll never accept that she ran away until I hear it from her own mouth.”

  I told her I’d never leave, and I meant it. I refuse to walk away, even if she wants me to.

  Chapter Sixty-Six - Grace

  #MyGameMyTurn

  I’M walked back to the closet after he finishes deleting my Twitter account.

  “Get in.”

  I do as I’m told because I have no choice at the moment. But I know how he works. At least, I know how he used to work. I test it out by stopping just past the threshold and lifting my arms a little in the hope that he will untie me. Like he used to.

  He laughs. “We are back to day one, Daisy. You earn privileges, child. You don’t expect them.”

  I sink to my knees. The mattress is thicker than the one that used to be in here, so at least it doesn’t hurt. And then I lie down and roll over on my side. The door closes. I can’t see through the crack between the floor and bottom of the door. But I don’t really need to, so I just lie still.

  We are back to day one, he said.

  Just the thought makes my stomach cramp and my heart beat fast.

  A foot kicks the door in front of my face and I squeal past my gag. “Shut up!” the man who is wearing a mask of Danny Penning shouts from the other side of the door.

  But I can’t shut up. I can’t stop crying. I can’t stop breathing hard, or choking, or shaking. And this makes the man angry. This makes him kick the door harder, and every time he kicks the door, it starts all over again. “Please,” I mumble through my gag. “Just stop kicking the door.”

  But he can’t hear me. I can barely hear me. My sobs are too loud. I’m lying face down on a rotten-smelling mattress, and the blood is pounding in my ears.

  “I saw you at the dance, Daisy.”

  What dance? What dance? I want to scream this at the man. What dance? I didn’t go to the dance!

  “He was holding you close.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  “That boy was holding you close. I should’ve been the one to hold you close.”

  I’m in seventh grade. I’ve never been to a dance. Danny Penning lives four hours away. I only know him from 4-H camp. He was my archery partner and he hated my guts because I was distracted last summer. I kept screwing up our chances for prizes. I’ve never been to a dance, I have no idea why he thinks I have, and I don’t know what Danny has to do with any of this.

  “He kissed you, didn’t he?” Another kick to the door makes me jump again, and this time, I’ve reached my limit. I cry hard. I don’t try to stop it. I start hyperventilating and then I squirm around until my feet are close enough to the door to kick it back. I kick hard. Two feet at once. I kick and kick and this time the door flies open.

  And I’d give anything for that mask to not be on the man’s face. Anything. Because even though I can barely see any skin at all past the eyeholes, I see his shock.

  Asshole. The word forms in my mind. I don’t swear, but I’ve heard the words enough to use them appropriately. Asshole. Take that, you ass—

  He kicks me this time, not the door.

  And now I’m too busy trying to breathe past my gag and the blood to think about what an asshole he is.

  “You little bitch!” he roars. “If you broke my door—”

  His door? “You broke my nose,” I try to say, but it’s just a jumble of words. I’m dying. I’m choking, the blood is running down my throat. My chest is heaving in and out so bad with fear and lack of oxygen, trying to draw in more, and more, and more.

  I start writhing again. The p
anic is setting in. I’m going to die, I realize. I’m going to suffocate right now, right here in this closet. And this man who thinks I love Danny Penning is going to watch me die.

  The blood covers my eyes a few seconds later and then I lose my sight. I can’t talk, I can’t breathe. I can’t see. I can’t move.

  It hits me then.

  I am his prisoner.

  He controls my fate.

  He decides if I live or die.

  I thrash around as this sinks in. He killed my parents. I watched him. He came to my bed and gagged and bound me. Tight. With duct tape so there was no chance of me making any coherent noise. And he shot them both, right there in their bed.

  My brother was next. He had his .22 rifle, he even got off a shot. But he missed.

  And this man who thinks he’s Danny Penning didn’t.

  He killed them and he’ll kill me because he’s in charge.

  My body goes still. I stop trying to cough up the blood and I let it pool inside my mouth. I close my eyes and tip my head back to make it rush down my throat.

  He took away all my choices. He took away all my freedom. But he can’t make me want to live.

  So I choose to die.

  The next breath comes automatically. A survival reflex. An instinct, like I’m an animal. But I draw in blood instead of air and now I’m drowning. I feel it enter my lungs and it burns, makes me cough. But each time I cough I take in more.

  And then the tape is gone, my mouth is open. Something is sucking out the blood. I’m tipped over on my side and I can’t stop myself from coughing. The liquid comes back up, out of my lungs, and my mouth is filled with the taste of copper and iron.

  I don’t know how long I stay like that. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. But some time later I realize the man is sitting next to me. Not touching me, but very close.

  “You’re OK,” he says.

  But I’m not OK. Because I’m still alive and all I want right now is for it to end.

  “I won’t have to gag you if you don’t scream. In fact, I think silence is best for you. So you can recover.”