Stolen

by Jalena Dunphy

  “Stallone? Really? I don’t know about that. But I’m totally on board with the rest. Mmmm . . . pizza.” My empty belly rumbles at the thought.

  “When this is all said and done we’ll go out for a big, cheesy, gooey mess of deliciousness as our celebratory dinner. You game?”

  “It’s a date! Cheesy pizza here we come!” I exclaim.

  “Glad to know you’re excited about the pizza. I hope part of you will be excited to see me, too. Geesh, way to give a guy a complex.”

  “As if any girl could give you a complex! Of course I’ll want you there; I’m not paying for the pizza!”

  “Glad to know where I stand. As much fun as this is, you telling me I’ll be buying you food and all, it’s late. You should get some sleep. I’ll be over around eight this morning to go over your speech. And who knows, maybe after the conference I’ll buy you a pizza.”

  “I’m as good as asleep!” I say excitedly. “All you had to do was promise pizza! Thanks for talking to me for so long. I’ll see you in . . . less than five hours!”

  “I’m counting down the minutes. Good night, Jess.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Three Years Ago . . .

  I only sleep for about three and half hours after Bruce and I stop texting until the time mom wakes me at seven to get ready for the conference, but I feel more rested than I have in so long. I still don’t want to do this, but I feel capable of doing it now, a huge change from how I felt before.

  After I shower, mom helps me pick out an outfit that’s simple, understated; something a girl would wear if she had just learned her boyfriend had been killed by the same man who later kidnapped her.

  I’m wearing a capped sleeve charcoal gray, knee-length, dress. My hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, nothing too flashy, finished off with a pair of black ballet shoes. I think I look just the right amount of depressing. I’ve just finished getting ready when the doorbell rings. Looking to mom, I feel terrified. It’s probably just Bruce, but what if it isn’t?

  Holding her hand as we make our way down the stairs toward the front door, my hands get clammy, my breathing quickens, and I feel faint. On the last step, we hear, “Beth? Jess? It’s Bruce. Let me in, will you? It’s kinda crazy out here.”

  Nearly stepping on mom as I push her out of the way, I run to the door. Bruce is on the porch when I yank it open, along with a slew of reporters at the end of our driveway. Bruce got a restraining order so they can’t come onto our property. That doesn’t keep them from congregating in the street, but at least it keeps them off our lawn and away from our front door.

  “Thanks,” he says while locking and bolting the door behind him. “It’s a madhouse out there. I didn’t think I’d have as much trouble getting through as I did. I thought they would all be setting up at the courthouse for the conference. Obviously, I was wrong. Wow!

  “You look nice, Jess. Good choice,” he says approvingly of my outfit as he walks past me with a binder under his arm. Mom trails me as I follow Bruce into the kitchen where he’s already spreading papers out onto the island.

  “Okay, so I worked on your speech, but I want to go over it with you in case you have any questions. If there’s something you want to add or take away, let me know,” he instructs as he hands me a single sheet of white printer paper filled only about halfway with my speech.

  The kitchen is eerily quiet while I read the words Bruce has written for me. Thank the Cosmos that I’m a fast reader. “This sounds fine. I don’t think there’s anything I want to add. What if they ask me questions? Am I supposed to answer them?” I ask Bruce.

  “This isn’t that type of conference. You’ll give your speech, then we’ll leave. The reporters will try to ask you questions, but you don’t have to answer them. Don’t answer them! Okay?” he commands.

  “Okay,” I say meekly, not knowing how to respond to his curt instruction. He’s never spoken to me like this before. I don’t know why he’s so adamant about me not answering any questions, but the tone in his voice allows for no argument on the subject. He seems on edge. It’s probably just this whole press conference thing—I know it’s messing with my head.

  “Good. Well, I suppose we should get going,” he declares after looking at his wristwatch. “Wouldn’t want to be late,” he says sarcastically. “We’ll take your car, Beth. Since it’s in the garage, it’ll be more convenient for us to get in and out of the house. You ready, Jess?”

  “I just want to get this over with,” I state with sincerity.

  “It’ll be over before you know it. These things tend to go fast once you get there. It’s the buildup beforehand that makes it seem like an eternity when in actuality it’s usually over in less than ten minutes. And I’ll be right beside you the whole time if you need me.”

  “You’ll be next to me the whole time?” I ask eagerly. I thought it would just be my piece of paper, a podium to speak from, and me.

  “Of course I’ll be next to you. Where did you think I’d be, hiding behind a curtain or something?”

  “Well, yeah, I guess I did,” I answer honestly.

  “Silly girl, when are you going to realize you can’t get rid of me so easy? I’m like that annoying friend who never seems to go home, who drives you nuts the entire time you’re around them, but who you miss when they do finally leave. See, I only leave long enough to make you forget how much I bug you when you’re around me,” he says while nudging me with his shoulder. “Now get your butt into the car so we can order that pizza!”

  “Yes, sir.” I mockingly salute him before walking toward mom, who’s waiting for us at the door leading into the garage. “Oh wait, shouldn’t we get Cass?” I ask breathlessly, ashamed I nearly forgot about my sister.

  Bruce and mom exchange looks before telling me she isn’t home, that she went to stay with friends for a couple of days, but are sure she’ll be watching it on TV.

  I don’t feel comfortable with their answer, but we don’t have time to discuss it. I have no choice but to let it go for now. I wish she were going to be next to me. I hope she’s at least okay wherever and with whomever she’s with right now.

  The whole ride to the courthouse my mind is frantic with errant thoughts. I miss Cass. I wish she were here. I’m happy Bruce will be next to me; will mom? I forgot to ask. “Mom?”

  “Yeah, sweetie?”

  “Bruce said he was going to stand up with me. Will you be, too?”

  “I’d love to, but Bruce doesn’t think it’s safe for me to. He’s only up there to offer protection. I’ll be close though, okay?” she asks while looking at me over the front passenger seat’s headrest. Bruce insisted on driving.

  “Yeah, that’s fine,” I answer, and it is. I only asked because I hadn’t before. To be honest I’m indifferent with who stands beside me. I just want to get through the speech, run back to the car, and go home.

  Back to my errant thoughts, I’ll be talking about the “tragedy,” as Bruce puts it in the speech, over what happened to Rogan. What if I can’t hold it together during that part? I have to talk briefly about my kidnapping experience. What if I break during that part? What if I break before I even start the speech?

  I can’t breathe! I’m going to pass out. I feel so dizzy. My heart is beating painfully against my chest, my hand is moving harmoniously with the beats. Bending forward so my face is in my lap, I try to take calming breaths. This isn’t my first panic attack, but it’s by far the worst.

  “Jess, hold on. We’re almost there, just hold on.” I hear Bruce’s voice through the thumping in my ears.

  “Oh my God! Honey, what’s going on?” I hear the frantic voice of my mother.

  I can’t answer her. I need to focus on my breaths right now before I attempt to speak.

  One shallow breath.

  Two shallow breaths.

  Three shallow breaths.

  Two shallow breaths. One deep breath.

  One shallow breath. Two deep breaths.

  Three deep breaths
.

  Four deep breaths.

  My heartbeat is slowing, the thumping in my ears waning, the dizziness subsiding. Taking a chance, I sit up in the seat. My equilibrium isn’t quite back to normal, but it’s slowly returning. My panic attack ended just in time to pull in back of the courthouse, away from the mob parked in front.

  Slamming the brakes of the car, launching me forward in the seat, Bruce throws the car’s shifter into park and jumps into the back seat, pulling me close to him. “Jess, are you okay? Oh my God, you scared me,” he says between frantic breaths.

  Soon mom is in the back seat, making me the filling to an uncomfortable Mom-Bruce sandwich. “Guys! I’m fine. Now will you let me have a little air please? You’re smothering me here,” I cry out as I push Bruce forward with the palms of my hands and mom back with my lower back jutted out.

  “I just panicked a little. I’m fine now, though, okay? I promise,” I assure them both. I’m not convinced I am, but this isn’t helping anything. I just need to get this over with.

  “Are you sure you can do this?” Bruce asks.

  No, I’m not sure! I shout in my head. “Yeah, I’m good. Really, I’m good. Let’s get this over with.”

  He studies me for a long moment before relenting to my request. I think he wants to get this over with as much as I do. “I’ll be right beside you,” he reminds me.

  Forcing a smile, I nod in acknowledgement.

  Walking to a back door of the courthouse, we go quickly through security before walking/running through an eerily quiet corridor. The closer we get to the end, the louder the noises behind one of the closed doors becomes. Standing in front of it, both Bruce and mom squeeze one of my hands. I don’t squeeze back. I can’t.

  Bruce taps on the door. The echo off the corridor walls startles me, causing me to jump. “It’s okay. I’m just letting them know we’re here. There’s someone right on the other side who’s been waiting for us to arrive and who will now introduce you to the crowd. Take a minute if you have to. They’ll wait,” he explains.

  “No, I’m good. Let’s get this over with.” My voice comes out shakier than I would have liked.

  “You got this. Just remember there’s a pizza at the end of this,” he reminds me with an infectious smile.

  There’s a timid smile on my lips when the doors open, dissipating quickly when the roar and camera flashes from the crowd in front of me wipe it from my face. Taking a cleansing breath, I walk to the podium, paper in hand and Bruce by my side.

  “Thank you all for coming,” I begin after the crowd settles down. “I know what you want me to talk about, but I’d like to take a minute to say a few things before I get to all that. I know my story and the story of Rogan Morgan has made all your newspapers, magazines, and TV shows hungry for details to fill your articles and news segments, but neither Rogan nor I can so easily fit into the news you report.

  “We’re people. Our families are people. I’d like to ask that you respect that. I understand you need to report this story, but please remember that this isn’t just a story to us; this is our life. A tragedy we’re facing every day.

  “That being said, I can’t speak for Rogan or his family, but I’d like to explain some of the things that have happened to me. About seven months ago, I received a letter from someone who never gave his name nor any clues for the police to trace. At that time, Rogan and I had been seeing each other for a year. In the letter, it hinted at the possibility that Rogan could get hurt if I continued a relationship with him. That very day I ended things with Rogan for his protection.

  “For the past seven months I’ve had minimal contact with Rogan, believing I was doing the right thing, that I was protecting him. When I heard what happened, I was stunned. I-I.” Taking a deep breath, I attempt to keep the tears at bay. I feel Bruce’s hand squeeze mine, giving me enough encouragement to continue.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell the room, quickly wiping away a few tears that have fallen. “When I heard that Rogan was dead, I was so angry. I had left him so he would be protected. I miss him so much and he’ll never know that.” That isn’t a part of Bruce’s speech, but the truth spills out of me before I can stop it.

  “Then two days ago, the same day Rogan was kil—the same day Rogan died.” I change the wording at the last second. I can’t say aloud that he was killed. “I was kidnapped. The man has been apprehended. It’s believed that he’s the same man who’s been stalking me the past few months and the same man who was behind Rogan’s death.

  “There isn’t much more I can tell you at this time. I’ve been told that the police will keep you informed as the case progresses.

  “Thank you all for coming. And again, please respect the privacy of those involved. Thank you.”

  Resting his hand on my lower back, Bruce leads me out the same door we walked through what feels like hours ago. With the click of the door latching shut, I collapse onto the floor. Tears pour freely, shamelessly, down my cheek and onto the floor. Sobs wrack my body. Breaths barely escape my open mouth, leaving me feeling like a fish out of water. My head hurts so badly. I didn’t think there was anything left of my heart to break—I was so wrong. Sand is thicker than the pieces left of my tormented heart.

  “Jess, it’s over. It’s over. I’m so sorry I put you through that. I shouldn’t have ever suggested it so soon after everything.” He trails off.

  I’m floating, my arms hanging freely down my sides. I feel weightless. I should care what’s happening to me. I can’t really be floating after all, but I don’t care. There’s absolutely no part of me that cares about anything right now.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Three Years Ago . . .

  I don’t remember when the tears stopped falling or how I made it to my bed, but the tears have stopped and I’m in my bed. The room is dark. I’m alone. I hear snoring coming from the corner. I fumble with my lamp a moment before it cooperates, spreading light through the darkness and casting a shadow on a sleeping Bruce.

  He’s sitting on my rolling desk chair, the side of his face flattened against his fisted right hand, which is resting on the arm of the chair, and his long legs spread out and crossed at the ankles. He looks like a pile of clothes that just happen to have a man in them, strewn on a chair after a long day.

  I’m mesmerized. He looks so normal, not the rugged, overprotective Bruce I always see. This Bruce looks vulnerable; not weak, but not invincible. He looks like everyone else.

  “I can feel you staring from all the way over here,” he mumbles, startling my thoughts right out of my head.

  He isn’t moving. Did I just imagine him talking?

  “Ya know, this chair is pretty damn uncomfortable, but I managed to fall asleep in it. That’s crazy, isn’t it? I can’t sleep in my own house, yet put me in this satanic chair and I pass right out.” He says all this while positioning himself more comfortably in the desk chair.

  “I’m sorry I was staring. It’s just that I’ve never seen you sleep. You look different, more at peace.” Sensing his unease, I switch topics. “How long have you been here? How long have I been here?”

  “What time is it?” he asks, ignoring my questions.

  Looking at my alarm clock, it reads 2:08 in the morning. “It’s just after two.”

  “Well then I’ve been here since about 10:30 yesterday morning,” he answers my question. “After I brought you home, you fell right to sleep. I was downstairs for a little while, with your mom, but I wanted to be here when you woke up. I didn’t want you to get scared thinking you were alone,” he states as if all of this is just another day. I suppose in my life it is.

  “Where’s mom?” I ask.

  “She went to bed a few hours ago. She was in here with me for most of the day, but she seemed so exhausted I told her to get some rest, that I would stay until you woke up. I hope you don’t mind that I’m here?”

  “Of course not, I’m glad you are,” I assure him.

  “Do you want me to leave now that you’re
awake?”

  “No!” I whisper/shout, not wanting to wake mom, but needing Bruce to know I don’t want him to go anywhere.

  “Well then, I guess we’re having a slumber party,” he declares, while smiling.

  Laughing, I say, “I’m pretty sure this isn’t a slumber party, and if it were, it would make The Guinness book as being the ‘worst slumber party ever!’”

  “Ouch! I’m not exactly up on my slumber party etiquette, but I think insulting your guests would make the list of what ‘not’ to do.”

  Throwing my pillow at his head, I admit through bursts of laughter, “I guess I’m not familiar with the slumber party etiquette either.”

  “Wow, did you really just throw a pillow at my head?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “You’re going to pay for that,” he says as he walks toward me holding the pillow I threw at him.

  Moving at the last second before the pillow makes contact with my leg, I jump off the bed, crouching along one side as he stands on the other.

  “There’s one thing I think I know about slumber parties.” He draws out his words. “Is that there is always a pillow fight.” He’s launching at me with the pillow before his last word is spoken.

  Fighting the desire to scream, I stay silent so we don’t wake mom. I don’t know how I would explain this to her. Honestly, I don’t want to try. This is too weird for words, Bruce lunging at me with my own pillow in an attempt to hit me with said pillow; like I said . . . weird.

  “Okay, okay!” I shout, my arms up in surrender. “I’m sorry I threw a pillow at your head! Let’s act like adults here. Now put the pillow down,” I instruct, while dropping my hands slowly as a demonstration of what I want him to do with the pillow.

  Pursing his lips, drawing his eyebrows in in defeat, he lowers the pillow to the bed.

  “Good. Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” I ask, while walking toward him.