The Assistant: A gripping psychological thriller with a nerve-shredding ending

by Cathryn Grant

  “I’m not most guys.”

  She smiled so he couldn’t see the disappointment leaking through her chest. At least Hank acted like she was special. He noticed she was desirable. She’d seen it. He couldn’t stop looking at her, and some weird part of her not only liked him looking, but liked that other people noticed. She didn’t want them thinking she was sleazy, or not good at her job, but she liked them wondering. She liked them knowing a man as powerful and successful as Hank might potentially risk his career for her. It was intoxicating.

  She dragged the serrated knife across the steak, tearing at the fibers, the knife not quite as sharp as it needed to be. Her ID bracelet clanked on the edge of the plate, the chain too long for her wrist so the extra piece hung loose, tapping against the keyboard when she typed, and ringing on plates if she wasn’t paying attention while she ate.

  The bracelet had been a gift from her father on her sixteenth birthday. Her name was engraved in elaborate script almost impossible to read it was so cluttered with curlicues. From the time her father moved out of the house when she was twelve, until now, he’d given her jewelry every year on her birthday. While her mother’s gifts were things Vanessa wanted or needed—mostly needed—her father was on a jewelry streak. Most of the other pieces he’d given her were kept in a tarnished, tangled heap in the maple jewelry box he’d given her when she turned eighteen and moved into her own apartment.

  The strong links and the flat plate with her name felt solid on her wrist. She liked seeing her name written so beautifully, and she liked knowing that the opposite side was engraved with the words, my princess. It was silly. Her father certainly hadn’t acted like she was his princess, worthy enough to make him turn away from the woman he chose over her mother.

  If she were a princess, he would have tolerated her mother. Not just tolerated, he would have loved the mother of his only daughter, his only child. If Vanessa had been more deserving, her father would have stayed. He wouldn’t have been able to tear himself away.

  Things didn’t go wrong with her mother until after he left. Before that, before he found someone prettier, her mother had laughed and played games and cooked wonderful meals. She’d been fun. Why wasn’t that good enough for him? Why wasn’t his daughter good enough for him?

  Unanswerable questions.

  She should consider giving up the bracelet, wearing something else, because all it did was clank on things, as if it were ringing a chime to remind her of the questions that would never go away, that only he could answer—or maybe even he couldn’t answer. She didn’t know; she’d never asked him.

  She chewed her steak, letting the flavor soak into her tongue, the aroma of cooked beef permeating every pore. After putting another carefully sliced piece in her mouth, chewing it slowly and thoroughly, she said, “I hope the ants aren’t back tomorrow.”

  “Maybe you should bring in your own can of spray.”

  She put down her fork and scratched the back of her wrist. The bracelet caught on the cuff of her sweater. She freed the hook and scratched harder, the tickle now aggravated by the bracelet chain.

  “So do you want to hang out with Charlie and Caroline?” he asked.

  “I said it was okay.”

  “Don’t bite my head off.”

  “I already answered you.”

  He put his hand on her leg. He squeezed gently and moved his hand up her thigh. The lower part of her belly softened. She slid closer to him on the semi-circular bench. He took his hand off her leg and put it on her lower back, then slipped it under her sweater. He stroked her skin, but all she could think of were ants creeping up her spine. With his free hand, he picked up the bottle and poured wine into their glasses.

  She leaned away from him. “Do you want dessert?”

  “You’re my dessert.”

  The words sounded false. He was trying too hard. Or maybe it was all her. Not trying hard enough. It was just that she didn’t want it to be work. Trying. Relationships weren’t a job; they were beyond thinking, full of things you couldn’t spell out and make sense of.

  8

  Laura

  A MODERATE DRIZZLE promised an empty track at the high school. Even the monster wouldn’t come out in this mess. The rain stung like shards of glass falling on her face as Laura swatted her way through the tangle of shrubs. Too bad they hadn’t been damaged by the three days of frost before the rain started.

  When she emerged from the shrubbery and cluster of small trees, she saw him.

  Logic insisted he had every right to use the track. She couldn’t understand why he set off this visceral storm of rage inside of her, rage shadowed by fear. She hated herself for that reaction, but it refused to dissipate, no matter how she tried to find reasonable thoughts about him.

  This led her to the conclusion it was her gut—warning her there was something off about him. Or was her gut nothing more than the deeply embedded voice of her mother urging her to quit running, hissing that nice girls shouldn’t be athletic, didn’t triumph over the boys in sports, didn’t go out in the predawn hours trying to hone their figures to look like boys’ bodies by running too much and too hard?

  She needed to get rid of the irrational expectation that she deserved to have a public track entirely to herself. If she wanted to run in solitude, she needed to haul her ass up to a secluded trail or run on a treadmill like a gerbil. If she planned to continue running in a convenient, outdoor location, she needed to get a grip.

  She pressed the toe of her left shoe against the metal fence pole to stretch her calves. She switched to her right foot, then balanced on one foot while she grabbed the opposite ankle to stretch out her quads. She did ten burpees, then sprinted across the grass to the track. He wasn’t going to frighten her. She was not giving in to female directives from another era.

  She ran three laps, maintaining a steady pace far behind the monster. As she started the fourth lap, the drizzle faded, but the sky grew darker, the clouds gathering more rain. Her face was slick with moisture. Her lips and the tip of her nose were numb. The backs of her hands were wet and her sweatshirt was damp and leaden. She lifted it up to her armpits. She slowed to pull it over her head, but it stubbornly clung to her body. She wrestled with the fabric, knowing she was stretching it out of shape, but not wanting to come to a complete stop. She’d slowed to a laborious jog now, unable to see where she was going.

  Finally, she was forced to stop. As she pushed the sweatshirt up her arms, another’s hands grabbed the sleeves and gave them a tug. She screamed. The damp sweatshirt pinned her arms above her head so she couldn’t move.

  Although she knew it was the monster, all she could think of was Tim, pulling a sweater slowly over her head, binding her arms as securely as if he’d tied them with plastic cord. He’d hold the sweater tightly in one fist and with the fingers of his other hand trace curves along the tendons at the insides of her arms. He’d run his fingertip across her ribcage, up the other side of her body and along the delicate skin in the hollow under her arms until her body convulsed. She writhed and thrashed, trying to move away. The harder she fought, the more he smiled, but his eyes remained blank. After several minutes, she’d be sobbing, unable to breathe.

  Now, she could feel her body respond as if the monster were tickling her bare skin even though he hadn’t touched her. A moment later, the sweatshirt came free.

  “There you go,” he said.

  She jerked around to face him. “Don’t touch me!” Her vision was blurred, her nose plugged with mucous. Tears ran down the back of her throat.

  He smiled. His teeth looked as though they’d been molded by years of braces and retainers. They were such a contrast to the rest of his body, they gave off their own disconcerting threat. “You were caught.”

  “I didn’t need help.” Her hands shook. She wrapped them inside the sweatshirt so he wouldn’t laugh at her helplessness.

  “That’s what you think.”

  “Don’t come near me ever again.” She turned and s
tarted running. Her heart slammed inside her, rattling through her bones.

  A moment later he was at her side. “You’re nothing special.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “You think you’re one of the elite, but you’re exactly like me.”

  “I’m nothing like you. Get away from me.”

  He laughed. It was a cackling sound like some kind of bird, or even something otherworldly. She increased her speed. He kept pace with her. Anyone who walked onto the track now would think they were running partners. She couldn’t go any faster. She’d lost count of the laps. She was caught on a spinning playground toy, whirling faster. Any minute she’d be flung off, skidding across the rough gravel, tearing up her skin, and bruising her arms and legs.

  He continued laughing. Her breath was quick and tight. He must be in excellent shape, to laugh and keep up this pace. Of course, he was eight or nine inches taller than her, so he didn’t need to take as many steps, no need to push himself as hard as she was.

  She stopped. As if he’d seen it coming and prepared in advance, he stopped immediately, only a few feet ahead of her. “What is your problem?” she said. She was almost shouting. “If you don’t leave me alone, I’m calling the police.”

  He raised his hands in mock horror. “Calling the police? What will you tell them? That someone else is jogging at the public track? They’ll arrest me on the spot! What will happen to me? I don’t think I can afford an attorney.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because you think you’re all that. And you’re not.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “People like you are why there are people like me.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  He backed away. He laughed softly. His hair was plastered to his skull. Water dripped from his beard. Talking to him had been a mistake. He was unbalanced, maybe completely mad. He could be more dangerous than she’d realized. Maybe the police would come, if she told them he was a lunatic.

  She hadn’t seen a car parked anywhere along the side of the high school. Had he escaped from an institution? She looked down. His feet were still bare inside the stained, tattered, oversized shoes. He wore the same torn-off sweatpants and his shirt had small holes along the seams.

  She started running. If she didn’t speak, he’d lose interest. She could tell he’d gotten agitated when he talked. If she didn’t engage with him, he’d calm down and go back into the private world inside his head.

  He followed her for three more laps. She was exhausted. She wasn’t sure if it was because she’d run with so much intensity for a countless number of laps, or if it was mental weariness from having to think, glancing to the side, straining her peripheral vision to see where he was, trying not to look over her shoulder when he disappeared from sight.

  She slowed to a walk. In a moment, he was beside her again, laughing softly. She continued walking calmly, as if he wasn’t there, allowing her breathing to return to normal. When she rounded the curve of the track, she cut across the track toward the grass. He was right behind her. If he tried to follow her home, she was definitely calling the police. Her hands began shaking again as she pushed away the shrubs to make her way out through the opening in the fence. He was a few steps behind. Wet branches slapped at her arms and face. When she was free of the shrubs and vines, she walked to the corner.

  As she crossed the street, he turned and crossed in the other direction. She was halfway down the block before the sound of his laugh faded to nothing, and all she heard was the whoosh of tires three blocks away on El Camino Real.

  She walked past older homes set well back from the street, most of them still dark. She clutched the wadded-up sweatshirt, unable to stop her shoulders and legs from shaking, memories of Tim shoving themselves to the front of her mind.

  She’d been so stupid.

  Tim had been sitting in bed, three pillows supporting him as he stared at the doorway expectantly. She stepped into the bedroom and removed her high heels. “You’re in bed early.”

  “I was waiting for my wife.”

  “Well, here I am.” She took off her jacket and walked into the closet to hang it up.

  “Come back,” he said. “I have an idea.” She heard the tap of his fingers on his tablet and the soft sound of music, a tune she couldn’t make out, the closet insulated by racks of clothing. She stepped back into the bedroom.

  Tim stroked the tablet screen, turning up the sound. Now she recognized it—“The Stripper”.

  “No.” She turned away from him.

  “Please. Come on. Please. We need to crank things up.”

  “Then you do it.”

  “You know you want to—all women do. I read an article about it.”

  “There’s nothing that all women want to do.”

  “Okay, most. Lots.”

  “Then don’t say all.”

  He paused the music and crept to the foot of the bed. He reached out his hand. She folded her arms. His hand remained outstretched. He wore nothing but blue jeans. His bare feet were pale, the soles smooth and tender. “You get upset when I’m too dominating. This would put you in charge. Right?” He smiled.

  “You’re cruel sometimes.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Please, please, please?” He batted his eyes.

  She laughed. “Okay, whatever. Go pour me a shot of vodka and I’ll do it.”

  He leapt out of bed. His feet thudded down the hallway, almost running. He returned with the bottle and set it on the dresser. He poured a shot, dribbling a bit on the silky wood. She swallowed it and handed the glass to him. He drank a shot and climbed back onto the bed. He flicked the music back to the beginning. She poured a second shot and drank it more slowly. The alcohol melted across her brain, warming her neck and face, softening her shoulders.

  As the music thumped its way through the trite, but strangely captivating tune, she undid her blouse, letting her fingers linger at each button. After she’d slid it off and dropped it onto the floor, she slithered out of her skirt.

  Tim grinned, but his eyes were needy, longing for her. Seeing his desire sent a flame up the center of her body. She danced more slowly, turning to show him she was unhooking her bra. Her instinct was to speed up, so she forced herself to slow down even further. When the bra was on the floor she moved toward the bed, pressing one knee into the mattress. She lowered her eyelids and ran her tongue around her lips. She backed away and moved her hips forward as she tucked her fingers inside the elastic of her underpants sliding them down her legs.

  She looked at Tim, his open mouth, his look of complete absorption. When the lace and nylon was pooled around her ankles, she brought one foot up and grabbed them off her foot. She tossed them at Tim’s face. Her aim was perfect, the force accurate. They hung for a moment, slid down onto his lap.

  He laughed. She swayed slightly, glancing at the bottle of vodka, wondering if she should have another shot. He laughed harder. He balled up her underpants and threw them back at her. They landed on the dresser and he fell on his side, laughing so hard his voice began to sound like a dog barking, and then he was gasping for air. His face was red, his eyes wet with tears.

  Laura grabbed the bottle of vodka and went into the bathroom. She locked the door, put on her robe, and sat on the edge of the tub. She took a sip, marveling at her stupidity.

  After that, she’d started going for longer runs, lifting weights, determined to make herself stronger than her husband. Even if she didn’t need to battle him physically, she had to know in her mind that she was tougher, smarter, more capable.

  She’d foolishly believed he couldn’t do anything more to humiliate her.

  9

  Vanessa

  HANK WAS IN his office with the door closed when Vanessa arrived on Friday morning. A pressure on both temples felt as if a sheet of metal was folding itself around her brain. It was the red wine. Not very good red wine, and she’d drunk it too fast.

  Even though the win
e made the inside of her dull and achy, the outside looked good, better than usual. Her hair was loose and wavy to the small of her back. Her makeup was a soft glow that emphasized her cheekbones, large blue eyes, and lips that said kiss me, according to Matt when they first got engaged. Lips that were soft and so seductive he couldn’t stop looking at them, feeling them on his own, no matter what color she wore. And he’d said he preferred no color at all. Nothing but her soft, firm skin.

  Now, he seemed blissfully unaware of the possibility that anyone at work, Hank in particular, might also see that silent demand coming from her mouth. She wondered every time she looked in the mirror to put on gloss whether that message was Matt’s teasing or something others noticed. It was so hard to tell when Matt was teasing and when his comments were authentic. He wore the same half-smile either way.

  She hung her coat on the rack. The area appeared to be free of ants. She sniffed. The air smelled as clean as could be expected inside an office building. Because she was leaving early to pick up a few bags of candy on the way home, she’d inserted an early appointment for her and Hank into his calendar at 11:30.

  Whenever she changed their end of day meeting, she tried to squeeze it in near lunch. Often, he’d glance at the clock and ask if she wanted to grab something to eat. It could mean she’d go to the deli and bring back sandwiches. Other times, he would suggest Chinese or Indian food. And it wasn’t a quick kitchen-type restaurant, but a high-end place with tablecloths and linen napkins. Once in a while, they had a glass of wine.

  As she sat at her desk and pulled the computer mouse toward her, a small dark spot caught her eye—an ant making its way along the space bar on her keyboard. She pressed her finger on it and rubbed it off into the trashcan. She got up and went to the restroom, washed her hands, and returned to her desk. It would be a long day if she was forced to kill a lone ant every ten minutes, followed by a trip to the restroom and a thorough scrubbing.