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

by Cathryn Grant

  Seeing people who were afflicted with mental illnesses brought you face-to-face with all the things that could go wrong in the human mind. Your mental awareness and intelligence were all you had. If that disappeared, all connection with other human beings was torn away, leaving you trapped forever, not by barred windows. You were trapped inside that small bony ball, isolated and frantic with trying to make others understand, but maybe not really caring whether they understood, because you actually believed everyone around you was mad.

  Reality clouded by madness that prevented them from seeing that you were the sane one—with the voices telling you to pluck out your eyebrows or slash your wrists with steak knives, carve messages into your flesh. The sane one who clearly saw the enormous spiders advancing across the floor, the snakes and other deadly reptiles lurking beneath furniture, ready to strike.

  The world was nothing but an endless stream of threats. Everything from a sliver of sunlight that caused cancer to grow or enabled invisible flesh-eating bacteria to develop in the water, to the glowing moon, staring through the darkness at you—watching, waiting.

  A sob formed inside her chest, throbbing against her throat, demanding to be let out. She stopped and bent over. She pressed her hands on her thighs and took in huge gulps of air. She forced her lips closed to push the air through her nose, trying to slow it down so she didn’t burst wide open with the pain in all the dark corners of the human mind.

  So many people weren’t safely locked up these days. There wasn’t enough money to house them all. Those without a history of violence—yet—were left free to wander. Free to invent their own bizarre world in dark, tiny apartments.

  When she walked past houses, she wondered at the occupants. Was that one with the neatly trimmed lawn housing a madman? Or did that one, with the half dead lawn, no shrubs, just bare, exposed plaster meeting up with the ground around it indicate mental decay? Did the closed drapes at midday mean something dangerous lurked inside, or did drapes that were never drawn closed mean that? Which behavior was deviant?

  This guy could have a wall filled with photographs of her. A collection of pictures that included images of death. Any gruesome photograph in the world was available to someone with an Internet connection and a desktop printer. With Photoshop, a normal woman’s face and body could be hideously altered. Technology was glamorous and exciting, continuously opening up new possibilities, while simultaneously giving voice and fuel to the deranged. It cracked open the skulls of people who had managed to stay on the right side of the line before, now able to pursue fantasies, give free rein to their quirks until they grew, in the dark dampness of lonely rooms, into something horrifying.

  He might be planning to kill her. If she didn’t kill him first.

  She gritted her teeth until her jaw ached. Her thoughts replicated themselves like a hydra, growing into something more terrifying each time she lopped one off. There was too much pressure—the possibly botched interview, this creature following her—half man, half monster.

  The only solution was to stop running at the high school. But she dismissed that thought. This was her place; this time of day was her tranquility. She’d found it and claimed it as her own, and he had no right to invade it! Running was supposed to keep her mind awash in soothing chemicals, not push it to fold in on itself, dwelling on dark topics.

  Soon she’d be the Director of Marketing Operations. The echo of the words in her mind calmed her breathing. She had not blown the interview. That was nothing but ungrounded fear. She’d countered every move Hank made with a perfect parry. He was probably sitting there right now, smiling at how she’d managed to adapt to an unconventional set of questions.

  Behind her, the pounding of the man’s feet grew louder, his breath damp and sloppy. She straightened and started running faster.

  It was too late. He was only a few paces back. The heat of his body moved closer. She ran faster. Now he was beside her. She kept her gaze focused on a middle distance, the light graying around her so that smaller objects were now visible, the goal posts at the opposite end of the field, the metal pole at the far corner of the grass, marking the edge of the circuit training equipment.

  “I know you.” His voice was murky, as if he spoke from under water.

  “No you don’t.” She knew immediately that responding was a mistake.

  “I know exactly who you are.”

  Surely he hadn’t tracked her to her loft, to the Avalon campus, a disgruntled co-worker or employee from the past who’d located her? She tried to run faster but it wasn’t possible. His ability to keep up was remarkable. The stiff, bony legs and his ill-fitting shoes, bare feet rubbing on the edges, should have slowed him down.

  He snickered. “You know I know you.”

  “Get away from me. I’ve never met you.”

  She couldn’t return to this track. She’d have to find a new place. She’d be forced to start the morning in her car instead of warming her muscles, loosening her joints, and clearing the dazed residue of dreams with a quick walk.

  He’d won after all.

  Keeping up this battle, trying to ignore him, accomplished nothing. His uncoordinated limbs, that beard, and those eyes, staring at her as if he did know her, when he did not, were terrifying.

  Those eyes contained the look of a man who might kill just to prove he was right, to realize victory inside his confused head. Did he think she was a woman from his past? A woman who’d dumped him, or treated him badly, a woman who’d never actually had a relationship with him? He remained beside her, breathing through that wet goop that reminded her of walking barefoot through mud. How could he run with all that gunk inside his throat?

  “You can’t outrun me,” he said.

  “Like hell I can’t.” She forced herself to go faster, breathing so hard the ragged, wheezing sound seared her brain. She pushed harder still. Her pulse pounded in her throat and her heart beat so rapidly she was afraid it might give out. She couldn’t keep this up. What was she trying to prove?

  He laughed. His beard blew against his neck, pulsing with life. As she rounded the curve toward the snack shed, another man emerged from the shrubs. He walked to the edge of the track bent his left knee, grabbing his foot, and pulling back his leg in a stretch. A normal runner. A guy she’d never seen before. There was a slight pudginess around his middle. He had short light hair and wore a crisp white sweatshirt. His shoes looked new, white as his shirt. He glanced at the monster.

  Did they know each other? She felt herself slowing, the distraction preventing her from maintaining the same pace. It was just as well. She couldn’t sprint forever. Yet the monster was right at her elbow, almost touching her. She really should call the police. But what would she say? She wanted the track to herself? He ran too close? He talked to her when she didn’t want to talk? They’d laugh and hang up on her.

  Still, her dinosaur brain insisted something was wrong.

  Immediately, the echo of her mother’s voice began—What’s wrong with a nice walk? Why do you have to prove you’re better than your brother in everything? It’s not nice.

  The other man was jogging now. Lumbering, his first time out on the track in years, maybe ever. A youngish man, thirty-five at most, whose doctor had told him to get some exercise. Every few steps, he glanced at the monster. His presence changed everything. The monster dropped back a few yards. He continued mirroring her pace, but she could no longer hear that wet, sickly breathing. She couldn’t smell his damp skin.

  She had no idea how long she’d been out here. She reached into her pouch and pulled her phone halfway out. It was 6:40 and she hadn’t completed more than six laps—a mile and a half. She slowed to a walk.

  A seagull swooped down and landed in the grassy area at the center of the track. There was no discarded food that might have lured it, which meant another storm was coming, creeping along the coast and sending the birds inland. The gull watched her, its white feathers with touches of charcoal gray like carved marble. Its bony le
gs and large floppy feet marring its beauty. They were designed to look gorgeous in flight, not walking around on the earth, demonstrating how helpless they were without a second set of appendages to help them maneuver food to their beaks.

  The gull took a few steps and launched into flight. She was sorry to see it go. There was a sense of defeat, as if the bird had abandoned her to these strange men. How foolish the human race was, running in ovals, going nowhere. Life was so sedentary, so far removed from what the human body had been designed to do, what it needed to do—move. They ran in loops and climbed on machines plugged into electrical outlets. They couldn’t even use their own force to propel a machine built to keep them moving.

  What thoughts were traveling through the minds of those two?

  A whole universe existed inside each human skull. Maybe the universe inside her own head was false. It could be they hardly noticed her. The creep had only spoken to her because he sensed her fear. She needed to take back her power. Ignore him. She was about to become a fucking director!

  She was crossing the threshold into lower executive management. Some wouldn’t call it that, reserving that word for vice presidents. But it wasn’t true. The director level was a whole new realm, and it was so close she could feel it as if it were already printed on her business cards. A year from now, she’d laugh at herself, thinking how accustomed she was to being at that level, privy to more company secrets, more financial insight, invited to discuss strategy in a meaningful way. Wielding the power of management. It was the last step before she set her sights on becoming a vice president. Then she might finally be able to rest, ease her foot off the gas.

  Tim had said she’d never get to the top, that she didn’t have it in her, whatever that meant. After all the things wrong between them, those words broke it apart for good. She couldn’t stay with a guy who wanted to drag her down to his level, even if he didn’t come right out and say so.

  Slogging around a track and worrying that two losers were getting in her way would be a long-forgotten joke just a few months from now. She laughed. She glanced over her shoulder and suddenly they both looked very different. They were trying to keep up with her.

  She ran faster. They couldn’t hurt her. They’d never catch her.

  13

  Vanessa

  LAURA HAD BEEN right, of course. Once ants find a way in, they return fondly, one or two at a time, exploring their old stomping grounds, whispering plans to their families and friends that soon, it will be safe. They wander around, lone figures like flecks of dirt until they’re observed more closely and it’s recognized they’re moving quickly, with purpose.

  Vanessa had not been working with purpose. All week she’d stopped every few minutes to scour the desk and counter, the hard plastic mat under her chair, the legs and arms of the chair itself, for stray ants. When a strand of hair came loose and brushed across her skin, her first instinct was to slap at it, certain that an ant was climbing her arm, footsteps maintaining a delicate pressure.

  As if to torment her further, the ants and the maintenance crew conspiring, she was sure a hint of insecticide lingered around her cubicle. A chemical odor tinged with something sweet, fumes that made her head ache and unsettled her stomach even though she couldn’t actually smell it. She took deep, lung-splitting breaths, trying to be sure, but all that did was make her sinuses burn.

  There was no reason for the ants to be there. The building was sealed tight. She couldn’t understand how they’d ever found their way inside. No one could accuse the regular cleaning crew of not being thorough. The area had been sprayed with those deadly fumes. There wasn’t a crumb of food anywhere.

  The counter above her desk was bare. She’d changed her mind about the candy she’d bought the week before, stowing it in the cabinet above the refrigerator at home. She had no idea where the candy tradition had started. Just as hotels and restaurants offered little dishes of sweets near the check-in counters, many of the admins at Avalon did the same. But she wasn’t a concierge, as much as her job sometimes resembled that role. She wasn’t there to charm and chat and make welcome. This was a serious job, ensuring Hank worked at peak efficiency. She was done being the candy girl. All it did was attract people she didn’t really want to talk to. They came like, well, ants. And they lingered.

  An ant scurried across the top of her computer display as if it knew its time was limited. She pressed her index finger on it and brushed it into the trash. She squirted hand sanitizer onto her fingertips, wiped them dry, rubbed on a small bit of lotion, and put her fingers on the keyboard.

  The agenda for the offsite was almost finished. The logistics were arranged with the resort—an early twentieth-century hotel in Napa Valley, surrounded by outlying cottages. February was not the best choice for that setting, but most of the day they’d be sitting in a conference room, enjoying the trees and tranquility from behind a glass wall, and rates were more reasonable in the winter.

  She glanced up to see Laura round the corner. Vanessa looked back at her screen and selected the print option. The printer behind her whirred to life and spit out the agenda.

  Laura folded her hands and rested her forearms on the counter. “What happened to the candy?”

  “Ants happened.”

  “Well, they’re gone now, it’s safe to bring it back.”

  “You said it was too tempting.”

  “It is, but I like it. I just don’t buy it at home.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “I have no self-control.”

  “Then you don’t have to worry about it tempting you anymore.”

  “The ants are long gone. They sprayed.” Laura wrinkled her nose, lifted her chin, and sniffed.

  “Actually, they aren’t gone. I kill seven or eight every day.”

  “You should have them spray again.”

  “You’re the one who told me they’ll keep coming back.”

  “It’s not as welcoming without the candy.”

  Vanessa smiled. She turned and picked up the agenda off the printer. She put it face down on her desk.

  “Confidential stuff?”

  “No. Just a habit.”

  “You absolutely know how to keep secrets.”

  “It’s not a secret.”

  Laura pressed her weight into her elbows, her shoulders hunched with the effort. Her hair fell forward, brushing the sides of her brows and her cheekbones. The light shone on the top of her head, highlighting that single gray hair still making itself known, trembling like a small wire. Her gray eyes were soft as buffed pewter, the pupils like tiny black beads. She tucked her hair behind her left ear. She glanced over her shoulder toward Hank’s door. She looked back at Vanessa and lowered her voice to a whisper. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I heard some things about you.”

  “I need to finalize the food selection for the offsite. Did you want something specific?”

  Laura glanced at Hank’s door again. “Don’t you want to know what I heard? It’s usually better to know what’s going on, don’t you think? So you don’t get blindsided.”

  “If what’s going on is people talking shit, no, I don’t think I need to know.”

  “I always like to know what people are saying. Knowledge is power.”

  “Depends on what kind of knowledge.”

  Laura smiled. “True.” She slid her elbows off the counter and straightened. “Still, you can’t defend yourself if you don’t know who’s stabbing you in the back.”

  “Is someone stabbing me in the back?”

  “I’m not sure.” Laura folded her arms. She pushed back the cuff of her sleeve and looked at her watch. “Almost lunchtime.” She turned so Hank’s office door was in her line of sight.

  “I’m kind of busy,” Vanessa said.

  “How come you and I never have lunch?”

  “I eat at my desk a lot.”

  “Or with Hank.”

  Vanessa shrugged. She wanted to laugh. For all Laura’s
intimidation tactics, her effort to find a reason to stand outside Hank’s door was pathetic.

  “Or you get his lunch for him, right?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What do you talk about? When you go out with him?”

  “Different things.”

  “Like?”

  “He’s mentoring me.”

  Laura glared at her. “He’s what?”

  Vanessa looked down at her nails. The color was called Bohemian Bronze. She rubbed a smudge of lotion off the cuticle of her thumb. She regretted using that word. Laura probably thought Hank should be her mentor. She smiled cautiously.

  “So what do you actually talk about? Sales forecasts? People in his organization who aren’t delivering?”

  “No.”

  “Then what?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “You are good at keeping secrets.” She leaned on the counter again.

  “They aren’t secrets. I don’t understand why you want to know. Why you even care.”

  “Just curious. Because of what people are saying.”

  She was not going to bite. She was not going to give Laura any information or the satisfaction of knowing she was disturbed—no matter how badly she wanted to know more about what people might be saying, no matter how much fun it was, on one level, to know they were going mad with speculation.

  Or, maybe she would bite. She could have a little fun. “If Hank and I were doing it, why do you think I’d tell you?”

  Laura jerked toward Vanessa. Her eyebrows shot up. “That’s a strange thing to say.”

  “Why?” Across the hallway, Vanessa saw Hank through the glass panel in his door. He pressed down on the handle. Vanessa raised her voice. “Why? I’m just repeating what I’ve heard. And I wonder why on earth you think I’d talk to you about something as important as that.”

  “You make it sound like you are sleeping together. Doesn’t it bother you that you’re ruining his reputation? I wonder what he’d think of that?”