by K Larsen
“How are you doing today? What is life like for you now?”
Charlotte grins. “I am in private school, which I love and I live with the two best people who take care of me. And I have Dr. Richardson to talk to. I do track and am learning the piano and I joined art club!” Charlotte’s words spill from her mouth in rapid succession. Her excitement is palpable.
“How about you, Nora?”
Nora looks from Charlotte to me. “I am doing well. Working, therapy and keeping up with Lotte helps me stay grounded and busy.”
“Have you met anyone special?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“Eve, how has your life changed?”
Eve sighs. “I’m grateful every day for these two.” She points at Charlotte and Nora. “But I’m still angry about what happened. I still feel fearful sometimes that it could all slip away.”
I nod at Eve. “I think that is understandable.”
“Nora, do you blame yourself for anything that happened?” I ask. Nora stiffens.
“No. Why would I?”
“It’s my understanding that initially you were . . . difficult to work with.”
Nora rolls her eyes, but it doesn’t faze me.
“I had been held captive and manipulated for months. I didn’t trust anyone and I still believed Hol- The Tutor would make good on his threats, if I spoke.”
I write down Nora’s body language for reference.
“Speaking of that, Agent Brown, did you understand why Nora acted the way she did or was it a challenge to work together?”
“I was frustrated many, many times by Nora. But thankfully, I grew to understand her hesitations and state of mind through Detective Salve and Dr. Richardson.”
I look to the doctor. “Dr. Richardson you’re credited with helping Nora let go. You really seemed to get through to her. How did you do it?”
“Time and patience. In these types of situations, you need to let the patient tell you their story. Only then, can you use their words to help them understand what is normal and what is not. It helps that Nora trusted me after a while and wanted to tell me what she went through.”
“Eve you shot and killed The Tutor on that fateful night he returned to kidnap Nora—correct?” Eve looks to Charlotte then Nora, as if they have an inside joke or secret they aren’t telling.
“I did. He had Nora. He broke into our home. I did what I had to in order to defend us,” Eve says. She crosses her arms over her chest.
“It looks as though you and Nora are very close. Do you think you share a bond, having both been victims of The Tutor?”
“I hate that nickname. I was the tutor. Nora was the tutor—not him. But yes, we are close. Our time with him was different but there are commonalities that we share. But that’s not what makes us close. It was our devotion to Lotte, our love for her. From there, becoming good friends was the next logical step.”
“Many applaud your conviction to continue to search for your sister so vigilantly after your escape, but you took a huge risk in the future of your and Charlotte’s lives when you shot and ultimately killed Holden Douglas. What prompted you to make that decision, when you had Charlotte in your arms?”
“Like I said. It was self-defense and Nora was being strangled.”
I switch to the therapist. “Dr. Richardson, tell me about how you came into the picture and why you’ve maintained such a close relationship with Nora.”
“I was called in by Agent Brown because I am a specialist in psychological trauma associated with hostage situations. Nora and I still meet once a month to make sure she’s on track. And Eve, and Charlotte. These women are smart enough to know that all of them living together and having difficult pasts to work through, that they need someone to speak with and help guide them when needed.”
“Agent Brown, your accolades speak for themselves. You were in the news for this case and as I understand it—you were promoted afterward. Why was this case so important to your career and you?”
“It was important because there was a serial kidnapper on the loose and a young lady missing. But that’s not what you want to hear, is it? I was up for promotion when I botched a case and lost a victim years before and it stuck with me. It’s hard to let go of what you see daily in this line of work. I channeled that failure into Nora’s case—right or wrong, and I wasn’t going to let anything stop me from making sure the outcome of this case was a good one. A just one.” Salve squeezes Brown’s hand. I make note. I find it interesting that they are so close.
“Detective Salve, Nora and Eve say you have been a constant in their lives. Did this case change you in any way?”
“This case changed everything. Look around, Meredith, these women are strong. Fighters. They’ve lived through an ordeal you can’t wrap your mind around. This case brought me Agent Brown. That was a surprise none of us saw coming,” he laughs. Brown playfully slaps his shoulder and Nora and Eve laugh.
“Sorry, I’m late. Class ran over!” Aubry Clark, the best friend, blows into the room like a storm. She’s all arms and bag straps. Two pens stick out of her messy bun. She sits on the couch with a light thud.
“Aubry, hi,” I greet. She lifts her hand in a slight wave. “Nora credits your friendship with helping her survive. That she wrote you letters while captive. Also, that your friendship greatly helped her once she escaped. How does that ring true for you?”
Aubry grins. “We were best friends before and we’ll be best friends long into the future. Like her, I had a letter from Nora, I must have read it a gazillion times before she escaped. It made me hopeful reading it. Knowing her fingers had touched that same paper. Knowing she’d taken the time to write it. I don’t know. Isn’t friendship supposed to be something you can count on in those darkest times in life?”
Nora reaches out and puts a hand on Aubry’s knee.
“Nora, what is different for you now?”
“I am more shy. I like peace and quiet. I can’t wear sun dresses anymore. I wonder if I will ever be able to meet a man and have a normal relationship or if I will secretly wonder if he is manipulating me.” She sighs. “I don’t know. Outside of the people in this room, I keep a lot to myself. But I am working on all this with Dr. R. She, at least, seems confident that I will live out a perfectly healthy, normal life. And if she predicts it—I believe it. Time and effort. That’s all it takes.” Nora fidgets with the hem of her sleeve under the beaming smile from Dr. Richardson.
“Can you explain the sundress comment?” I ask.
The room grows tense and with it, I hold my breath.
Nora gives me an intense look. “I am marked. The Tutor used my back—my skin as his canvas.”
I wrinkle my brow. I did not know this part. I look to Eve.
“Eve, are you also scarred?”
She shakes her head. “Not really. I refused him. Fought back. I didn’t like his cutting.”
“Are you suggesting Nora liked it?” I ask.
“I’m suggesting you ask Nora,” Eve grits out.
“I thought it was part of the deal. Part of the relationship. I thought it was survival. I let him.” Nora says. She looks to the carpet. “I let him cut me.”
“There is nothing wrong with that,” Dr. Richardson says. “Nora, do not let shame shape you.”
I am trying to make my notes so fast that the paper looks like scribbles. I know some of it I will be able to decipher later when I playback the recording and some of my hand written notes will be lost to the wind.
“I think that’s enough questioning about the cutting,” Agent Brown says. I have a thousand more questions, but there are a room full of people who look ready to jump me, if I piss off Nora any more.
“Eve, Charlotte and Nora, if you could say one thing to The Tutor—Holden Douglas—today, what would you say?”
“Fuck you,” Eve says.
Aubry tries to stifle a laugh.
Charlotte shakes her head and clamps her mouth shut.
I l
et her pass and look to Nora.
Her eyes look wet with unshed tears, as she says, “Only ever you.”
To my readers. Thank you for picking this one up.
To my Betas. You keep me going and sane. That’s important.
To the bloggers. You are the lifeblood of the romance community—thank you.
To my family. Well, just, to my family. You know.
Click the lady for your
Newsletter
Facebook
Website
Twitter (@Klarsen_author)
If you’re curious what’s next . . . and you made it this far in the book . . . read on.
THE BROTHER
K. Larsen ©2017
Prologue
I saw the headline first. The Tutor Captive Speaks Out For First Time Exclusive!
I admit I was curious. I’d heard the news reports. Seen the reporters trying to get the meek redhead to talk to them last year. I was waiting in line at the grocery store—a task normally done by my assistant—when I picked up the rag and flipped it open to the article. Immediately, nostalgia sucker punched me. One of the featured pictures showed the redhead, a young girl and . . . my brother. I slammed the magazine shut and slapped it on the conveyor belt with my groceries. Fucking Holden.
When I slip into my car, I yank the magazine out and read the article. Held captive. Cuts. Love. Emotional abuse. Scars. Moving on. Single. Raise awareness about abuse and PTSD. Blah blah.
“Dammit,” I mutter. Although I don’t recall an awful lot from my childhood, I do remember my mother and her specific brand of abuse and my brother’s. I pull my cell phone from my back pocket and dial my father.
“Liam,” he answers.
“Sir.”
“Burn through the money already?” His voice is tight.
I groan. “No. Have you seen the latest edition of,” I flip the magazine over, “People Weekly?”
“Why would I have, son? You in it?” His voice grates my nerves. He has two tones of voice, condescending and stern.
“No, but your other son is,” I say. I run a hand through my hair. It’s just long enough to consider scheduling a haircut. My father would prefer it cropped close to the scalp, but I’ve always kept it longer.
“Excuse me?” He barks into my ear.
“Holden Douglas Lockwood, remember him? He’s featured in the magazine.” I wait for his retort. His slew of curses but only silence greets me. “Dad?”
“I’m here. Come to the house now.”
“Yes, sir.”
I end the call and toss the magazine on the passenger seat. I start the car while pulling up Carol’s contact to send her a quick text that I won’t need her tonight. She texts me back immediately to let me know she left dinner in the fridge for me.
The drive to my father’s house isn’t long, but it gives me too much time to focus on the short movie clips that play in my mind from my former life. Mountain life. Memories of Holden screaming and my father shouting, bombard me. Holden coming into our room with blood dripping down his torso, as I cowered in the corner. Holden covering my mouth in the middle of the night and drawing thin slices along my scalp. What Ma did to him, he did to me, but less so. And hidden. When I told Dad what was happening, he snapped. Without warning, he threw me in his truck and drove us away. He told me to never speak of our cabin. To never speak of Holden or baby Laura or Ma again. Nightmares kept me up most nights, until Dad started to beat them out of me of with his belt.
We started fresh four hours south of that damned mountain. He created an empire for us. Sent me to the best schools and now I run the business he started. We have wanted for nothing. I have no idea how Holden or Ma or Laura faired. Except now—I do. I know they are all dead from that damned article.
I pull into Dad’s gated driveway and leave the car running at the front door. His valet takes my keys as I pass by him. I don’t bother knocking on my way inside. Dad sits behind his oak desk. He hand carved it. Sanded it for days. Stained it and had his security detail move the enormous hunk of wood into his office. Two fingers of whiskey reside in a glass to his left.
“Sit,” he says. I do. He does not offer me a drink.
“Show me this article.” I lean forward and toss the magazine on his desk. He flips to the article and reads silently. When he finishes, he grunts and slaps the magazine closed.
“We don’t have anything to worry about. They got his last name wrong.”
“But Dad, what about the cabin? There could be things there that lead back to us. Pictures or I don’t know?”
“There’s nothing, Liam. Holden’s dead. Laura’s dead and your mother is dead. Good riddance. It sounds like Holden took up her ‘art.’ He was destined to get caught.”
“That’s all you have to say? Laura and Holden were your children, too.”
“I let them go a long time ago and you should have, too.”
“Don’t you care at all?”
“No. Your Mother was bat shit crazy. Love made me do stupid things for that woman. Move to that damned mountain to commune with nature. Live off grid to aid her art. I gave her enough years. I have nothing left for her, not even curiosity.”
“But Holden, Laura?” I say.
“I couldn’t care for an infant on my own and Holden was too far gone by then. I could, however, save you. Are you not grateful for that?”
Save me. The words sound sincere rolling off his tongue but saving me from Ma and my siblings didn’t spare me his abuse. I cannot say this, however.
“Of course, I am. I just . . .”
“Don’t over think it, Liam and don’t tell anyone about this article. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” I answer.
“Good,” he says, while lifting his glass to his mouth. I watch the amber liquid slosh back and forth and yearn for a glass of my own. The first time I’ve heard of, or seen my brother since we left was in a magazine for being a psychopath and my father wants to simply sweep it under the rug with no explanation. It baffles me and irritates me simultaneously. I say nothing to my father because he is not the kind of man you push.
PRESENT DAY
Nora
There are days I wish I’d never been born at all.
What is the point? The second we enter the world—we’re dying. No matter how much money you have; you can’t buy another moment when your ticket is up.
Rotting.
Decaying.
Slowly.
Bit by bit.
Year by year.
And once the body circles the sun seventy times or so, it starts to fail.
Joints. Brains. Muscles.
All give up.
They all give in.
Everything we experience is just a lead-in to death. If the goal of a life well lived is death—what is the goddamned point? These are morbid thoughts, even for me, I admit. My mind wanders as I watch people standing in front of me, waiting for their meds. I fail at life—at real life. My anxiety starts, the doubts, the pressures and worries that every person out there deals with, yet somehow, I cannot handle.
Not well anyway.
As I carry a small white RiteAid bag, the receipt stapled over the top, I start to wonder how many people will notice and try to figure out what medicine I’m on, when they take in the tell-tale prescription bag in my hand. It is queer, really, that I want to shield my purchase from the public—though most people take something these days, for one issue or another. My right shoelace snaps and I set the RiteAid bag down and kneel and try to figure out how to fix the lace so my sneaker will stay on. From the corner of my eye, I see people staring at me as they pass by, probably wondering what the hell I am doing. Does it have something to do with the prescription bag? Am I hunched over because I need help? I have a moment of anxiety, unfounded and irrational and think screw my sneaker. Standing, as white hot heat spreads across my chest, I race across the parking lot to the path that cuts through the park.
It takes me five minutes to settle again.
To catch my breath and feel at ease. Calm. Guess it’s a good thing I have that prescription bag with the little white ‘chill out’ pills.
Tilting my head to the sky, thick with fluffy white clouds, I inhale, hold it, then let it out slowly. The river rushes over stone to my right. The sound is soothing. Vines grow up and around the trees, the leaves fat and wide like elephant ears. White bits of dandelions float in the air. They settle atop pine needles littered across the ground, forming cotton-like batting. The river runs wild from the rain we’ve had recently. It slides over the rocks, a ruddy brown color from the clay in the riverbed. The path forks and I stay left. Sun filters through the canopy of trees that arch over the smooth path along the river. I inhale deeply.
In. Out.
In. Out.
Daisy.
The name plaque nailed to a tree next to a rock that juts out over the roaring water. The perfect place to sit and just be. I wonder if Daisy ever felt the way I do. If she battled demons. If she ever went through the push and pull of therapy. Probably not. Daisy was probably the happiest girl in town. She was probably raised in a house that smelled like brownies with parents who nurtured her and doled out hugs frequently. I follow the path and remind myself to breathe. I remind myself that the world doesn’t revolve around me.
In. Out.
In. Out.
Fucking Daisy.
I breathe in another lungful of the crisp air and recap my pathetic life silently. I think about the way I wasted two hours reading a women’s magazine earlier because apparently, I want to punish myself. I was overwhelmed by all the dieting options. Juicing, smoothies, pills, calorie cycling. Who has time to do that? Who wants to crap red for a week simply because they’re on an all beet juice cleanse to lose a measly ten pounds? Instead of being able to learn any useful information, I sat, stuffing my hand into a bag of salt and vinegar chips, wondering why I have an extra ten pounds on me since being home. Since leaving the cabin. Since leaving Holden.
