by Vicki Hinze
She flipped over in bed and scrunched her pillow, not yet ready to wake up, but the rich scent called to her, tempting her to give up and get out of bed.
She groaned, turned over, and memories flooded her mind, taking her back.
Kelly had stood alone at her parents’ graves, a child of seven all dressed up in a pristine dress, her black patent leather shoes sparkling in the sunlight. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She didn’t wipe at them, just stood twisting, wishing herself back to a time when her mom and dad would be standing beside her.
She was so scared.
A beefy arm draped over her shoulders. “They’re not coming home again,” her father’s friend, Samuel Johnson, said. “You understand that, right?”
“The lady told me.” Kelly had come with the policewoman, who had been kind.
The funeral ended and the pastor came over and clasped her hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” He looked up at Mr. Johnson. “You take good care of her.”
“I will.” Mr. Johnson nudged her to move.
They left the cemetery and he put her in the backseat of his car. She looked back, watching the coffins for as long as she could see them, tears still blurring her eyes, wetting her cheeks.
“Stop that crying now. Your sniffing is wearing thin.”
“I’m sad.”
He glared back at her in the rearview mirror. “I said, stop.”
Why was he being mean to her? “Yes sir.” He’d never before been mean to her. “Where are we going?”
“Atlanta, to my penthouse.” He sighed. “I’m not crazy about having a kid underfoot, but if you stay out of my way, we’ll do fine.”
“I want my aunt.” She choked down a sob. “Take me to her.” Aunt Beth wouldn’t tell Kelly to stay out of her way.
He stopped suddenly and glared back at her. “Do not tell me what you want. I don’t care what you want. You’ll do as I say, and you’ll keep your mouth shut.”
Too shocked to answer—no one had ever talked to her that way—she didn’t dare risk even a nod. And she’d kept her mouth shut the entire way.
The penthouse was white—walls, ceilings, floors, and furniture. She hated it.
“This way.” He walked straight through to a hallway and then to the second door on the left. “Your room. Stay in it when I’m home.”
There were no toys. Just a bed and an empty box. No dresser for her clothes, no pretty pictures like her mom had hung on her walls at home.
“Come with me.”
She followed him back down the hall to the front entryway, where he opened a door. “Get in.”
“But it’s a closet.”
“I know it’s a closet.” He shoved her back, pushed her inside, and slammed the door shut. “I’ll be back in a little while—and you’d better be in there.”
Swallowed by darkness, she sank to the floor and cried until she couldn’t cry anymore. “Mama, help me. It’s so hot,” she whispered. “Help me … ”
The die had been cast that first night.
Whenever Samuel had left home, he locked her in the front entry-way closet—until he’d discovered her passed out and drenched in sweat from the heat.
That had scared him. He hadn’t gone anywhere or let her leave her room for days. But he’d been itchy to go, and soon he did. This time, he’d come to her room. “Come on, girl.”
She dreaded what was to come. He was going to put her in the closet again. She just knew it. Please, don’t let him. Please.
He led her to the terrace instead. “You can stay out there while I run some errands. Lots of fresh air on the terrace, and it’s not too hot.”
It was sweltering, and he’d locked the door so she couldn’t get back inside—or get down to the ground. Following her pointed finger, she counted the stories to the ground. Fifteen. And no stairs. No door. Nothing but the railing. She swatted at another mosquito, then another, and what that firefighter had told her in school on his visit to her classroom haunted her: “Always have an escape plan in case of fire.”
She had no escape plan.
Tears welled in her eyes, and something flashed in the trees in the distance. Her mom had put a chain ladder in her room. If there was a fire, she was to hook it to the window and crawl down.
But there was no ladder here. There was nothing here.
God, can You help me? My mom and dad are with You in heaven. She swatted at a mosquito, squashing it. It dotted her arm with blood. She smeared it with her hand. Can You be my escape plan?
Shaking, she dropped to her knees on the rough concrete. I’m sorry I’m so bad that he locks me up. I’ll try really hard to be good. Just please don’t let there be a fire. I don’t want to burn. A sob tore loose from her throat. Please, don’t let me burn …
It was the longest night of her life. Dark and wet—it rained and she couldn’t get anywhere to stay dry. Bugs she couldn’t see buzzed in the air. She swatted at them half the night, cried most of it, and prayed all of it. God had made it rain so there wouldn’t be a fire—or if there was, the rain would put it out.
He’d helped her. Kept her safe.
Sometime before dawn, she heard noises inside and looked through the slats in the blind on the french door. Samuel Johnson had returned—and he was walking funny. She started to call out to him, to knock on the glass, but something warned her not to make a sound. So she bit her fisted hand and stayed silent.
Dawn finally came, and then the sun rose. She looked at herself in the glass door. She was shocked. Nearly eaten up by mosquitoes, her face and arms were dotted red and swollen. She looked like a monster. A drenched, gross monster.
The door swung open.
She jerked back, gasped.
“Stupid, stupid girl.” Samuel’s red-rimmed eyes bulged. “Get in here.” He snagged her shirt at her shoulders and dragged her in, nearly sweeping her off her feet. “Didn’t you hear me come home?”
“Yes.” He was still staggering, and he stank like the alcohol her mother had used to dab her ears when she’d had them pierced, only his smelled sour.
“Why didn’t you knock?” He turned her loose.
She caught her balance. “I don’t know.” She’d been scared of him, but she couldn’t say that. Dropping her gaze, she saw just how swollen her arms were. Would they fall off? They might. They were huge and peppered with welts and red spots, dotted with streaks of blood. “I need some medicine.”
“No.” He swiped at his rumpled hair. “No medicine, no doctors—and don’t you tell a soul about this.”
He was scared somebody would get mad at him.
“Promise me. Right now.”
Her arms might fall off. She blinked to clear the tears blurring her eyes, her chin trembling. “I promise.”
“You should have knocked. This is your fault, girl.” He huffed and slammed the terrace door. “If you tell anyone—anyone at all—the police will come. You know what will happen then?”
She didn’t answer. He sounded too angry and she didn’t want him to get worse. What was the right thing to say?
“Do you?” he pushed. Then before she could think of what to say to get him to stop so she could run to her room and hide from him, he answered himself. “They’ll lock you away forever.” He looked down his nose at her. “That’s what they do with stupid girls.”
“I won’t tell. I’ll never tell … ”
She’d missed school for three days.
When her teacher, Mrs. Williams, asked why she’d been absent, Kelly nearly had told her. But afraid she’d call the police and they would lock her up forever, or that Mr. Johnson would put her on the terrace again, she lied.
He hadn’t locked her on the terrace anymore. He moved her back to the entryway closet.
Oh, she hated that closet. Sometimes he’d leave her there so long she felt starved. Her stomach pushed against her backbone, and more than once she had to sneak to look at the television to see whether the time it showed meant it was day or night. He hated her being
in his life almost as much as Kelly hated being in his life and being locked up.
When she grew up and moved far away, no one would ever lock her up again. Ever!
Mr. Johnson left home a lot.
She couldn’t stop him from shoving her in that closet, but she did get smarter about being there. She stashed a jar with a lid on it for emergency bathroom services, hid packaged crackers and bottles of water deep in the closet inside a camera case. She even folded a thick sheet of paper and made herself a fan, then put it in her secret place too. She could have gotten a candle, but the firefighter that had come to her school said they were dangerous, so she decided against it. The dark wasn’t nearly so scary as Mr. Johnson. But she did miss her mom and dad a lot sometimes. When it got real bad, she’d talk to God. He was a good listener, and He made her not so scared.
That went on for what felt like forever.
In truth, it couldn’t have been very long. But when you’re a kid and scared and miserable and lost, time moves differently than when you have some type of control over your own life.
Then one night Mr. Johnson didn’t come back. She waited and waited and waited.
Her crackers were gone.
Her water bottles stood empty, her pee-jar full.
And her tummy hurt something fierce. She prayed and cried and prayed and prayed until she couldn’t pray anymore.
Huddled in the back of the closet, she crossed her arms, freezing. Her teeth chattered until her jaw ached.
Then she began to sweat. It poured off her, dripping and splashing on her chest, her knees. She slumped to rest her head on the floor. The carpet scratched her face, but her head felt too heavy to hold up anymore—and again she started shivering. Shivering. Sweating. Shivering. Sweating.
Oh, but she was sick. So sick … Her stomach rebelled. A bad taste warned she was going to throw up. She swallowed hard. It would stink so bad. Her stomach churned and churned, her head swam, and she felt the bad taste rise in her throat.
The door opened.
She vomited all over some man’s shoes.
“Kelly!”
He knew her. Knew her! She cranked open her eye, tilted her head, hoping she didn’t get sick again, and looked up at him. Mr. Denham. “Help me.”
He pulled his phone from his pocket and told someone to come.
“No! Don’t call the police. They’ll lock me away forever. Please don’t call them. Please!”
“It’s all right. A doctor is coming. Just be still until he and his helpers get here.”
“Oh no,” she cried. “He’s going to be so mad. He’ll lock me in here until I die.”
Alexander Denham’s face turned dark and red and she feared him too. “No one will ever lock you in a closet again. I give you my word on it.”
He was mad but not at her. “Thank you, Mr. Denham. I-I don’t feel good.” She threw up again but this time missed his shoes.
The ambulance people tended to her, but she could hear Mr. Denham talking to the policeman. She stayed very quiet, hoping he wouldn’t notice her and lock her up.
“I had a meeting with Mr. Johnson to go over some estate matters—her estate matters.”
The ambulance lady with the gentle voice asked her, “Kelly, how long have you been in the closet?”
She struggled to remember. “I don’t know what day it is.” She licked her lips, hoping for more water. They’d given her some, but her mouth was still so dry.
“What day did Mr. Johnson put you in the closet?”
Had she told? No, no, Mr. Denham had. The police wouldn’t lock her up for him telling. “Saturday.”
“You’re sure?” The nice lady gave her a sip of water.
“Uh-huh.” Water dribbled down her chin.
“Saturday,” the woman repeated, looking at the man helping her.
It was Friday afternoon.
Kelly lay in bed in the cottage, her cheeks wet at the vivid memories of that awful time. She clenched the wadded edge of her pillowcase and rubbed her cheeks dry.
The ambulance had taken her to the hospital, and she’d been so surprised that the nurses and doctors hadn’t been mad at her. They’d been kind. Mr. Denham hadn’t been angry with her either, even though she’d ruined his shoes.
She’d slept a lot. Sometimes he had been there; sometimes he hadn’t. A nurse was always with her, and whoever she was, she always assured Kelly on awakening that Mr. Johnson could not come into her room and Mr. Denham would be back shortly. Amazingly he had been back.
It took her three days to work up the courage to ask when Mr. Johnson would be taking her back to his house. The nurse grimaced and said, “Don’t you worry, Kelly. He won’t hurt you anymore.” She stroked Kelly’s forehead, shoving back her hair. “Mr. Denham will explain everything.”
She didn’t believe the nurse. He wouldn’t hurt her while anyone was looking, but he’d lock her in the closet again, and she knew it.
She did not want to go back into that closet—and she’d do what she had to do to stay out of it. She’d hide or run away and disappear. She’d do something—anything!
The nurse must have told Mr. Denham that Kelly had asked about Mr. Johnson because as soon as he arrived, he’d told her, “Kelly, you will never return to Mr. Johnson’s home.”
She felt relief, and joy danced throughout her entire body, set her to tingling, making her giddy.
“Can I go home, then?” she asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Mr. Denham said. “You’re too young to live alone.”
She sat straight up. “Aunt Beth! Oh, please, please, can I go to my aunt Beth’s?” She loved Aunt Beth and her little house on the beach.
His jaw clamped, and he closed his eyes a second. “I’m afraid not.”
“But why?” Kelly grabbed a fistful of sheet. “I have my own room there—and she never puts me in the closet.” She crossed her heart. “I promise.”
“I’m sorry, but your mother and father forbade it, Kelly. You can’t live with your aunt Beth.”
She’d tried so hard not to cry. She hadn’t sobbed, but she wanted to, and tears slid down her face. “Then where do I have to go? There isn’t anyone else.” God, please don’t let him send me back to Mr. Johnson’s anyway. Please!
He stepped closer and looked down at her. “I asked the judge and he said you could come live with me.”
Kelly recoiled, sank back against her pillows. “Are you going to lock me in the closet too?”
“No, Kelly,” he promised, his eyes burning bright. “I’ve hired a very nice woman to care for you. Her name is Doris. And we both promise that no one will ever lock you in a closet again.” He glanced away, then added, “We can even invite your aunt Beth to visit.”
And she did.
Kelly stared at the cottage bedroom ceiling, dabbed at her moist eyes, and let the memories after that time flow through her mind unfettered.
Alexander Denham wasn’t home much. When upset, he was a little hard to understand due to an accent she learned from Doris was Russian, and he didn’t know what to do with a young girl, but he’d left Doris to it. She was caring and kind, and whenever Mr. Denham returned home from his trips, the first thing he would ask Kelly is if she’d been well treated.
She had been and always felt relieved to say so without lying.
He hadn’t been a warm, fuzzy kind of person—he’d never once so much as hugged her—but he hadn’t locked her up, and he had come to respect her sharp mind. Kelly worked hard to earn his respect and harder to earn his praise. He was stingy with it but never unkind.
He’d taught her a lot. Doris had too. But even as a child, Kelly had held no illusions. Neither of them had ever loved her.
Alexander was paid well from her estate and her grandmother’s trust to care for her, act as trustee and guardian, and she had no doubt that, if she’d been poor, he’d have put her up for adoption immediately—if he’d bothered getting involved with her in the first place. His passion was acquiring money, and
she provided a good, steady, long-term source for it.
Aunt Beth, though, had loved her very much. Kelly was first to admit that her mother’s “quaint and quirky” baby sister was flaky and considered by kind souls “eccentric,” which was why she couldn’t take custody of Kelly—her father had flatly refused and insisted her mother go along with him.
Once Mr. Denham had been convinced Kelly would immediately contact him in case of any trouble, he’d permitted her to spend summers with her aunt at her beach house.
Aunt Beth had taught Kelly to paint, the mood of colors, and how to use her potter’s wheel. They’d taken midnight swims, eaten ice cream for breakfast, and giggled themselves silly. Kelly had adored her zany aunt. And she had adored Kelly.
Now Aunt Beth was dead.
Her throat thick, Kelly snuggled down deep under the covers and felt her loss afresh. A heart attack. Unexpected. Unforgiving. They’d never gotten to say good-bye.
Kelly gave in to a good cry. For the little girl, alone and lost, locked in the closet, on the terrace. For the absence of loving parents. For feeling she had no safe haven of her own but lived as a guest in someone else’s.
When her tears were spent, she sniffed and wiped her face with her hands.
A scent wafted to her.
What was it? She sniffed, then sniffed again. Bacon.
Bacon?
Fear snipped her thoughts. She was in Ben’s cottage. Alone. So who was cooking bacon and making coffee?
It’s not the carjackers. It’s not. They wouldn’t come in and cook for—Doris!
Kelly tossed back the covers—and remembered in a flash why she feared Seagrove Village.
Ben!
Edward pulled into Harry’s driveway just as dawn was breaking. His truck was parked out front. With any luck, he wasn’t drunk again, but Edward couldn’t bank on it.
He got out and looked into Harry’s bedroom window. He was flat on his back sprawled out atop sleep-tossed covers, the telltale open can on a ring-marked table beside his bed.
Edward regretted what he had to do, but he had no choice. Wily and slick, where Harry was dumb but dependable, Edward would be forced to live the rest of his life sleeping with one eye open. That was no life at all.
