by Pamela Crane
As I swayed back and forth in a lulling meter with Austin clutched against my chest, fighting my tears from surfacing, my sights rested on the shoebox tucked on the top shelf of my closet … the shoebox that held my gun. I’d bought it two years ago when I found out I was pregnant with Juliet—my fourth child. While I couldn’t stand the thought of abortion, somehow suicide seemed a more noble alternative.
Although the plan had been fleeting back then, lately the idea taunted me almost daily. The touch of the barrel against my temple. The cool metal leaving a circular imprint on my freckled skin. The echoing crescendo after my finger squeezed the trigger. My skull welcoming the leaden missile as it splintered bone and ripped brain matter to shreds. Then tranquility.
Not everyone fantasized about shooting themselves in the head. But not everyone harbored secrets like mine.
It’d take every ounce of willpower in my body not to use that gun today.
Chapter 6
He had always wanted a child of his own. Cherub face, chubby fingers gripping his, squeals of laughter. Everything about children brought a smile to his face, this little girl in particular. Because she was special. She belonged to Josephine. It would be different this time.
“When do I get to see the puppies?”
“What color are they?”
“Can I hold them?”
“Are they fluffy?”
The girl had asked an endless barrage of puppy-related questions in the car, many repeated countless times. The repetition didn’t bother him, though. In fact, her persistence delighted him. A good trait in a girl. Determined to get what she wanted, just like her mother.
“We’re here,” he said with a lilt to his voice as they pulled up to the ramshackle apartment building, the unadorned four-sided brick façade garnished with a variety of archaic window AC units, their only common trait being their degree of decomposition. The remaining unoccupied windows donned security bars and a spattering of corrugated cardboard panels covering broken glass. Piles of refuse scattered the pavement about the building’s dumpster, as if the extra distance of placing the waste inside the receptacle was just too much effort for its denizens. It was the cheapest and most obscure temporary housing he could find on such short notice. And they accepted cash. It was the type of place you would never notice unless you were intentionally looking for it. Perfect for what he had planned.
Guiding the girl up the metal stairwell and along the blue carpeted hallway to his apartment’s painted front door, he felt a sense of elation being this close to achieving his objective. Everything to this point had transpired exactly according to plan, not one hitch. Attempting to take a child this age presented an array of challenges in and of itself, compounded the variables with conducting the abduction in such a public place, and the likelihood of success seemed nonexistent. One raised voice, one glance his way at the wrong moment by Josephine, one bystander who randomly happened to know this child, and it all would have fallen apart. The Fates were on his side it seemed, almost as if they wanted him to have this child.
Though a part of him wished Josephine would have seen him, seen him taking her daughter. He wished he could have stayed to see her reaction when she discovered her baby was gone. But that’s how you get caught. No. Must be smart. Must be calculating. He had plans for this girl.
“Are the puppies inside?” she asked, clapping her tiny hands and looking up at him with big blue eyes. Patting her head, he couldn’t pull his stare away. She was the picture of perfection with a smattering of freckles across her nose.
“They sure are. We’ll go in and feed them. They’re probably hungry. How about you—are you hungry?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you like ice cream?”
“I love ice cream but Mommy says I have to eat dinner first.”
Such honesty. He loved this girl more by the minute.
“Well, at my home you don’t have to eat dinner first to get ice cream. Dinner is ice cream.”
“Can I have rainbow sprinkles too?”
“Sorry, but I don’t have those.”
“Chocolate syrup?”
“No, not that either.”
“How can you eat ice cream without them?” She watched him carefully, like he was about to explain the wonders of the universe, like where a rainbow came from or how the man in the moon got groceries.
“Uh, I just do.”
“I don’t want it without sprinkles or syrup,” she whined loudly. So loudly that her voice echoed down the hall where he certainly didn’t want to draw attention.
“Shhh … please!” he begged. “I’ll figure something else out.”
And yet the tearless crying continued.
He didn’t have sprinkles. Or chocolate syrup. Clearly these were expected commodities amongst children, something he had no clue about. What had he been thinking, that this would be easy? His confidence deflated just enough to make him doubt himself. Perhaps he wasn’t as prepared as he thought. From down the hall a woman ambled toward his apartment door, and he felt her eyes watching him. Eyeing the crying little girl next to him. He had come too far for things to fall apart now.
He wondered if the girl’s face was streaming all over the news by now, if Amber Alerts were notifying the public of her disappearance yet. If anyone had noticed him at the park, seen his car, given his description to the police. He needed to get inside quickly before anyone else noticed him. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he fumbled with the keys in the door lock. At last the key slid in and he turned the doorknob. Then an idea.
“How about chocolate chips instead?”
Instantly the whining stopped and her tiny-toothed smile brightened. “Can I scoop my own? Mommy never lets me.”
“Of course you can, since Mommy isn’t here to say no.”
Flinging the door open, they stepped inside, quickly closing it behind them. The living room was dark as they entered the sparsely furnished room, consisting of a sofa and television rented under his mother’s maiden name. There was no point investing in anything more than the bare necessities, since this was a short-term deal. No one knew he was here, particularly his parole officer. All he needed was a little time to finish what he came for.
He flicked on the overhead light and locked the door behind him, a deadbolt out of the girl’s reach. A yellow glow illuminated the room, hidden from daylight by thick brown curtains.
“Where are the puppies?” the girl asked, peeking around the corner into the kitchen.
He hated the excitement in her voice, because he didn’t want to crush it. But he had to. It was inevitable. It was part of the plan. He had to stick to the plan, no matter how hard it got. There was just too much at stake.
“I’m sorry to tell you that there are no puppies. But I have something much better in store for you.”
As her eyes watered and bottom lip trembled, a tear slid down her cheek. Then he thought sadly of the many more tears that were to come.
That’s when he felt it—the battle between his past and present rise within him. He feared if he looked back at the pain behind him it would swallow him whole. But the images wouldn’t relent.
Blood. So much blood. Gobs of blood. Her cries as she had cowered in the corner while his fists pummeled her like he was tenderizing a piece of meat. Her skin turning a deep red, then blue, as he continued beating her, kicking her, ignoring the whimpered begging for him to stop. But he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. The Red had taken him, seduced him, devoured him.
Once his legs tired, he had unbuckled his belt. Dragging it slowly out through the belt loops of his jeans, the leather tip making a faint fwip as it escaped each successive denim eyelet.
“No, please, no more!” she had pleaded. But the words were distant and tinny in his memory. It was the fear in her eyes that he now remembered most. It was the fear that aroused him. Gave him strength. Egged him on.
Wrapping the buckle end of the belt around his palm, he had whipped her again and again until her flesh turned ra
w, splitting her skin, relinquishing the crimson manna he so desired. His thirst for justice urged him on. Show her who was boss. Teach her a lesson.
He was Rage manifested, Fury personified, his perception perverted until all he saw was The Red, not the woman. Not the hole-in-the-wall apartment they called home. Not the threadbare sofa or mismatched chairs. Not the cockroaches clamoring for safety in the walls. Not the flies circling days-old cereal left on the kitchenette table or the overflowing dustbin. He wanted to kill her, needed to, and he couldn’t remember why.
She had talked back, hadn’t she? They had a fight about money. Again. It was always about money. He had blown her waitressing paycheck at the bar. But it was his money to do with as he pleased, wasn’t it? He was the man. He was in charge. Yes, that’s what he had told her. And that’s when she’d fought back. That’s when she made her mistake.
But look who won in the end.
He did. He always did. He always would. He had Always Right on his side.
Something they would all need to learn, starting with this little, inquisitive girl who was the ticket to his future.
Chapter 7
June Merrigan
The evening was a tornado of frantic phone calls, confused children, and police inquiries. Sitting on the cream living room sofa, Abby and Preston were sandwiched between Jay and me, while Detective Tristan Cox and his shadow, Officer Dante Buchanan, drilled us for every possible detail we could remember about the afternoon.
What was Amelia wearing? Exactly what time did I notice she was gone? What are the names and addresses of the other parents at the soccer game? All details I knew, but my brain was too muddled to remember. I felt cloudy and disoriented and sick to my stomach.
When the police first arrived, I should have felt comforted that something was being done to find my baby. Instead my fears escalated. Suddenly it was all too real. Wearing an untucked gray button-up shirt, snug black jeans, and Hollywood-trendy hair, one look at Detective Cox and I felt like Justin Bieber was on the case. Clearly younger than me by a decade, what experience could this boy-man possibly have that qualified him to make detective? The mother in me wanted to grab him by his unkempt goatee and order him to go home and shave before coming back. He certainly didn’t look the part of a professional, in my opinion. But as the detective spoke of Amber Alerts, social media outreach, and canvassing the neighborhoods surrounding the park, my mind slowly changed about him. I’d need to have a little faith if I was going to bring Amelia home.
“Our kidnapper is likely a Durham local,” Detective Cox explained, “which means if he goes out publicly with her, someone might spot her. By blasting Amelia’s picture all over the Raleigh area, there’s a good chance we’ll find her.”
But what about the chance of not finding her? That was the reality that tormented me.
“Is there anyone you know—maybe someone from your past—who would want to abduct your child? Or a family member who you don’t quite trust?” Detective Cox looked at me and I recoiled.
“What? You think a family member took her?” It sounded ludicrous.
“In many cases it’s someone related or closely connected to the family. Someone with a grudge?”
“No, no one in our family would do that.” I was so certain of this … except for the pinch of guilt that made me wonder if there was indeed someone out to get me. Someone with a motive. Someone I had buried deep in my past, pushing the skeletons into the depths of my closet. But that secret was safe and locked away … wasn’t it?
I had taken care of the secret long ago. There couldn’t be any connection. At least I sure hoped not. It was a secret that needed to stay hidden. My life depended on that.
“What else should we be doing?” It was the first time my husband Jay had spoken up or shown any concern at all. While his brooding brown eyes and Kurt Cobain hair had won me over at first sight eleven years ago, his quiet nature left much to be desired over the years. I never knew what he was thinking; I wanted inside his head, but he was a locked door that I didn’t have the key to.
“Use social media to spread awareness of what happened. Talk to your neighbors. Ask any park regulars if they saw anything. We’ll be doing all those things too, but it never hurts to have more people looking.”
“Will you be able to have a cop car watch our street in case the abductor comes here?” I asked, glancing back at Preston and Abby.
The detective shook his head. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have those kind of resources. We’ve got a limited number of officers on duty and it’s unlikely the abductor would come to your house anyways. He’s most likely hiding out somewhere, or possibly traveling with her. But we’ll have state troopers on the lookout for a man traveling with a blond three-year-old girl. You’d be surprised how many hits we can get, even with limited information.”
Next to Detective Cox, Officer Buchanan looked like a giant. Officer Buchanan’s thighs, thick like two tree trunks, hung off the cushion of the catty-corner love seat. He leaned in with interest, a pencil and small notepad in hand. Watching my daughter with eyes as dark as pools of tar, he would have intimidated anyone else with his Army-issue flattop haircut and muscles straining the seams of his uniform. But with Abby he played the part of a gentle giant, his lipless smile genuine and warm.
“Hi, Abby.” His skin shined, tight and rubbery, like a car tire. “Detective Cox is going to ask you some questions so we can find your sister. Do you feel like you can talk to him?”
“I think so,” she said meekly. I could tell she was scared, overwhelmed, so I rested my hand on her shoulder in a show of support.
“You can do it,” I whispered in her ear, then planted a kiss on her cheek.
Detective Cox crouched down at her eye level. “Abby, honey, I’m going to bring your sister home. But I need your help.” His eyes searched hers and she nodded shyly. “I want to try something with you. Close your eyes.” His voice was rough like gravel, but soothing, as if he’d had plenty of experience drawing shy kids like Abby out of their shells.
Abby did as she was told, squeezing her azure eyes shut.
“Try to remember being at the park. Remember when the man approached you. Can you see him?”
Another nod.
“Okay, good. Now describe for me everything you can remember about him. His hair color, how tall he was, what he was wearing. Can you do that for me, Abby?”
“Yes,” Abby squeaked. “Um, he was about as tall as Daddy and had brown hair like Daddy. And he wore glasses.”
“Very good,” Detective Cox encouraged when she paused. “This helps a lot. How old do you think he was?”
“Maybe my daddy’s age.”
“Great work so far. What about his clothes?”
“I think he was wearing a green shirt with buttons up the front. And jeans.”
She stopped again.
“Did he have any hair on his face, like a mustache?”
“Nooo …” she wavered, as if uncertain.
“You mentioned that he had puppies. Did you see the puppies?”
“No, they were in his car. I went to ask Mommy if I could go see them, but he was gone when we got back.”
“Did he have any scars or tattoos?”
“I don’t think so. I’m sorry, I can’t remember.”
“Don’t be sorry, Abby. You did great. We’re going to find your sister, okay?” He patted her knee and stood, adjusting the badge that hung on his belt beneath the hem of his shirt.
“Mm-kay.” Abby’s eyes popped open and she looked up at me for approval.
“Thanks, sweetie,” I said, kissing her head. “You and Preston can go play for a bit.”
“What about dinner? I’m hungry,” she whined.
Food—it had completely skipped my mind. No way I could stomach food when my nerves were roiling and nauseating me.
“I’ll make some mac ‘n’ cheese in a minute.”
Abby squealed with delight and ran off, trailing her brother upstairs.
Irritation at her lack of concern for her sister suddenly bubbled up inside me. How could she be thinking about dinner with her sister missing?
A cocktail of emotions swirled inside me. Guilt. Anger. Fear. I needed to blame someone—someone other than myself. I couldn’t be the mother who had lost her child. I simply couldn’t.
It had to be Abby’s fault Amelia was missing. She hadn’t kept her eye on her. She’d left her alone with a strange man who was doing God knows what to my daughter …
Was he raping her as she cried out in pain? Was she chained in some dank basement calling for her mommy? Was she nothing more than a pile of decomposing body parts by now? Every outcome I’d ever read about in the news or watched on a crime show burst on a screen in my head, terrifying me more than if it was happening to my own flesh.
A sob escaped my throat as I shook away the barrage of imagined horrors that my little Amelia was enduring … that is, if she wasn’t already dead. All because of Abby, who blissfully tromped around with her brother as if we hadn’t just lost a limb from our family body.
Fury began to course through me. Fury at Abby for leaving her sister’s side, fury at Preston for having that soccer game in the first place, fury at the man who stole my baby girl, fury at Jay for working so much that he hadn’t been there, fury at the cops for not finding her already … fury at myself for being the mom who lost her child.
The truth slapped me back to the present reality: it was all my fault. I had given too much responsibility to a five-year-old. It wasn’t Abby who should have been watching her little sister; it should have been me. I should have protected Amelia. This was all on me. I’d never outrun this horrifying truth.
I sniffled and gasped for a shallow breath that wasn’t there. My lungs squeezed shut and I bent over as a sob escaped. In a matter of seconds I went from a composed woman asking relevant questions to a panicky mess who couldn’t speak through the crying.
