Profile (Social Media #5)

by J. A. Huss

  The man’s heavy footsteps approach and I’m regretting not moving the mattress so I can see his feet through the crack under the door. But he’s here now. It makes no difference.

  He unlocks the door and opens it. “We have to run some tests. I need you to get up.”

  I roll onto my knees again, and then rock back and forth until I can stand with my bound hands.

  “I’m going to untie you, but if you try anything funny, if you hurt yourself, or try to run, I will be forced to take matters seriously.”

  God, that phrase. I haven’t heard that phrase since…

  “Do you understand?”

  I nod and look him in the face. The Invisible Man mask looks high-quality. It doesn’t look fake at all. It doesn’t look like it’s made out of rubber. It looks like it’s a face with bandages wrapped around it.

  “I do understand,” I tell him back in an even voice.

  And I do. I understand completely. If he thinks I’m some weak little girl who’d rather off herself than live, he’s got a surprise coming.

  I’m not interested in dying to erase my pain and I’m not interested in playing his game.

  This time, he’s going to play mine.

  Chapter Five

  “MR. Asher, tell me again. The last time you saw Miss Kinsella was…”

  I know I should have a lawyer, because they are treating me like a suspect. But I just don’t have time for that. “I told you.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “Vaughn,” Conner calls out from the doorway.

  “Let him in, that’s my brother,” I call back, only I’m talking to the policeman standing guard at the door. The media has gone crazy outside. The entire street is covered with reporters and cameras.

  “This is a crime scene, Mr. Asher.”

  “This is my building, Officer…” I look down at his badge. “Torrino. And you have no warrant. So feel free to get one of those before you start ordering me around. Let him through,” I say again, only this time my frustration comes off as anger.

  “It’s Detective Torrino, Mr. Asher. And I can get a warrant if you’d like to be difficult. One phone call.”

  “OK, we’re done here. You go make that call, asshole.” I place my fingers on my tongue and let off a shrill whistle to break up the chatter. “Everyone out unless you work for me. Thank you. Goodbye. Come back with the paperwork and I’ll get a hold of my lawyers.”

  “You’ll compromise her safety so you can pull the movie-star card?”

  “Fuck you, Torrino. I’m the one who called you, remember? I’m the one who told you what happened to her ten years ago. What she told me. What I found out.”

  “What you found out illegally, you mean.”

  “It’s not illegal to ask questions. It is illegal to answer them when you’re supposed to be silent. So you’re gonna want to go talk to whomever you think told us Miss Kinsella’s information and threaten them. Get out.”

  “Vaughn, you don’t want to alienate the cops.” Conner, of all people—the middle child who alienates everyone—is suddenly the voice of reason.

  “If they’re going to concentrate on me instead of the freak who kidnapped her ten years ago, then yes. I really do.”

  “Just hold on,” Conner says to the detective, pushing me backwards with a hand to my chest. “Come on, let’s go talk somewhere private.”

  Conner leads me upstairs, but I have no idea where to go. Grace’s apartment is bustling with police. The roof is filled with them too. There’s nowhere to go to get some privacy. I feel trapped inside this building. We settle for the second-story laundry room. I flip on the lights as I enter and Conner closes the door behind him.

  “I don’t want Felicity to get busted for doing your dirty work.”

  “What?” I’m not sure I heard that right. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “If they start digging around, I don’t want Felicity to take your fall.”

  I stare at him, seething from the inside out. “Who the fuck do you think you are, lecturing me about Felicity? She’s my kid.”

  “She’s not your kid, Vaughn. She’s your partner in crime.”

  “We didn’t hack into anything to get those records. She asked around, she paid them off. She did nothing illegal.”

  “But she’s done plenty for you in the past. And maybe it’s all pretty harmless, but you’re not dragging her into this.”

  I stare at my brother. I give him a long, hard look. “If you’re sleeping with her, I will beat the motherfucking shit out of you.”

  “I’m not sleeping with her, you asshole. I’m trying to do damage control.”

  I’m not sure I believe him, but this is not the time or the place. “Conner, are you here to help me or not?”

  “I am. We looked at that computer from the other day and it’s clean.”

  “Fuck.”

  “With one exception.”

  “What?” He hesitates and I just want to shake him until he talks. “What? Just fucking tell me.”

  “The IP address on that video upload comes from the free wireless network at the Hollywood Gold Theatre.”

  “So he’s a local?” Conner hesitates again. “What, dammit?”

  “He’s not a local, V. He’s you.” Conner puts his hand up as I begin to object. “He’s trying to make it look like you did this. The timestamp on the upload we found of the video happened during your IM2 premiere.”

  “So?”

  “That means he’s framing you, Vaughn. He’s trying to make it look like you’re the one sending these messages because the security for that event was so tight, only those associated with the movie were allowed in. And furthermore, only those who had major roles got invites to the premiere because that theatre is so small. He’s trying to pin this all on you. So if those guys downstairs get a hold of this info, they’re really gonna think you’re guilty.”

  “That makes no sense. How could I be the guy who took her ten years ago?”

  “No one gives a fuck about ten years ago, V. They only care about last night. And you were the last one to see her alive.”

  “Don’t you fucking dare insinuate she’s dead, Conner.”

  He lets out a long breath. “I’m not, V. I’m just playing devil’s advocate. People are going to assume you did it and they are going to assume the worst before they ever give you the benefit of the doubt. So I’m just telling you—expect questions about your involvement in her murder.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, I had nothing to do with this. And there’s no murder. She’s alive. He took her, I know it. Now I need you to find her, Conner. These assfucks are not going to do shit. Just like they didn’t do shit the last time he took her.”

  Conner nods and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, and that Twitter stuff is bad too. They’re just gonna say she ran off. They probably won’t even look for her.”

  “She’d never do that, Conner.”

  “I dunno, V. She’s run away from you plenty of times before.”

  “That was different.” Wasn’t it? She couldn’t have run off on her own. Could she?

  “It wasn’t different. You married her when she was drunk. She didn’t even know about it. The reporters got a hold of the girl who lives downstairs. She said she heard you guys arguing about it last night and that’s why you had to sleep on the couch in the lobby.”

  I sigh and lean up against the washing machine.

  “So, is there any possibility that she just ran off like she implied in her last tweet?”

  I think about it. Like, really hard. I try to run this through in my mind, try to see it from her perspective. But I just can’t picture Grace being such a coward that she’d take off like that. Yes, she ran from me on Saint Thomas, but she went home. And yes, she ran from me in Vegas, but she came back once I found her. And yes, she threw me out last night, but she’d never walk off and leave all these loose ends. She just wouldn’t. Grace likes to keep thing organized. She’s a planner. Sh
e’d plan the hell out of an escape like this. And nothing about what’s happening feels planned.

  I look Conner straight in the eye. “No, Con. She did not run off. He took her.”

  Conner nods his head at me. “OK then. He took her. I think you’re right about the police. You’re the number one suspect right now until they decide if she’s missing or ran off on her own. And they don’t seem to be doing a whole lot right now besides standing around feeling important. Maybe if the FBI gets involved we’ll get more help. But until then, we need to proceed on our own.”

  “What’d you have in mind?”

  “I was talking to Felicity and she thinks she can profile this guy. Narrow down who he might be by adding up all the clues. Figure out who he is and where he might take Grace through process of elimination.”

  A long breath escapes me and I feel myself relax for the first time all day. “OK. When can she get here?”

  “She’s here. She’s across the street, though. She doesn’t want to be seen by the media. So I’m gonna go help her and you’re going to distract everyone here. You do that by cooperating. Answer every question, six times, if necessary. You are not guilty, they can’t paint you into corners, but the lawyers are already at the airport, I got a message before I came in to see you. They’ll be here in like ten minutes.” He stares at me, waiting for an answer. “OK? You got it?”

  I nod but I’m not happy about this at all. I feel like they’re wasting time. Like Grace is getting farther and farther away from me with each passing minute.

  Chapter Six

  “WHY?” I growl. I know I’m risking him getting violent, but I don’t care.

  “To run tests. I told you.” His words come out labored, like he’s breathing very hard. Like he’s the one who’s having a panic attack instead of me.

  I know that’s what’s about to happen. I used to get them almost daily during the eight months I spent locked in this house. But I’ve perfected my relaxation techniques. I might not’ve participated in therapy, but that’s only because it was a waste of time. Who gives a shit why something happened or how I feel about it?

  I only care about making sure it won’t happen again. My mind is screaming at me—But it did happen again! Yeah, I can’t control what this freak does. I can only control how I react to it. And I refuse to let him make me panic. Because I’ve been preparing for this. I’ve been mentally and physically preparing myself for round two since the day I realized I was brainwashed six years ago. So my heart calms while his beats faster. “What kind of tests?”

  He leans down in my personal space, his grip on my upper arm punishingly tight. “A pregnancy test, for one.”

  “I’m not pregnant.”

  “How do you know?” He cocks his head at me. “Asher never used a condom.”

  I reel backwards. “What?”

  “You think I don’t know what kind of man Vaughn Asher is? Did he use one? Say yes and we skip the test. But I might have to medicate you and that could harm your baby. So isn’t it better to know for sure?”

  Hurt my baby? No!

  Jesus, Grace! Stop. You’re on the pill! Don’t let him get to you! That’s your only power right now.

  But he’s blackmailing me with a baby that doesn’t exist and I’m falling for it.

  He points to the bathroom. “I’ll untie you. You go in, leaving the door open. Follow the directions on the package, and bring it back to me. We can watch for the results together.”

  “No.”

  He smacks me across the face. “That word is not in your vocabulary.”

  The blood is back in my mouth and I spit on the floor.

  “While we’re waiting, you can clean your bloody mess. There’s a spot in the kitchen as well. I don’t like an untidy home.”

  The chills run up my spine. He’s a psycho. He tried to brainwash me into believing I was his wife back when I was thirteen. And it worked. I cooked and cleaned for him like I was his goddamned life partner. Like we were in this shit together. I asked him how his day was when he came home from work every day and unchained me from the closet. And by the end, I even participated in the demented dream of his. I shake my head, unwilling to even admit that part of the ordeal to myself.

  Instead, I extend my shaking hand out for the box he’s holding in front of me, and he places it in my palm.

  “I’ll wait in the living room and give you some privacy.” He grips my arm again. “But leave the door open.”

  I walk into the tiny bathroom. It too has been remodeled. It seems like everything in this house has been remodeled except for my closet prison cell. I open the box and take out the test. Rip open the package with my teeth, then check the hallway to make sure he’s really in the living room.

  He waves to me from the couch. “Hurry.”

  I retreat back into the bathroom and unbutton my shorts. My hand shakes severely as I squat and hold the test under my stream. I place it on the wrapper on the counter, wipe quickly, and pull my pants back up.

  I stare at the little window where the results will appear, my heart suddenly burdened with fear.

  What if I’m pregnant?

  “Is it done?” he asks from the door.

  I nod and hand the test over. He can sit and watch it all he wants. I have no intention of waiting for that result with him by my side.

  “I’ll clean the mess,” I say meekly with my head down.

  “Yes.” He strokes my hair and I do my best not to flinch, but don’t entirely succeed. “You remember your place now, don’t you?”

  I force myself to look up at him and nod. “I remember.”

  My feet are moving, and I’ve never been so glad to walk away from someone in my whole life. But I do remember. And then a smile comes forth for a flash of a second. I remember what I needed to do back then to walk freely around the house.

  Obey.

  I cannot even count the number of nights I stayed up thinking up all the ways in which I could trick him after I was let go. I replayed every day in my mind. I imagined how it was to wake up and realize I was a prisoner. I imagined what I’d do different. I imagined I was smart enough to figure out what made him happy and what pissed him off so I could fool him into thinking I was agreeable.

  In my new reality, the one I dreamed about, I wasn’t brainwashed into liking the man with the mask. In my new reality, I was the smart one and he was the victim. I imagined myself one step ahead. I played all those bad things in my mind again and again. It was like a simulator for me. I planned for this. Because that’s what I do. I’m a planner.

  In the kitchen the layout is the same even though the cabinets and stuff are all different. So I know where he keeps the mop and bucket. In the tall slender cupboard next to the refrigerator.

  I also know where to fill the bucket up. In the laundry room off to the side of the kitchen. I look at the back door for a moment, then over my shoulder. He’s watching me.

  “Try the handle, Daisy. Do you think I’d leave it unlocked?”

  “No,” I answer, then lower my head and turn the spigot on. I wait for the bucket to fill and when I turn he’s still watching me.

  “In my mind you’re still a girl, but you’re not, are you?”

  Oh, shit. “I am,” I insist. “I’m still a girl.” He never molested me but he talked about it endlessly. He said he had to wait until I was eighteen. That was the law.

  I always wanted to ask him why kidnapping was OK but sex with a minor wasn’t. But I had enough sense to shut the hell up.

  My hand reaches for the floor cleaner like this is my own home, and I hear him chuckle a little behind me. Just play along, Grace. Don’t feel what he wants you to feel.

  I take the bucket and mop over to the bloodstain on the floor and quickly wipe it up. This must pacify him, because he retreats to the couch once again. I steal a look as I walk past to clean up the blood in the bathroom, and he’s staring at the pee stick.

  I stop in my tracks when he holds up the test stick,
his gaze never wandering from the results before him.

  When he finally looks up, I know what that that test says. Maybe that’s why I got nauseous and threw up on the plane to Vegas. Maybe that’s why when I put that dress on for Kristi’s rehearsal dinner it was snug. Maybe that’s why the exhaustion overtook me at Kristi’s parents’ resort and I fell asleep, dead-assed tired.

  I am pregnant.

  I am pregnant with Vaughn Asher’s baby and there’s no way this psycho freak is going to let it live.

  Chapter Seven

  I STAND at the top of the landing, watching Conner make his way through the crowd of police and witnesses, and just as he opens the door to exit the building, a familiar dark-haired girl gets up in his face.

  She’s one angry chick. Her manicured finger is pointing, her sensible nurse shoe is tapping, and her electric pink scrubs make her very hard to ignore. Even for Conner, the master at indifference.

  He stands still for a moment as the girl says something, and then he turns and points straight at me.

  And that’s when I see her face.

  Bebe Chambers.

  She actually pushes Conner out of the way, almost mows down a uniformed police officer, and heads straight for the stairs.

  I look over at that asshole detective to see if he’s gonna stop her, but he’s sporting a smug smile. OK. Here we go. My very first in-person meeting with Bebe the BFF and it’s not gonna be pretty.

  “You,” she accuses me loudly. Loud enough to make people stop talking. “You are the reason she’s gone.”

  I walk down the stairs slowly and put on my movie-star smile. “Miss Chambers. It’s unfortunate that we have to meet under these circumstances—”

  “Oh, no,” she says, putting her hand up as I reach the bottom of the steps. She’s tall. A lot taller than Grace. And she’s seething. “You do not get to pretend like we are meeting under normal circumstances, Mr. Asher.” My name comes off like an insult. “My best friend was fine for ten years and you come along and rip her life apart in a matter of weeks. If something happens to her, I will—” And then her eyes well up and tears burst forth. “I’ll… I’ll make you pay somehow. If she’s hurt. If that freak has her again. If you did something to her and dumped her body—”