Profile (Social Media #5)

by J. A. Huss

  “Whoa, Bebe. You can’t really believe that I’d hurt her?”

  “I really can, Mr. Asher. I read that spread about you in that magazine. They paint a pretty convincing picture of a sociopath.”

  “Socio—” I can’t even say the word. “Look, Bebe. I love her. I realize we’ve had an unusual start to our relationship, and I understand that there are some very unique problems we have to work through. But you can’t really think I’d hurt her.”

  “Then where is she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Her entire Filthy Blue Bird account is gone from Twitter! Just gone! She was on there for years! And now it’s gone!”

  “Miss Chambers, is it?” That asshole detective appears by her side. “We’ve contacted the corporate office and we’re trying to retrieve her account, if that helps. We need to make sure there’s no more incriminating evidence against Mr. Asher before we allow it to be deleted. Come, have a seat over here and let’s try and piece together what might’ve happened.” Bebe is led off and takes a seat on the couch I slept on last night. I follow them, but the detective stops me with a hand. “You stay there. I’d like her opinion without your interference.”

  Interference? Now I’m interference?

  My phone buzzes in my pants and I pull it up. A text from Conner. Are you playing nice? Just hold tight, the lawyers are outside. I’m down the street with Felicity, she’s putting together a profile now.

  I text back, OK, and let it go with that.

  When I look back up from my phone, Bigmy is coming down the stairs. He motions for me to head to the back door with a tilt of his head, and then walks right past me.

  I look around, then follow him. We stop just before we get to the back door that leads to the alley and he scrubs his face with a large meaty hand. “Boss, Ray thinks the guy took her off the roof.”

  “Obviously, Big. Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “We found a pair of goggles on the rooftop of the adjacent building.”

  “Goggles?”

  He nods. “Invisible Man goggles.”

  Fuck. I look over my shoulder at the detective and then have a small wave of relief when the lawyers are ushered though the front door. “He really is trying to pin it on me. But—” I look back to Bigmy. “It’s absurd, right? I mean, this is like Scooby-Doo villains planting clues. Right?”

  “Mmmm.” The big man balks. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just a lot of circumstantial evidence that adds up to only one conclusion. You did something to her.”

  “I was on the fucking couch all night.”

  “You were the last one to see her.”

  “She’s not dead! She’s been kidnapped by that freak who took her ten years ago.”

  He shushes me with a hand. “I know that. Ray knows that. We all know that. But I’m just telling you, he’s setting you up. When a girl goes missing they always look at the boyfriend or husband first. You are their prime suspect and these clues he’s dropping will make it very difficult for the police to take our suspicions seriously.”

  “So they’re not gonna look for her?”

  “They’re gonna go with the most obvious choice and that’s you.”

  “How long do you think she’s been gone?”

  “All night and all morning. So twelve hours, I suppose.”

  “Did they look for her phone?”

  “We did,” the detective says from behind me. “And do you want to know where we found it, Mr. Asher?”

  From the tone of his voice, no. I’m pretty sure I do not want to know where they found it.

  “In a car parked two blocks over.”

  “OK. So whose car is it?”

  “Yours.”

  “It’s not my car. I don’t even live here.”

  “It’s a rental, taken out in your name last night.”

  I’m just about to open my mouth to protest when my lawyers walk up. They are all tall, large, and menacing-looking in their black suits and briefcases. “No more questions,” the oldest one says. I do not know his name. I don’t have much occasion to meet with them in person. I’ve never been arrested in my life. I’ve never even been to court for a speeding ticket.

  And then, before the detective can protest or make any more absurd accusations, they usher me out the back door of the building to a waiting car. “Get in, Mr. Asher. Don’t talk to anyone but your family. The car will take you to your brother and then we’ll regroup later.”

  I do as I’m told. I get into the car, alone, and then the door slams closed and the driver takes off.

  Ten minutes later I’m delivered to the underground parking garage of a hotel where Conner waits for me next to an open elevator.

  “I’m being set up.”

  “I know, V.”

  “Grace is really missing.”

  “Yes.”

  “Please tell me you’ve got something.”

  “I wish I could, but I don’t.”

  This is a moment I will never forget. I thought that night in Vegas last week was my low. When my future with Grace seemed to be in the hands of a power-hungry businessman who likes to play God. But that was nothing. Li had no real power over me. It was a stupid bet.

  But this. I shake my head and try and calm my nerves. This is real. He could hurt her. He could damage her psyche. He could kill her.

  “I need to find her, Conner. I can’t let him have her for another night. I need to find her today.”

  “We’re doing our best, V.” Conner waves me through the elevator doors and then he pushes a floor button and the doors close.

  It’s an ominous feeling to be inside this box right now. It makes me feel helpless. And trapped. For the first time in my life my status has little meaning. For the first time in my life my money has little meaning. For the first time in my life I realize life is meaningless without the person you want to share it with.

  The car takes us up to the tenth floor and we exit into a silent hallway. “We’re down here,” Conner says.

  I follow him down the hall, my gaze trained on the pattern in the carpet, my heart heavy with despair, and my mind racing with regrets. Regrets for leaving her alone last night. For not camping outside her door. Regrets for marrying her when I knew she was drinking. Regrets for using my power over her in Saint Thomas to conquer her sexually. Regret for not being there for the last few weeks.

  I might never get to set this right. I might never get a second chance. But if I do, I will make sure Grace Kinsella understands just how perfect and precious she really is. I will spend the rest of my life making her feel loved and safe.

  Chapter Eight

  “WE’LL have to take care of this.”

  I swallow hard, my mind racing. I need to stop him from whatever it is he’s got planned. I need to stop his murderous thoughts. “I don’t believe in abortion,” I try first.

  “I do,” he says back flatly. “I do. Especially when my wife was raped. Abortion is just and righteous when a woman is raped.”

  I try to see the traps he’s laying. He wants to insist I was raped. OK. That’s his reality and I’m not sure I can change that. And I probably need him to believe that so he will not accuse me of cheating. Because I’m pretty sure cheating is an offense worthy of retaliation.

  The last time I was his prisoner he let me know which acts of rebellion would earn me a beating. Sex was never discussed. But he talked a lot about what kind of clothes I could wear. He talked a lot about “asking for it” if I were to wear things that are too revealing.

  If leaving dirty dishes in the sink was punishable with a slap to the face, I’m pretty sure cheating would earn me a couple black eyes.

  I place the mop against the wall and step towards him. He stands up, a defensive position in case I get any crazy ideas. I have lots of crazy ideas in the plan, but I’m not about to rush ahead. I smile at him. “May I sit on the couch?”

  “Who said you could talk to me?” he snarls back. “You have not earned the privilege o
f speech yet.” His mood changes are still volatile, I sneer to myself. But I keep all that safely tucked away. I nod and take a deep breath and then stand silently.

  After several minutes of me standing obediently and wordless, he says, “Come sit here,” and points to the space on the couch next to him.

  The thought of being so near him revolts me, but if I want any chance of saving myself from a forced home abortion, I need to win him over. So I step cautiously towards him, ease my way around the coffee table, and sit down. My heart is racing so fast I’m sure he can hear it.

  His hand slips to my leg and I swallow back the bile his touch stirs in my stomach. He rubs it and I wince. “I want you to have my baby, Daisy. Not his. So it will be for the best.”

  Oh, God. I’m so repulsed. I nod and then chance a look up at his masked face.

  “Do you like this mask?” he asks. His eyes dart back and forth, clearly nervous about the question.

  I decide to be honest. “No.”

  “Why?” he asks quickly.

  “Because I want to see your face for once. I want to know who you are.”

  “Does it matter?”

  Does it matter? Jesus fucking Christ. “No,” I force myself to say. “No. I’m here, I’m yours. So it doesn’t matter.”

  “Do you wonder if I’m handsome?”

  No. “Yes.”

  “Touch me.”

  No. This time I have no fake comeback answer, either. Touch him? Please, God. Do not make me touch him.

  “Touch me,” he says again, taking my hand in his. They are cold and damp. Clammy. And large enough to cover mine completely.

  My breath hitches as he lifts my hand and I pull it back, but his grip is tight. He raises it to his face and places my clenched fist against his masked cheek. “Touch me.”

  I swallow hard, my eyes downcast. I open my fist and flatten my palm against the ragged bandages of his mask.

  “This isn’t you,” I say, trying to keep the communication open. If I lose this battle… if I can’t convince him of what I’m about to say… then I might as well be dead. Because I refuse to live if this man kills the life inside me. “This isn’t you,” I repeat. “I want to feel your… cheek. See your face. You have seen mine.” I try to reason with him. “You’ve seen mine, so let me see yours.”

  His hand covers my hand again. His eyes stare into mine. “You won’t like me if you see me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’m ugly.”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. Does this man really expect me to soothe his ego as he holds me captive and threatens to kill my unborn child? “You’re a good man who loves and cares for me.” I recite my lines perfected a decade ago. His sick, perverted fantasy with me includes this twisted ego-stroking. “And this child… this child can be ours. We could start our family right now. Today. If I had an abortion”—my throat constricts just saying that word—“then…” I let out a long breath and gulp up another one. “Then it would take months for us to start again.”

  My trembling hand is still resting on his cheek, covered by his clammy one. I twist my palm and grasp his hand, and then bring it down. I close my eyes with revulsion as I place it over my belly. “This is your baby now,” I tell him. “This is our baby now.”

  He sighs and I look up at his face in time to see his eyes close.

  Yes, Grace. You have him now. Don’t stop, keep going.

  “We could raise this child together. I imagine you coming to the doctor with me to hear the heartbeat.”

  In my mind, in order to counteract the vision I’m feeding him, I picture Vaughn at my side. I picture his face when we hear the heartbeat together. And even though I don’t know what he will think of all this if I get out of here alive and my baby is unharmed, in my fantasy, Vaughn is proud and excited.

  “You would take care of me. And make sure I ate right.”

  I picture Vaughn and I shopping at some absurdly expensive organic food store. I see him checking labels for all-natural ingredients and vitamins.

  “You would insist that I not work too hard and get enough sleep.”

  I see Vaughn rubbing my swollen feet and plumping up my pillows as we lounge in bed on the weekends.

  And then I have a flash from that night we got drunk in Vegas. Vaughn and me, sitting in that restaurant. Him talking about stuff with me. His fantasy life as a normal father. A shitload of kids, he’d said. Cherishing painted macaroni gifts from his three-year-old. Jumping in puddles, and letting them rebel with bad grades. Watching track meets in the rain and coaching football and school plays.

  A sob escapes before I can stop it.

  “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” His hand jerks away from mine and grips me tightly by the upper arm.

  “No!”

  He shakes me hard. “Don’t lie to me, you whore! You cheated on me! You got pregnant with another man’s child and now you want me to raise this bastard as my own?”

  “Please.” I struggle to get out of his grip. I can feel the bruise forming underneath his hand.

  He pulls me up and heads for the bedroom, pulling me behind him. I trip over the end of the coffee table and go down to the floor, but he never stops. He drags me the rest of the way. And when we get to the closet he kicks me in the side until I roll over and scurry into my prison. I crab-walk backwards until I’m pressed up against the back wall. He grabs my foot and reaches around the floor until he finds the shackles. It clamps down on my ankle with a tightness that tells me these are the same ones he used when I was a teenager. And they are too small. My skin rips and the warm blood pours out as he fastens the lock.

  One more kick—this time it catches me in the shoulder—and then the door is slammed closed and the darkness takes over.

  “You think I’m stupid,” he seethes from the other side of the door. “You think I want a child you made with another man? So you can fantasize about how he fucked you? So you can replace your reality with me with your fantasy of him?” He kicks the door so hard I hear wood splinter.

  It goes silent on the other side but I know he’s still there. His shadow falls across the sliver of light that seeps in under the door and he waits.

  My heart is pounding. The blood is rising to my head, making me dizzy. And I’m falling over when I hear his parting words as he walks off.

  “That baby will be gone by tonight.”

  Chapter Nine

  FELICITY is hunched over a table on the far side of the hotel room. It’s set up with five computers. One is the laptop from Tray, the others are all hers from home. She looks over her shoulder at me and gives me a weak smile. “How are you holding up?”

  I cross the room and take a seat on the corner of the bed near the window. “I have a really bad feeling about things, Felicity. Really bad.”

  Her cheeks puff out as she exhales some air, and then she turns so she can face me. “Vaughn… look… I’m really not an expert in this stuff yet. I’m still a student. But in cases like this, cases that point to a psychologically disturbed individual, there’s only a few ways they ever play out. And even though he let Grace live the first time, there’s no guarantee that he will follow the same course of action now.”

  I just stare at Felicity, angry at her for telling me this, but knowing everything she says is true. “We need to find her today. There has to be some clue, some signal that will tell us who he is.”

  “I’ve started the search with the hospital she was dropped off at in Nebraska.” Felicity points to a map on one of her screens. “I think there’s a high probability that he’s returned to that house he first kept her at. He was never caught and it was a place he probably felt safe and comfortable taking her to. It’s isolated, obviously. Since this time people would be looking for her right away. The hospital in Nebraska is not that far from here, relatively speaking. Probably within eight hours or so, because he most likely had to drug her to take her captive. Drugs wear off, so he wouldn’t want to chance her waking up
while they were driving.”

  Felicity continues and even though all of this should make me feel despair, it has the opposite effect. She knows what she’s doing. She’s double-majoring in psychology and criminal justice. This stuff is her life at the moment. She’s been listening to the experts in this field lecture on things like this for years. If anyone can find my Grace, it will be Felicity.

  “… might even be someone you know.”

  “What?”

  “We have to consider it, V,” Conner says. “Whoever took her was inside the theater for your IM2 premiere. He might be someone you know.”

  “But how would he make that connection? We only just met a few weeks ago.”

  “Grace has been Twitter-stalking you for years, Vaughn. So it’s only logical that this sicko has been Twitter-stalking her.”

  “He deleted her account, I know he did.”

  “It’s almost guaranteed he deleted her account,” Felicity says. “But maybe we can use that to our advantage. Maybe we can use her social media connections to figure out where she is. Like Facebook, for instance. Is she on Facebook?”

  “I don’t know. But we have two private Twitter accounts that I set up when we first met.”

  Felicity grabs one of her laptops and hands it to me. “Log in and leave her a message. She might try to access that account and if she does, we need to give her instructions on what to do.”

  I take the laptop from Felicity and walk over to the other side of the table and take a set. Please, God, I say a little prayer in my head. Please, God, let me find Grace alive. I take a deep breath and log in, hoping that there is some message for me that will lead the way.

  I practically hold my breath as the @mrinvsman account comes up.

  “Nothing.” I sigh and Felicity looks at me over her screen.

  “We’re gonna find her. Leave her a message so she knows we’re looking. Give her hope.”

  “Right. Hope.” Grace is afraid of hope because she’s afraid of losing, so how do I hand her that in one hundred and forty characters?