I should have locked the door, but I didn’t. Instead, I sat on my armchair, lost in thought, attempting to read Pride and Prejudice. It was after I realized that I had reread the same sentence five times that I threw the book down in disgust. I couldn’t concentrate, and I stared at the floor for a minute, trying to figure out what to do.
It was then that I remembered something.
When my father had moved me into this suite (I had previously lived in adjoining rooms, which were connected to the east end of my library, with Miss Marilyn), he had taken me to a small door in the back of it. “Anabel,” he had announced, “I need you to listen to me.”
I, of course, was still mad at him for taking away my only friend, so I stared at him in my most defiant way.
“Even though I believe we are safe here, we must allow for the possibility that something could happen to endanger our lives. We live on an island full of convicts, after all.”
“Mm,” I acknowledged.
“For that reason,” he continued, “it never hurts to take some precautions.”
“Uh huh.”
“Anabel, focus,” he snapped. Jonathan flung open the door, and I let out a gasp.
There were monitors in that room, monitors that showed all of the main areas of Caereon. The view from the top of the piazza, the dining room, the front entryway, and all of the sitting rooms. I’d say there were at least fifteen monitors. “If the occasion ever arises that you need to know what’s going on, this will be your entryway.” He paused. “I suggest you do not mention this to anyone.”
“How can I?” I snapped. “It’s not like I have anyone to talk to.”
“Anabel, I know you don’t understand this, but it’s for the best.”
“I don’t want to talk about this with you anymore,” I warned. “All we will wind up doing is yelling at each other, and I don’t have time for that.”
That memory propelled me to the back room to spy on Jared and Jonathan’s conversation.
I focused on the screen that held my father and Jared. Neither of them looked pleased to be there. Jared’s tie had come loose; his top shirt button was undone and the suit jacket that he had been wearing at dinner was slung over the back of his seat. His face looked redder than normal; it was with annoyance and revulsion that I realized he and my father had been drinking.
At that point I wondered if my father had told me what room they were in on purpose so I would watch it. I’m pretty sure Jared would not have wanted me to hear what transpired.
First off, it’s important for you to know that my father can hold his liquor. I’ve seen him drink glass after glass of whiskey; it doesn’t faze him. He was a connoisseur of the spirit: he had a liquor cabinet that housed bottle after bottle of the amber liquid. Having never tried it, I personally cannot tell you a thing about the taste, but I can tell you that Jonathan preferred single malt. He had at least one glass every night after dinner. Focusing the screen, I saw that he had a bottle of what looked like Belvenie on the table. He was sitting on one side, Jared on the other. Quickly calculating the amount of time that had elapsed since dinner, I figured that Jonathan had consumed at least two glasses, and was working on his third.
Jared took a long sip out of his and put it down on the desk with gusto. I thought he looked like he should have stopped after that, but Jonathan refilled his glass.
“So you know, Mr. Sorensen, why I chose the Belvenie for us this evening?”
“Can’t imagine,” Jared slurred.
“Because, Mr. Sorensen,” my father continued in a velvety voice, “it goes down very easy, and I wanted to make sure that you were not in complete control of your faculties before I spoke with you this evening.” He topped off Jared’s glass. “Let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we?”
“I don’t understand what that even means,” Jared muttered.
“It means we need to discuss why you’re here.” Jonathan leaned over. “At first I thought you were here to respond to some complaints that I know one of my senior officers has lodged about the treatment of the inmates here. However, when we showed you the prison the only thing you seemed interested in was looking down the front of my daughter’s dress, so I concluded that was not the issue.”
“I wasn’t—it was her,” Jared attempted to protest. “She was—throwing—herself at me.”
“Be that as it may, I expect you to control yourself around my teenaged daughter.” Jonathan took another sip.
“Sh—she’s almost twenty,” pronounced Jared, nearly sounding proud of himself.
“Indeed,” sniffed my father. “The point being, Mr. Sorensen, it was with a growing annoyance that I realized that you were sent here to monitor her. I hadn’t thought Sam would stoop that low, but here it is.” He sat back. “What I don’t think my stepson will like, however, is how much hands-on monitoring you have been doing.”
Jared groaned. “Cut the crap, Martin. I know you already sent Charlie to try and talk me out of getting her off the island, but let me,” he paused, “let me tell you something, Jonathan Martin. I’m going to tell Sam everything.”
“Everything?” My father’s eyebrows went up. “Including the fact that you were, as one of the inmates so graciously put it, swapping spit with my daughter on top of the piazza?”
“Now wait just a minute,” Jared went a bit cross-eyed. Some dashing hero, I thought. Can’t even hold his drink.
“What I am saying, Mr. Sorensen, is that I highly suspect that my stepson will not be pleased with your recent actions, and I would like to offer you a deal,” he proposed. I leaned forward with interest.
“What?” Jared asked, sitting up and taking another swig of whiskey.
“I think we can work out an arrangement, the two of us. We’re both men, aren’t we?” Jonathan swirled his glass in a manner I knew to be dangerous. Jared stared at him. I didn’t like where this was going.
“I know that Anabel is nothing to you. You were just looking for a bit of fun with her, weren’t you?” Jonathan asked.
Jared looked like he was about to disagree, but then nodded.
I fell back in my chair, feeling my heart deflate.
“I understand, Jared,” my father continued. “I remember what it was like to be young, and a pretty girl catches your eye . . . it’s nothing more than a little attraction, that’s all. And why not? You’re a good-looking man.”
Jared was hanging on my father’s every word. My disgust was rising.
“The problem, my friend, the problem . . .” That was the moment that my father’s eyes narrowed and he scowled across the table at Jared. “The p-problem is that it was my d-daughter you were toying with, and now there are consequences!”
A smile spread across Jared’s face. “You’re just scared I’ll take her away, aren’t you, Jonathan?”
“YOU WILL N-NOT TAKE HER ANYWHERE!” Jonathan roared. “What makes you think that Sam will believe your word over mine, Sorensen?”
“Because he knows you’re a nutter,” proclaimed Jared.
“Ah, but despite that, if I show Sam pictures of you sexually harassing my daughter—”
“For the record, SHE sexually harassed me!”
“Do you really think Sam is going to believe that, given your reputation?” Jonathan asked, his voice low and dangerous.
Jared sat back in his chair.
I had seen enough. I turned off the monitor and went back into my room.
He couldn’t stand up to my father.
Nobody could. I don’t know why I thought Jared would be any different.
I was defeated. My father would have his way, of course. It had been silly of me to think that anyone could do anything for me. I was alone. I had always been alone. .
Which was Jonathan’s fault.
“Why is he so obsessed with me?” I wondered out loud. But even as I said it, I knew why.
He hadn’t been able to control my mother. And Jonathan hated not being in charge, as manifested by the way Caereon was
run. Every detail of the operation was meticulously accounted for . . . but he hadn’t been able to do that with Cassidy. So he was refocusing his energies on controlling me. The fact that I looked a lot like her didn’t help. Still, I meditated, he wasn’t always terrible. In all fairness, he could be tender to me and quite generous when he chose. I always had lovely birthday gifts. He knew my tastes when it came to books—and clothes for that matter—and had always ordered beautiful things that had been delivered to us from the mainland. But this was just another way of manipulating me. Want to keep Anabel indoors and away from the inmates? Buy her The Lord of the Rings. Buy her Jane Austen. With the accompanying movies, of course. I owned all five hours of Pride and Prejudice with Colin Firth and had watched it many times. And the clothes! Gorgeous pieces. I loved dresses. I could spend hours in front of my mirror with my wardrobe alone.
And so, I lamented, I had spent day after day, hour after hour, reading this, watching that, studying this, wearing that . . . I sighed. If I had been smarter, I would have realized this before. He had trapped me, and I really hadn’t put up a fight.
“But why is that?” I murmured aloud. Oh, who was I kidding? I knew the answer to that, too. It was because I liked my possessions. I liked them a lot. If I were to leave, it would be sort of ridiculous to pack up my library. Books were heavy, and it would cost all sorts of money—money that I did not have—to ship them anywhere. We only got supplies from the mainland three to four times a year, after all, because of the high costs. We were self-sufficient otherwise. Some of the convicts worked the land, and we also had a small meat plant.
Possessions couldn’t make me happy, though. I longed for friendship. I longed for any sort of relationship, really. Maybe even a dog. Perhaps, I thought, resigning myself to the idea that Jonathan wasn’t going to let me go, I could get a dog. He wouldn’t deny me that, would he?
But staying here—well that meant a lot of things, really. It meant only spending a week or two out of the year with my brother, and our situation dictated that we didn’t get to spend any time together in private. He always had Secret Service with him, for one thing; for another, Jonathan did not like it when we talked. Perhaps because Sam always talked about taking me away from the island.
It also meant no Jared. Not that I had even presumed that he would be a part of my life, but we may have seen each other. If I had made the decision to stay in Washington, and he was still working for my brother, the chances were there that our paths would cross. I hated liking him, I really did. No good could come of it, especially if my father had won him over. How could Jared have such a lack of strength of character?
I stood up and tossed my robe aside. I walked over to my desk and sat down, flipping open my laptop. As it booted up, I contemplated what I had decided to do. It was a bit sketchy, but there was a reason everyone thought so poorly of Jared, wasn’t there?
So I plugged his name into Google.
Before, I had only read one or two things about Jared. This time, I looked at all the websites that came up with renewed interest. There was an article which told the story of a married woman who he purportedly had an affair with, whose husband confronted Jared in a restaurant. Apparently they came to blows. All these women. Gorgeous women. They came to life on the screen before me: vivacious redheads, blonde bombshells . . . apparently brunettes were not his style, I thought, tugging at my own chocolate locks. Shaking my head, I began to read more and more suspect articles: more lists of women he had gone through, a minor banking scandal that looked like it had been hushed up, shady deals he had been entangled with that had my brother standing up for him. When he had said he did side jobs, it had never occurred to me that it might be something not quite right. Perhaps Jared was doing dirty work for Sam—but I tossed that thought out the window. In my mind, my brother was perfect, and I could not countenance the idea that Sam would be involved in anything that fell in the “shades of gray” area. Still, I mused, he did have Jared on staff for a reason .
And why, exactly, was Jared here, dealing with me?
My discomfort mounted. Maybe I was a “shady deal”. Maybe I was something that Sam wanted kept quiet. That would explain Jared’s involvement, I thought, and that made me uneasy.
I picked up my phone, but then stopped. I should probably let Sam get a good night’s sleep for once.
Throwing it down in frustration, I climbed onto my bed and tucked my knees under my chin. So much was swirling through my brain at the moment. I felt numb. My heart was hurting me.
Oh, come on, Anabel, I thought. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. This is ridiculous.
“Today,” I proclaimed aloud, “is the first day of the rest of my life.” I was not going to be lost in a sea of self-pity anymore. All I had to do was act calm, and that would convince Sam I had not gone all crazy. I would just prove to him that I needed to leave. If that did not work, then I had less than a year and a half to tough it out until I could get my hands on Cassidy’s money. Then, if I had to, I would charter myself a yacht and get the heck off of the island. Really, I thought, straightening, squaring my shoulders, I did not need anyone but myself to get out of here.
That thought empowered me. I had not been all whiny until Jared came to the island. He was the one who brought on my self-doubt. I did not need him. I took a deep breath and smiled.
That was when my introspection was interrupted by a wild pounding at my door. “ANABEL! AN-A-BEL!”
In my haste, I didn’t even bother throwing on my robe. I flung open the door and came face to face with Jared. Sweaty, red-faced, completely inebriated Jared.
“What are you doing here?” I hissed, letting him in lest my father see him.
“Anabel, I need—I need to talk to you,” he panted. He leaned over onto my bed.
I stood staring at him, unimpressed. “I don’t have anything to say to you.”
He stared at me. “Your nightgown . . .”
. . . Was definitely not the sort of thing I should be wearing around him. I reached for my robe, but he stopped me. “No,” he said, “I like it.”
“I don’t want you to like it.” I was growing angry. Something about this did not feel right. “I need you to go now, please.”
“Anabel,” he whispered, his voice intense. “Anabel come here, I need to tell you something.”
I was growing more and more uneasy, but I came and stood close to him.
He was about two inches taller than me, so I had to look up to see his eyes. He looked so serious, despite his feverish face. We were inches away from each other, and he started to put his arms around me. He drew me close to him, and briefly I thought about how earlier I had longed for him to do this, longed for him to sweep me into an embrace, but this . . . this did not feel right. It felt very improper when he firmly planted one hand on the small of my back, and one arm around my neck, drawing me into a kiss. I could taste the whiskey on his breath, and I drew back, repulsed. But he continued to kiss me, at first gently, searching, and then harder. And harder, and I tried to pull apart from him. Then he seized me, and the look in his eyes scared me. “Let me go, please let me go,” I begged, panicking, but he was intent upon me, and then I realized what was about to happen.
And then it was over, and I felt a strange warmth on my leg as he pulled away from me, and calling me “Natasha,” he passed out on the floor. I pulled myself up, unsteady. Then I looked down, and I was shocked to see that blood was streaming down my leg, on my nightgown, and onto my rug.
I had said no. I had said it over and over. I had screamed, even though I had known that no one would ever come to rescue me. I had flailed and tried to pull myself away. In the end, I had been overpowered. Shaking, I looked down at my wrists and noticed bruises were starting to form on them, and on my arms. Something inside of me felt bruised and broken, as well.
I sat there, frozen to the spot, for a long time. I felt like I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe. Words would begin to form at my lips, and then disappear. Tear
s would form in my eyes, but they wouldn’t fall. I could not think; I could not feel. My mind was reeling and my heart was pounding and the only thought that was going through my mind was that I had lost my virginity—it had been stolen from me.
And I could never get it back.
I don’t know how long I sat there. I began tugging at my hair. Pulling at it. I tucked my knees under my chin and started to rock myself. My hair fell around me. I closed my eyes and thought this is just a nightmare, it did not happen, when I wake up it will all go away, oh please, oh please go away, please.
Then he stirred. He looked at me, blinking. “Anabel?”
I stared at him, unable to say anything, incredulous that he would even presume to speak to me.
His eyes wandered to the stain on the rug. “Oh no,” he said.
I found my voice. “I really need you to go now,” I croaked.
“Anabel, I—”
“Get. Out. Now,” I ordered.
“How did this happen?” he whispered. He took in my mussed hair, my cowering position, and he realized. “I hurt you. Oh Anabel, I hurt you, honey, I’m so sorry—”
I looked at him, unable to believe my ears. “Do not call me honey. Do not pretend like you care. Just get out. Now.”
“You must know I never—that is, I—I don’t know how this happened.” He kept tripping over his words. It was all an act, I knew, which made me burn with rage.
“You don’t know how this happened? Are you kidding me? You burst into my bedroom completely drunk and you force yourself up on me, and YOU DON’T KNOW HOW THIS HAPPENED?” I screeched.
He looked at me, abashed.
“You don’t even care about me.” My voice broke on the end, and I took a deep breath. “I heard you tell Jonathan that you don’t. So why would you do this?”
Again, Jared didn’t have a response for me.
“Get out now, or I will tell my father.” It was the best threat I could come up with, and it was a good one, too—I saw the color drain from Jared’s face. “You have until the count of three,” I warned, sounding much braver than I felt.
Anabel Unraveled Page 15
