by Sara Shepard
Boom.
The door to the bedroom flies open. I’m so surprised I back up against the headboard, the blood rushing to my ears. Alexis lets out a scream. A man with a ski mask over his face rushes toward us. “Don’t move,” he growls. All I can see are his wild, narrowed eyes.
“Don’t hurt us!” I whimper. I’m only half acting. Real fear shoots to my gut.
The man aims something black and blocky at us. A gun? I try to breathe. This is just part of the role-play, right? It can’t be real.
The man grabs Alexis’s purse, then mine, and dumps their contents on the bed. Lipsticks fly everywhere. Alexis’s phone hits the ground with a thud. We both beg for mercy, pleading for him not to hurt us. But as the man shifts, it’s clear he’s turned on. When he grabs me hard, it’s not to hurt me, but to ravage me. His hands travel up and down my body. His mouth, surrounded by the woolly mask, travels over my neck, the base of my throat. I don’t like it, but I try to get through it. It will all be worth it, I tell myself. Only a few more minutes.
The man turns to Alexis and kisses her, too, but he moves back to me within minutes. His kisses are unwelcome and pushy, all teeth and lips. Aggressively, he takes off my top and slides down my underwear. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the shiny wrapper of a condom. All at once, I’m naked in this dingy, empty room, facing a man in a ski mask. I glance at Alexis, hating that she’s witnessing this. I feel small. Undignified.
The man’s pants fall to a twisted heap on the floor. He grabs my hips, spins me around, and pushes our bodies together. I shut my eyes, trying to think of something pleasant and innocent. His thrusts are so forceful and rough that the crown of my head slams against the headboard. I accidentally bite down on my tongue and taste blood. I open my eyes for a moment and see my palms flat on the mattress, my boobs flopping, a big stain on the sheets. Revulsion ripples through me.
“Stop,” Alexis says suddenly.
He doesn’t listen. My head knocks into the headboard again. The lone picture hanging on the wall falls off its nail, clomping to the floor. It doesn’t even have glass over the image anymore, and the frame is plastic. I wonder how many other times it’s fallen because of this very reason.
“Stop!” Alexis growls. “Goddamn it, stop!”
The man turns sharply to her. I can smell sweat seeping from his skin.
“We’re done,” Alexis says.
“Huh?” he grunts. I look at her quizzically, too. He hasn’t taken off his mask. It would be better if the camera recorded his face.
But Alexis doesn’t seem to care. She crosses her arms over her chest. “This is weird. And it’s not worth it.”
“Alexis,” I murmur impatiently. And then, impulsively, I twist around, sit up, reach forward, and pull off his balaclava. The man flails, trying to grab it, but I whip it across the room. “There,” I say to Alexis. “Now tell him.”
The man frowns. He’s much better-looking than I would have expected. I feel like I’ve seen him before, too—though I don’t know where. “Tell me what?” he demands, making an ugly, surly, coitus interruptus face. His penis has gone limp. His chest heaves from exertion and excitement. “Tell me what?”
Alexis looks nervous, so I clear my throat. “We’re filming you. Everything’s on camera. And if you don’t want your wife to see—or anyone you work with—we’re going to have to negotiate.”
The man blinks hard like we’ve punched him. He wheels backward, covering his penis with his hands. “What the fuck?” he splutters, scrambling to pull on his underwear. Then he looks around the room. “Like hell you’re getting a video of me. Where are the cameras?”
I swallow hard. Alexis lowers her eyes. The man leaps off the bed and storms for her, flattening her against the wall. “Where are they? Where the fuck did you hide them?”
Why he’s taking this out on Alexis, I’m not sure, but in an instant, she’s flat on her back, and this stranger is over her, trapping her. His hands aren’t on her, but they could be on her in moments. His eyes are wide. His mouth is a straight, angry line.
“Tell me!” he pleads.
Terror spikes through me. I leap onto his back, pawing at his T-shirt. He whips around and he shoves me away—not that hard, but the effort surprises me. I tumble to the carpet.
He turns back to Alexis. “Tell me,” he says again. Alexis shakes her head stubbornly.
“Just tell him,” I urge. I’m afraid things are going to escalate. Maybe I should make a run for it.
But then I think of Greg Strasser. How he’d stepped back from me that night in his house, that beatific, pitying smile on his face. How he’d said softly, “You’re better than this.” It pisses me off that I’m thinking of him right now—it’s because of him that I’m in this mess in the first place. But I remember how inspired I’d felt. Someone finally believed in me. Someone had thought I transcended where I came from, how I acted, what I was.
You’re better than this.
I launch myself onto the man’s back once more, wrapping my arms around his neck and digging my fingers into his eye sockets. He lets out a squeal and rolls onto his side, and Alexis springs up. A sharp elbow to my ribs jolts me away, and when I open my eyes again, the man is coming for me.
His shoulders hunch. His face is flushed with blood. I back up into the corner—with nowhere to run. He advances toward me, hands on his hips. He’s at the end of his rope. He’s had enough.
35
LYNN
FRIDAY, MAY 5, 2017
It’s been a bitch of a drive. Puking up whatever my husband spiked my drink with certainly took the edge off, but I still feel blurry, and twice now I’ve steered the car into the opposite lane—thank God there isn’t any traffic. Part of me wonders if I’ve even followed the right vehicle, but then I see my husband pull up to a dark house only a few streets over from our own and get out. My vision wobbles. This must be Kit’s place. I’ve never been. It’s certainly grand enough, a typical Blue Hill craftsman made of old stone and slate and copper. The yard needs a cut, though. Then again, I’m sure landscaping isn’t at the top of Kit’s list.
I press my phone to my chest, grateful that I’ve remembered it in my languid stupor. I can’t quite feel my feet on the pavement as I walk up the driveway. Something suddenly stabs at me: My children are at home, alone. Am I nuts? Something could happen to them.
But then, perhaps Greg’s murderer is here.
I reach the front door and hesitate, not sure what to do. Ringing the doorbell seems ridiculous. I twist the knob, and, surprisingly, it opens easily. Idiots. Perhaps in the throes of passion, Kit forgot to lock it behind her.
Acid burns through my chest. I hate them.
The first floor of the house is so dark that I need the flashlight app on my phone to move forward. A thud rings out from somewhere above, and I freeze. But when I crane my neck upward, I’m so light-headed, I have to feel the wall for balance. A wave of nausea sweeps over me, and I stop and shut my eyes, gasping in breaths. You can do this. You have to power through this.
And then I hear the scream.
It’s a yelp—quick, surprised, scared. But it’s quickly subdued, almost like someone has clapped a hand over a mouth. The haziness shakes off me. It came from upstairs. Then I hear heavy thuds, the sounds of breath, and then a crash. Is it Patrick in there? Are he and Kit fighting?
Another thud sounds. A sharp crack, like bone hitting wood.
I start to shake.
To think I have any control over him. I’m such a fool.
My feet feel like blocks of cement as I haul myself up the stairs. I creak down the hallway, following the sounds. At the end of the hall is a closed door with a little strip of light peeking out from the bottom. My hands tremble as I tap my phone’s camera function, getting everything ready. I need to record this—maybe for more reasons than one. But what am I walking in on? What if Pat
rick turns his attention on me next? I know the same things Kit does, after all.
Maybe it’s the drugs in my system, maybe it’s the adrenaline coursing through my veins, but when I reach the door, I rap on it hard. The crashes inside continue. They haven’t heard me. So I jiggle the knob—it’s an old-fashioned crystal knob, probably original to the house. Locked. But I need to get in there. I hear another yelp. Another growl. Someone whispers, “No.”
I fumble for my wallet. I find an Amex in one of the front card slots and pull it out, the little hologram chip catching the orange overhead light. I push it into the door, wiggle it appropriately, and I hear the lock give and feel the doorknob turn. My nerves are crackling. I’m in. I push against the door quietly, but as soon as it’s open even an inch, the sound rushes at me like fire. Growling. Whimpering.
Shakily, I press the record button on my phone. I take a tentative step into the room, wrinkling my nose at a lacy red bra flung haphazardly against the baseboard. My foot kicks something else, too—something that looks like a black wool hat. I frown at it, something sparking in my memory. It’s not a hat but one of those face masks one uses in frigid winter weather so as not to get windburn. Patrick uses it when we go on ski trips in Colorado.
Why has Patrick brought a ski mask?
In the room, a lamp has been knocked to the ground, and light spills across the carpet. I see the mattress moving, but I don’t yet see bodies. I take another step but then realize my mistake—I’ve let the heavy door to the room go instead of carefully shutting it. It bangs shut noisily, the sound ricocheting off the thickly plastered walls.
The room goes silent. I take another step, my phone outstretched in front of me.
Then I see a figure. Two figures, actually—women, one of them in the bathroom, the other cowering against a wall. I blink hard, wondering if this is the drugs at work. But I don’t see Kit. I see a slight, beautiful redhead and a tall, broad-shouldered blonde. They see me, too. The shock rolls through all of us like wildfire.
Patrick leaps away from the corner, where he’s standing with one of the girls. “Lynn?” His pants are around his ankles, though he’s still got on his boxers. He blinks hard at me—not menacingly, exactly, but certainly shocked. “What the hell?”
“You drugged me,” I whisper. “Who are these people? Where’s Kit?”
Patrick’s eyes darken. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.
“Put on your fucking clothes!” I gesture at his bare legs. “What the hell are you doing? Who the hell are these girls? What’s with that mask?” I stab my finger at it. The empty eye and mouth holes look ghastly, ghoulish, on the floor. My skin is snapping. I’ve never been so disgusted and humiliated in my life. And still: Where is Kit?
Patrick yanks up his pants. Behind him, the girls are scrambling to get dressed, too. As they lean over, I see they’re both wearing thongs. I also notice that one of them is putting on an Aldrich University T-shirt. It’s then that I realize that I know who she is. She sat in the front pew at Greg Strasser’s funeral—with Kit’s daughter.
I glower at Patrick again. “Are these girls even legal?”
Patrick stands in front of them to block my view. “We can talk about this later.”
I roar with laughter. “I’m not going anywhere!” I notice that the girls have moved far away from Patrick, all the way to the opposite corner of the room. “Are you two all right?”
The girls have baby skin. Long baby eyelashes. They lower their eyes and nod mutely. Both of them look shaken but not beaten up. The blonde looks more pissed than anything else.
Patrick grunts. “They were trying to get money out of me,” Patrick snarls. “These bitches were trying to play me—us.”
The girls exchange guilty glances. The blonde breathes in. “We made a video. But I’m going to destroy it. I-I promise.”
A video? But before I can ask, the blonde scuttles over to the television. She reaches on top of the screen and pulls off a little device no bigger than a button. I can see that she’s about to drop it into her purse, so I clear my throat.
“Give it here,” I say, extending my palm. “If there’s anyone who’s going to screw Patrick over, it’s his wife.”
36
LAURA
FRIDAY, MAY 5, 2017
A sign above me flashes that a turnpike interchange is coming up and that I need to get my E-ZPass ready. I fumble for it in the glove compartment before closing my fingers around the hard plastic square. I place it on the dashboard and feel relief as the green light flashes, saying that it still works. The last thing I wanted was to have to slow down and fumble for change. I just want to keep moving.
My plans have changed. On the road, I suddenly had a change of heart: There’s no way I can go to my mother’s. Ollie would look there first, and then I run the risk of him hurting not just me but my parents as well. So I’m going to drive all the way to New Jersey. I have enough gas for that. From there, I’ll buy a plane ticket out of here. Ollie will see the charge on my credit card, but by that time, we’ll be long gone.
When I arrive, I’ll change my name. Freddie’s name. We’ll disappear. We need to disappear. I hate that I’m leaving behind my family, my job . . . but it’s the only way. The only thing that matters to me is Freddie. I glance at him in the rearview mirror, and my heart breaks. This is the right thing, I tell myself. Freddie will grow up without a father, but it’s better than being around someone who’s violent.
I’m sure Ollie killed Greg. I would have never believed it a few weeks ago . . . but then, there’s a lot I would have never believed a few weeks ago. Like the slap marks on my cheek. And those sharp, acidic words whispered in my ear. This isn’t the behavior of a rational man. It isn’t even the behavior of someone whose heart is broken. Ollie snapped. Maybe he’s always been this way and just hidden it well, I’m not sure—that’s something I’ll have to work through later. And while I wish I could tell the police what he did, it also doesn’t help that Ollie is revered at the station. No one will believe my story—or, at the very least, they’ll have to jump through all of the hoops in order to make a conviction stick. And in the time it takes them to do that, Ollie will have his way with me. I probably won’t live to see the end of it.
Rain spatters the windshield.
I don’t even notice the flashing blue and red lights behind me until they’re almost on my tail. At first, I move toward the shoulder, figuring the police car wants to pass me, but he keeps pace, the sirens still whirring. I stare at the gauges on the dashboard. Have I been speeding? Is a taillight out? This is not what I need right now.
Nervously, I pull over to the side of the road and stop the car. Freddie’s eyes pop open in the back seat, and he starts to whimper. “It’s okay, bubba,” I coo, rummaging in his diaper bag for a bottle, one of the few things I actually brought with me. I pop it into his mouth and hold it there—he’s not old enough to hold it on his own. I remain this way, cramped and twisted, as the police car doors open and two officers step out. Two? Is that some sort of new policy? Usually, when people are issued a ticket, they only send one guy . . .
A flashlight beam shines in my face. I roll down the window and offer a polite smile. “Hi, and I’m sorry,” I say preemptively. “I had no idea I was speeding, I guess because there’s no other traffic out here and I wasn’t paying attention—”
“Ma’am,” the officer in front interrupts. The glare from the flashlight obscures his face, but I know that he’s tall and broad, maybe even broader than my husband. “Can you step out of the car?”
I gesture toward the baby in the back seat. “B-But I’m giving him his bottle. He’ll start crying.”
The officer’s light moves toward the back window. When it shines on Freddie, I feel a surge of protectiveness. “We need you to step out of the car,” he repeats.
“Here’s my license and registration . . .”
>
“Ma’am,” the second officer orders. “Get out of the vehicle. Now.”
I release the bottle from Freddie’s lips. No surprise, he starts to wail. “It’s okay,” I tell him, a hard, solid ball suddenly clogging my throat. Then I unlock the door and step out. The night is cold, and the rain bites at my skin. The officers shine their lights up and down my body, taking in my pajama pants, my untied shoes, my tangled hair. I don’t like how long they’re looking at me. I don’t like how vulnerable I feel, standing on the shoulder.
“What’s this all about?” I ask shakily. “Can I get back to my baby now? He needs me.”
“Where are you headed just now, Mrs. Apatrea?” the second officer pipes up. Bossily. Angrily, almost. “The middle of the night, with your baby?”
“I . . .” I search their dark, shadowed faces. How do they know my name? I haven’t given them my information yet. “Why are you asking this? What did I do wrong?”
“We have a report of child endangerment, Mrs. Apatrea. Your husband has a report from a psychiatrist that you’re suffering some pretty serious postpartum depression and that you’re at risk to harm your child.”
“What?” I blurt.
“We need to get the baby back home,” the first officer says. He takes my wrist, and his big, broad body forms a shield around me, preventing me from running. “And you, too. You need help, Mrs. Apatrea. Your husband is very worried.”
My heart bangs in my chest. Your husband.
My head starts to spin. I’m afraid I might be sick. And Freddie, in the back seat, has reached a fever pitch. “Y-You can’t take me back there,” I whimper, the tears streaming down my face. “My husband hurt me! He’s dangerous!”
“Ma’am.” My eyes have adjusted now, and I can see their faces more clearly. They’re craggy, bland, generic, uncaring men, and as they look at me, I can tell they see only what they want to see—what Ollie has told them. The first guy puts his other hand on my shoulder, guiding me toward the waiting vehicle. “The only dangerous person here is you.”
