The Debt

by Sara Hubbard

  “Now the rest of it.”

  I meet his eyes now, implore him with a desperate look.

  He points to my chest.

  I scoff at him and choke back the rest of my tears. I won’t cry anymore. Not one single tear. I won’t give him the satisfaction. Hell, he probably gets off on it. Scaring a woman half his size. I unhook my bra and take off my panties. He holds out his hands and I toss them at him. With one hand barely covering one breast and the other covering between my legs I round my shoulders.

  “Are you happy now?” I ask him.

  “Let’s go.”

  “What? Where?”

  He glares at me before pointing to the bathroom. One step at a time, I amble to the broken door. I push it open and step inside. I hear the crinkle of the garbage bag behind me, and I look over my shoulder.

  He balls up my clothes and shoves them inside before tying off the bag.

  “Get in the shower,” he commands. He turns it on and waves me inside.

  I’ll admit I need and want a shower but not with him watching. “Are you just going to stand there and watch?” I say, unable to hide my humiliation and anger.

  “If you hadn’t broken the door, I might have closed the door and waited in the bedroom.”

  “I didn’t break the door. Your friend did.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Semantics. The door is broken because of you, so you might as well have broken it yourself.”

  I step in the cold shower and adjust the settings. I keep watching him from the corner of my eye. My clothes sit in the bag on the marble counter he’s leaned against. He crosses his legs and scrolls through something on his phone. He doesn’t even seem interested in my being naked in the shower. Did I misread the situation? Or maybe I’m too dirty for him to be interested. My face too swollen and bloodied. I smell of dirt and mildew and I’m sweaty from fighting with those men who abducted me.

  Slowly, I focus on the shower. The now warm water hits my body, and my muscles relax while my cuts and bruises sting from the spray. I keep looking at him, but he continues to ignore me, so I lather and wipe away the stain of last night. And I use my fingers to comb through the knots in my hair. I work quickly, not wanting to linger.

  When I turn off the shower, he looks up at me and reaches for a towel folded on the counter. He holds it out.

  Tentatively, I reach out and take it before wrapping it around me. My hair hangs down past my shoulders and reaches my breasts. It soaks the towel. I stay where I am. I don’t want to anger him, and he seems like he needs to be in command.

  “Are you going to wash them?” I ask.

  He blinks like he doesn’t understand.

  “My clothes?”

  “No. They need to be destroyed. They’re evidence,” he says simply.

  I furrow my brow at him. He didn’t want me for sex at all. While I feared the worst, he was simply removing all traces of my father and of last night. I want to snatch my clothes now and hold on to them and never let go. Without them, will there be anything left to point the police in the Morozova’s direction once they find my father’s body? If they find it.

  Emotion bubbles up inside of me, but I force myself to stay strong. “I thought…”

  “I know what you thought.” He pushes away from the counter and stands tall. After shoving his phone in his pocket, he says, “I told you last night. I have no interest in women who aren’t interested in me.”

  “Can I use the bathroom?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Without you watching me?”

  He considers that. “Two minutes. Leave the door open.” He raises one of his hands and sets an alarm on the watch on his wrist. “One minute and fifty-five. You better get started.” He saunters to the door.

  I do my business quickly. When I’m done, I wash my hands and sigh at the sight of my face. My face is more swollen than it was last night, and the bruises are bigger and a deeper shade of purple now. I don’t even look like myself anymore. I deflate at the imprint of long fingers around my neck wondering if they’re from the men who abducted me or from the man I once cared for. “Hold it together,” I tell myself quietly. “Hold it together.” If he really wanted me dead, I would be already. Despite him saying he’s never thought of me since our breakup, I hold on to the hope that it’s a lie. Because if he does care, somewhere deep down, maybe I can tap into that. Nurture it into something more. And maybe one day he’ll want to let me go. I’m not hopeful, though. He’s so cold to me right now. Maybe keeping me alive is what he says it is. A debt repayment. I saved him, so now he saves me. And then we’re even—at least, to him.

  I heave a breath and amble back to the bedroom. He’s by the French doors, looking out at the lake.

  “Thank you,” I tell him.

  He gives me a look. “For what?”

  “For giving me privacy.”

  He clears his throat and points to the dresser. There are clothes on top of it, folded and neatly piled. I tiptoe over to them and quickly dress in the T-shirt and leggings. They appear to be very close to my size, and I wonder where they came from, but not enough to ask. He didn’t bring me underwear but, honestly, I don’t care. I put them on quickly as he watches. They’re a little big on me but a definite improvement from my scrubs. I’m so glad to get those off. It was painful to see my father’s blood on them.

  “Can I ask you something?” I say.

  He shrugs.

  “You said my father killed someone. Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  I fidget with my hands. “How do I know for sure?”

  “There’s video. Would that convince you?”

  I shake my head emphatically.

  “Desperate people do desperate things.”

  “He was sick.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Because he’s a druggie?”

  “Don’t call him that.”

  “He was a criminal, like me. He didn’t hesitate when the woman at the shop refused to open the cabinet the watch was in. He shot her in the chest at point blank range. And when she was on the floor bleeding out, he pulled the key out of her pocket, stepped over her, and filled his bag with whatever he could fit inside.”

  I reach up and hold my head between my hands, imagining the situation. My heart is breaking all over again. I turn away from him, walk to the bed and then sit down slowly. I want to hate my father for what he did, but I can’t. Why can’t I? I hold a hand to my stomach as it rolls.

  He walks toward me as he pulls handcuffs from the pocket of his dark dress pants. I don’t fight with him as he attaches the cuff to the headboard. With my hands on my thighs, I wait. Only he stands over me, hesitating.

  “This surprises you?” he asks. “About your father?”

  I wipe away tears. “Yes. I never thought he was that far gone. I guess you can never really know someone.”

  I hold out my arm for him, and he shakes his head. He lets go of the other cuff meant for my wrist and it falls to hit the metal rung of the headboard. I eye him warily.

  “The windows are shatterproof. The house is alarmed. There is no getting in or out unless I allow it. Feel free to roam.”

  “You’re not afraid I’ll try to hurt you?”

  He grins wickedly. “No. But you can try.”

  “What am I supposed to do here?”

  He shrugs. “Whatever you like. You need anything, you tell me, and I’ll get it for you.”

  “A phone?”

  He slowly shakes his head. “No land lines. And in case you go looking for one, you won’t find one in any room in this house.”

  “Can I call my mother? I need to let her know I’m okay.”

  “I told you. The world needs to think you’re missing.”

  “Fine, let the world think that. But she doesn’t need to think it, too.”

  “No, she needs to believe it more than anyone else. Because if she believes it, so will my father. You understand?”

  “You really are trying to save me, aren�
��t you?” I whisper.

  He stares at me.

  “After I tried to kill you? After you tried to choke me?”

  “No one’s perfect. Least of all me.”

  “I don’t understand you,” I say, and I mean it. Yes, I suppose I can understand his need to help me after I saved his life, but it was my job to save him. And I didn’t do it alone. There were so many other nurses and doctors who helped. But saving me and keeping me here indefinitely so he doesn’t have to kill me? I don’t buy it. Which makes me question if he was being entirely truthful when he said he forgot all about me. I know I didn’t forget all about him. I couldn’t.

  “I have to leave. Yara will be around if you need anything. Don’t push her. She’s not as meek as she seems.”

  “Maxim?”

  He raises a single eyebrow.

  “What are you going to do with the video of my father?”

  “Burn it with your clothes.”

  I gently cup my sore wrist with the other, like the pressure eases some of the burn. “Can you do me a favor?”

  He frowns at this.

  “Can you tell me before you burn it. In case…in case I…”

  “I don’t think you’ll get the answers you’re looking for in that video.”

  “I’m not sure I’ll believe it unless I see it.”

  “One day.” He holds up a single finger, “That’s as long as I’ll wait. Understand?”

  I nod. There is a flash of something in his eyes then. He looks away quickly before starting for the door. His movements are slow, and before he exits, he glances back at me, just once. And that same look is still there.

  Chapter 6

  Maxim: “Welcome home,” Yara says as I enter my kitchen.

  “Something smells good.”

  “I made your favorite, cabbage pie.”

  Normally, I get home much later, and I’ll dig into the fridge and heat up whatever she’s left for me. Today, I decided to come home for a bit before meeting my dad later. I tell myself it’s to make sure Luna’s behaving, but I know that’s not the whole reason. As inconvenient as it is, I want to see her.

  I inhale the buttery scent of pastry, and my stomach comes alive. I already had something to eat late this afternoon, but now I wish I hadn’t.

  She slices the pie and puts it on a plate. Then she stares at me, spatula in hand, waiting for me to taste it.

  There’s no turning down food when it comes to Yara. No matter how full I am. I dig my fork in and put enough on it for a small bite. Steam rolls off of it and into my face. We had a lot of traditional Russian food in my home growing up because my father specifically hired staff who are from Russia. Eating it reminds me of my time as a boy in the kitchen with Yara doting on me and letting me help her cook.

  “It’s really good,” I tell her.

  She smiles wide. “Good. I’ll put some in the fridge for later and I’ll freeze the rest. I cook a lot today to try and get the girl to eat, but she won’t.”

  “She’ll eat when she’s hungry.”

  “You sound like your mother.”

  “You say that like it’s an insult,” I say.

  “Just an observation.”

  I lean over and squeeze the top of her arm so she knows I’m not offended. As much as I care for my mother, I don’t wish to be anything like her.

  “Did she give you any trouble?” I ask. After another couple of bites, the slice is completely gone. Here, I didn’t think I’d have room for a bite, let alone the entire plate.

  Yara shakes her head, but a deep V forms between her brows. “I don’t think she’s moved all day.”

  “She’ll adjust.”

  “To being kept as a prisoner?”

  I narrow my eyes. “Yara, don’t get involved. I mean it.”

  She holds up her hands. “Fine. It’s not my business.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  She huffs at me and turns away to the counter where she busies herself with collecting and loading dishes into the dishwasher. I have no interest in fighting with her or explaining myself. She should know by now that I never do anything without a good reason.

  “Her purse is on the living room table,” she says with her back to me. “There’s blood on it. I assume it’s hers, but just in case, I put it in a baggie. It’s on the table.” She points to the barn wood table six feet from the island. I didn’t make that table, but I collected the wood after tearing an old barn down from the property before I had this house built. I walk over to it and pick up the bag.

  “Can you make a plate for Luna?”

  “She won’t eat it.”

  “Please,” I add, my tone a little firmer.

  She sighs before nodding. Then she does as I ask, cutting a much larger piece of the pie than the one she cut for me. Before going to see Luna, I go into the hidden room behind my walk-in closet where I keep all my security equipment and monitors. I untie the bag of clothes I left here this morning and toss the baggie in it. Before I tie it back off, I hesitate. I reach back in and open the baggie, pulling her purse out. Inside, there’s some lipstick, a couple of hair ties, some receipts and her wallet. I pull the wallet out and am surprised to find a bunch of one-hundred-dollar bills in there. It amazes me that Trevor and Allan snatched her and didn’t go through her purse and steal her money. The compartments are full of cards. I pull each of them out, one at a time, until I get to her license. When I slide it out, a dried white rose petal comes with it. It waves as it falls until it connects with my desk. White roses. Huh. They were the only flowers I ever gave her. I frown at it. No. They’re not the same. She left me, after all. Why would she keep a souvenir from a man she rejected?

  Scoffing, I open the top drawer of my desk and put the petal in there. I don’t know why. I honestly don’t. Then I look at the picture on her licence. With the hits she took, it still wasn’t easy to forget how beautiful she is. This picture confirms the image of her I had in my mind. Her skin is so flawless. It’s like she was painted. A button nose, full lips and round cheek bones with big doe eyes. And those tiny baby hairs above her forehead.

  I shove the license in my pocket and set the wallet down with the bills. Then I turn on the monitors to see her in her room. There are cameras in every single room of the house except this one. All of them recording all of the time and then automatically deleting after twenty-four hours. She sits in the large chair in her room, her legs up and her arms hugging them. She looks hollow as she stares at the wall. Yuri thought she still had fight in her, and maybe that was true, but she doesn’t look it now. I feel a twinge of guilt, and it’s foreign to me. She deserves better than this. When she bats away a tear, the knife in my gut twists a little deeper.

  Fuck. I grab the plate and lock the door to the room before storming to hers. I intend to barge in and demand she eat, but as I raise my hand to the door handle, I hesitate. I don’t know what I want, but I know what I don’t, and what I don’t want right now is to fight with her.

  Gently, I tap on the door. She doesn’t respond, so I enter anyway. She doesn’t even look my way. When we dated, away from my world, I could be smooth and charming with her. I could pretend to be a good man who was worthy. I wanted her, and I knew I had to be that way to have her. It surprised me how easy it was for me to change when I was out of my normal environment. But now? It’s like I’ve forgotten how to act around her. Now, I have no choice but to be exactly what I am.

  I set the plate down on the small maple end table beside her chair. On the opposite side of the room there is an identical chair to hers. I drag it over the hardwood and stop when it’s facing hers but still a few feet away. Slowly, I lower myself into it. I have nothing to say so I say nothing. I just sit and stare at her, trying to look past those bruises and cuts to the woman underneath. She won’t meet my eyes, but I feel her looking at me from her peripheral.

  “Are you just going to sit there and stare?” she asks me a while later.

  “Yes, but only until you eat. Then I�
��ll leave you alone.”

  She clucks her tongue at me. Her disdain for me is written all over her face in the set of her narrowed eyes and the firm line of her lips. She perks up then and grabs the plate. Before she starts to eat, she stares at the plate for several minutes and pales. After a few bites, the only color left on her face is from her bruises.

  “Are you ill?” I ask her.

  “Don’t pretend to care.”

  Her cheeks pucker and her stomach rumbles loudly. She puts the plate down and runs for the toilet. Her retching fills the room as I stand and make my way to her. I slow and stop by the sink. When I was a child and I was sick, my mother would tap me on the back to console me, then she’d scream for Yara and walk away. Yara always came. She’d hold me, stroke my hair, and tell me everything would be okay. She responded this way because she cared for me. While I don’t know what I feel for Luna, I feel an overwhelming desire to help her, and it makes me uncomfortable.

  Luna moans as she flushes the toilet and raises her head. With a ball of toilet paper, she wipes her mouth clean and slumps against the wall.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I ask.

  She makes a face at me. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’ve been through hell the last couple of days.”

  “It’s stress then?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. If you’re so concerned, you could get me a doctor.”

  “Sure. And then I’d have to kill him after he’s treated you. Is that what you want?”

  She averts her eyes before shaking her head. “What happened to you?”

  I don’t have an answer for her that she could understand. Even if I did, I wouldn’t know how to say it. She was always good with words and expressing herself—well, up until the end. I think I liked that most about her. She was real.

  I lean back against the sink as she vomits again. The smell of bile hangs in the air, and I crinkle my nose. It’s difficult for me to see her suffer, but it would be even harder for me to offer to hold her hair or her hand—not that she’d let me. As I consider this, I hold my calloused hand up and somehow remember how it felt to have her hold my hand in the hospital. How soft, strong and reassuring it felt. It’s as real now as it was to me then.