“Good girl.” He stood. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“The basement.”
She wanted to scream.
2
The cellar had looked the same since the day they’d moved in. To the right of the staircase were piles of boxes that the movers had left months ago for them to sort. They kept telling themselves they needed to get that done, but always found something different to do with their weekends instead. To the left was open space where Evan had assembled a weight bench beside the water heater. The same old set of dumbbells he’d ignored in their apartment sat on the pad next to the bench, gathering dust.
The normality of it all was unsettling. Where was the dream logic that made cellar staircases lead to city parks or fold over on themselves, so she never went down, but always emerged back at the top in the same hallway she’d left? She needed it to be a dream. If the cellar transformed into a forest, she could pretend she wasn’t marching down to her death ahead of a man with a gun. But she was aware of the ache in her ankle and stomach and face, her hand gripping the rail so she wouldn’t fall and break her neck if her wounded ankle gave out. Huh. There was a man behind her with a gun, and she was worried about falling down a few stairs.
She was still in her comfies and barefoot and smelled like lavender soap and tea tree oil shampoo. Everything was bright and clear and not at all a dream. It had no goddamned business being that way.
The man jabbed her back with his pistol when she hesitated at the bottom of the stairs. She didn’t know which way he wanted her to go. He grunted and shoved her to the left toward the weight bench. For a second, she wondered whether she could reach a dumbbell and swing it at him before he could shoot her. But if she lurched ahead a step, maybe two, he’d pull the trigger and his bullet would rip through her like paper before she had the chance to reach for a weapon.
She stopped in the center of the space and turned hesitantly, peeking at him through a flinch. He stared at her with a look of . . . She wasn’t sure what it was a look of. Despite the long red scratches down the left side of his face, the man appeared calm. It was a far more frightening look than if he’d worn an expression of rage or contempt. He’d beaten her up and threatened to kill her—he was still threatening her—and it didn’t seem to bother him. His face made her think of a clown, but with no makeup, no fake smile painted on. The real look of vicious indifference underneath. The reason people thought clowns were frightening. And she was frightened.
She couldn’t bring herself to face him squarely. Her body wanted to be small and not to present him with a full target. The urge to try to slip behind the water heater or the furnace for cover and comfort was overwhelming. Something big and metal that might stop bullets. That could block his gaze. She stood still instead.
A hot swell of anger at her husband rose in her belly. The part of her mind that was panicked and angry said it was his fault the man was in their house. Evan had gone out to get whatever the fuck it was he needed from the store and left the goddamned door unlocked. The man—the intruder—had been watching—watched him leave—and, while she was in the shower, walked right in like he lived there.
Leaving doors unlocked was what normal people did, though. Normal people who left to run short errands didn’t lock their doors, because it was morning and someone was home and who thinks that anyone would ever break into a house in the morning? No one, that’s who. I’ll just be gone a minute. No need to lock up or even take my phone. Except, we’re far from normal people. No. No one is to blame but this man.
She thought about what happened to people whose houses were invaded. You’re going to die. He’s going to kill you because that’s what men who break into other people’s homes do. They murder them. He’ll wait for Evan to come home and . . .
She didn’t want to think of “and.” But it stayed there, haunting her, existing at the edges of her mind, just out of reach.
The man nodded behind her. “Take a seat.” When she didn’t look where he was motioning, he did it again, exhibiting less patience. His brow furrowed. But she didn’t want to take her eyes off of him, the danger in the room. The man motioned at her with his gun and repeated his command. “Sit.” She glanced over her shoulder. Behind her were their spare dining chairs, side by side like a pair of IKEA tombstones. Sitting was the beginning of the end—a kind of giving up of the ability to run away or fight back. Sitting was surrender. She didn’t move. He jerked the gun again and shouted, “Get in the fucking chair!”
She flinched. His voice echoed off the concrete walls. In their old place, if Evan played his music too loudly or they got too boisterous while friends were over, the neighbors were right there pounding on the door, demanding they keep it down. Here, theirs was the last house on the road before state forest land, and the only neighbors were out of town. The isolation settled on her shoulders like a weight. Not even a gunshot would draw anyone’s attention. That was what they’d paid for—solitude.
With effort, she did as he commanded and took a step toward the chair. The first was almost impossible. The second was difficult. And then after a third, she was more than halfway there. Another two steps and she stood in front of a seat one of their friends had sat in only a few weeks ago at their housewarming, drinking and laughing while Evan played music on the record player and she told stories about her experiences in the funeral home.
“Sit.” He gave the command like she was a dog. Sit. Beg! She did as she was told. “Don’t try anything,” he said as he picked up a roll of tape from the shelf beside him and stepped toward her. That’s not where Evan keeps the tape, she thought, alarmed.
Nelle’s hands rose into a defensive posture on their own, as if they might escape without her. “Hands down,” he told her. They stayed up. He barked his command again, and she had to force them into her lap.
“Don’t hurt me.”
“Don’t make me hurt you. Now, give me your right arm. I won’t ask twice.”
She straightened her right arm. He grabbed it and pulled it back. Her shoulder popped, and she gasped at the pain. He snorted as if it was a personal failing to complain about being tied up. Fresh tears spilled out of her eyes as she felt him wrap the tape tightly around her wrist. The sharp corner of the chair leg bit into her skin as he secured her to it.
“Other arm.”
She surrendered her other arm, giving up her last chance at freedom. Without her arms, the best she could do was kick at him, and she knew her ankles were next. As expected, he moved to her legs before binding her around the stomach, over her arms, and around the back of the chair. He stood and moved around in front of her, surveying his work.
The strip of tape tightly wound around her midsection made it hard to breathe. The irrational part of her was self-conscious because she wasn’t wearing a bra. He stared at her, his gaze resting on her breasts before moving up to her eyes. She wanted to stab his out. There were so many things she wanted in that moment; a bra was the least of them. His eyes had that too-familiar look behind them. To him, she wasn’t any more than an assemblage of parts. Tits and ass and cunt. Some bits worth more than others.
“Who are you? What do you want?” she asked. Her mouth was dry, her tongue felt foreign.
The man looked around for a moment and then walked past her to the washer and dryer. Nelle tried to turn her head to see what he was doing, but he’d bound her too tightly to the chair, so she couldn’t crane far enough around to see. She heard the sound of the dryer door cracking open and then the low flump of her clean clothes flopping softly on the dirty floor. He reappeared behind her and stuffed something in her mouth. She shook her head, but he held her by the jaw and forced it in anyway, his fingers big and hard enough she was scared he’d break her teeth. He stuffed it in until she gagged, and before she could spit it out, he pulled another length of tape off the roll and stuck it over her lips and cheeks.
She began to breathe through her nose quickly, panicking. Though her nostrils were uncover
ed, the sensation of having her mouth taped shut felt like suffocating. She grew light-headed. She couldn’t help imagining if he punched her in the nose, or even if just the musty atmosphere in the cellar stuffed her up. I could asphyxiate. I could die!
The man looked back at her, and she opened her wet eyes wide, pleading with him. He stared at her chest some more and tossed the tape on the floor. “That’s better,” he said. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He turned and stomped up the stairs.
Take your time, fucker.
3
The man’s footsteps thudded above Nelle’s head. Her heart pounded at least as hard as he stomped, and blood rushed into her face, making her feel hot and faint. She panted through her nose and pushed against the chair. All these things dulled her hearing, made her feel dizzy and disoriented. She had to get herself under control.
People talked about how they’d have a clear head in an emergency. About how they’d respond if a man started shooting in a movie theater or on a playground. They fantasized about heroism, talking about rushing their attacker or firing back, but she knew no one ever really knows if they’d freeze or cower or fight. Not until it happens to them. There was a small measure of comfort in knowing that she’d had it in her to start off fighting. She’d try again, if she could just keep the urge to freeze at bay.
She tried to calm her breathing so she could slow her heart rate like she’d read about people doing with meditation. But then, those people were sitting on cushions, crisscross applesauce, thinking of calm lakes and blue skies. They weren’t tied up waiting for a man to come back down into a dark cellar to kill them.
Focus. Breathe slowly.
It wasn’t as easy as it sounded; still, she tried. A labored breath in through her nose. A shuddering breath out. Snot spilled out of her nostrils. She breathed evenly and deeply again. But it wasn’t slowing her heart. At thirty-four, she was too young to die of a heart attack, right? No. No one’s ever too young to die of anything. Your end comes at the hand of what kills you, and there’s no “right time” or deferment for fairness’ sake. Sometimes infants die of heart failure and people who do all the wrong things live for so much longer than they ever should. And somewhere in the middle . . . was her.
She thought she heard something in the corner. A small shift like a breath or a sigh. She closed her eyes and tried to focus. Her head was beginning to throb—the result of her body coming down from the adrenaline in her blood and lactic acid in her muscles. The chemicals her body released to help her confront and escape danger were now making her tired and headachy, disorienting her more than the terror of the intruder. Her own body was going to get her killed unless she got herself under control. And that started with breathing.
I can do this.
Breathe in. Slow breath out. The best she could find in herself was a somewhat less agitated state of panic. Like bringing a rolling boil down to a simmer.
Another shift in the darkness of the corner. She looked, thought she saw . . .
The sound of the man returning to the top of the stairs made her lose focus. Rekindled fear surged with full force, and she felt herself become dizzy. At the bottom of the stairs, he stopped and stared at her for an uncomfortably long moment. His eyes hard, but a small cruel smile playing at the edges of his mouth. She didn’t want to think about what was running through his head, but she knew the look. She’d watched plenty of men size her up like something they could order off a menu. A thing to be consumed. And she’d do that thing all women did when they didn’t want to make a man angry; she’d lower her eyes, try to pretend she was looking at something on this table over here or check her phone and wait for him to glide away to some other object of attention. Except, that morning, there was nothing to hide behind. Just her in the chair, and the man standing there, looking at her like a leering wolf in a Warner Bros. cartoon.
Don’t do that, she told herself. Don’t make him into something harmless. He’s not!
She looked down at her lap. The man let out a huff of satisfaction and stomped off behind her. She heard the screech of the aluminum cabinet doors beside the washing machine. What did he want in there? The previous owners had left the industrial cabinet behind, and she’d put some gardening things in there. Plant food, Weed B Gon, some all-natural menthol spider killer that smelled awful but seemed to work. No tools, though. Those were in the shed out in front of the house with the lawn mower. An image of Karen Cooper with a masonry trowel appeared in her mind.
He shut the cabinet doors and moved on. She listened, trying to guess where he stopped, what he was looking at. She couldn’t tell. He was quiet. For all she knew, he was standing behind her, waiting for the perfect moment to wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze. Or shoot her in the back of the head. Her eyes welled up with the anticipation of coming darkness.
She heard him take a step. And then another. Eventually, he came around back into view on the other side of the staircase by the workbench where she and Evan had piled boxes filled with papers and files they didn’t want ruined if water got in. They didn’t use the workbench; neither of them were handy. “Call the landlord,” they used to crow together if something wasn’t working. That changed to “hire a guy!” when they bought the house. They’d never been able to afford to hire someone to fix anything in the past, but the new chant had exuberantly grown along with their bank account.
The man paused at the bench and flipped open a box. He peered inside, and she felt . . . soiled. She looked at the boxes where he stood, stacked head high and mostly unopened since they’d moved into the house. Hell, most of them had remained taped shut since they’d packed them up to store in the cellar in the apartment in Cambridge a decade earlier.
A couple of years after she and Evan had moved in together, they’d agreed that any box they hadn’t opened in five years or more would go in the trash. Neither of them had kept that bargain. It was difficult to let go. Her notes on Putnam’s criticism of the mind-body problem or that Women’s Studies independent project on Margaret Atwood’s science fiction were nostalgic reminders of studying philosophy, dreaming that she would someday be one of history’s great thinkers. But things didn’t work out that way and she hadn’t thought about, much less read a single sheet of paper in those boxes in a decade. Still, her connection to them felt strong. Not that they were worth a shit to her now—there wasn’t a single piece of paper over there that could save her. She stared at the boxes, imagining what was inside each one, because it was less terrifying than looking at the man making his circuit through their past lives. She hated him for opening up that past and peering inside as if he had a right to know anything about her or Evan and their lives together.
Nelle watched him out of the corner of her eye, worried that if he looked over he’d see her contempt. The man stepped around in front of the staircase leading up to the main floor of the house and paused. He stared at Nelle for a long time again. She kept her eyes down, appropriately submissive. He snapped at her. “Over here!”
She looked up from her lap. He reached down to his waist and drew a long folding knife from his front jeans pocket. Nelle’s mouth went dry again. He admired it for a second before setting it down on a plastic box next to the staircase. On the side of the box was a strip of masking tape she’d labeled PAPERBACKS with a Sharpie marker. She’d intended to donate those books to the Ripton Public Library when she felt ready to part with them. He spoke again. “You do what I say, when I say it, and I won’t use this. Understand?” His voice was familiar, though she couldn’t place from where, exactly. She’d heard it before, or it seemed like she had. “Understand?” he repeated. She nodded. “Good. Now, you’re going to tell me where your cell phone is. I could go looking for it, but it’d be better if you just told me.”
Nelle grunted, pushing against the cotton fabric bunched in her mouth with her tongue. She raised her eyebrows, silently signaling her willingness to cooperate if it weren’t for the obvious impediment. She’d rather he stayed over there an
yway, but it was a cruel taunt to ask her questions and expect a reply when he knew she couldn’t answer.
“Is it in your bedroom?” he asked.
Nelle shook her head. She tried to remember where she’d left it. Her memory of only a few minutes ago—at least it felt like only a few minutes ago—was more than clouded.
“In the kitchen?” His brow furrowed.
Nelle shook her head again. Her eyes blurred with tears. What would he do if she couldn’t lead him through his guessing game? Pick up the knife? She jerked her head backwards, trying to communicate.
“The bathroom?”
No.
He guessed again, his face beginning to turn red. “The dining room?”
She nodded. She was sure she’d left her phone on the charging mat in the reading nook at the end of the dining room. She’d texted Evan with it over there. The previous owners had a china hutch in the alcove at the end of the long, narrow room—formerly a breezeway, the real estate agent had said—but she and Evan didn’t own fine china. Just plates that went in the cupboard. Instead, they put a small rolltop secretary in that nook and beside it, a chaise longue. It was her favorite place in the house. She could sit and read while Evan was in the kitchen cooking. He’d put on a record in the living room that’d play through the big French doors at the other end of the dining room, and they’d be together in a way that they hadn’t been able to be in their cut-up apartment in Cambridge. This house’s open layout had been one of the biggest factors that had motivated them to buy it. It let them be together even when apart.
She jerked her head upstairs again, thinking of the reading nook.
“Don’t go anywhere.” If he thought his bon mot was funny, he didn’t laugh or even smile. He stomped off toward the dining room. He paused, then she heard him turn back for the cellar door. He pounded down the stairs and faced her, eyes wide and wild. “Don’t fuck around with me! You said the phone was in the fucking dining room.”
Closing Costs Page 2
