Page 59 of Power and Possession

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, dragging his suitcase out of the room. “I’ve handled it.”

I followed him out of the room and down the elevator, and into a waiting limo. The drive to Heathrow seemed to take hardly any time.

None of my friends from New York were around anymore. A few were married; others had moved on to new adventures. There was no one for me to confide in, and, at times, I felt like I was going to burst from holding so much inside. I’d ignored the therapy appointment my dad had made, and instead I’d found one of my own. Even though I knew that no doctor could give my father information about me, I didn’t trust anyone he paid.

I was nervous for my first appointment. Part of me wondered if I was actually insane. Since being home, I’d done nothing but follow my father’s every move, stalk his Outlook calendar, and call his office to see if he was there. At times, he’d disappear for hours, and I worried about Steele.

I’d never shared the penthouse alone with my father before, and it was even lonelier and more awkward than sharing the hotel suite. He came and went, pretty much ignoring me. I did the same, having a hard time reconciling the man who was my father with the man who held Steele captive.

I took a cab to the psychologist’s office, not wanting my father’s private driver to know where I’d gone. The taxi pulled up in front of a large building, and I anxiously entered and rode the elevator up to the nineteenth floor.

Dr. Fleming’s office was a typical doctor’s office, calm and serene. A fish tank sat in the corner, and after checking in I sat next to it, watching a group of neon tetras schooling together.

My name was called, and I followed Dr. Fleming down the hall to her office. It was annoyingly cheerful, with potted plants in the corner and a teal and orange loveseat.

I wasn’t going to reveal the true details of my experience with Steele–not to some stranger who got paid to listen to me and tell me how screwed up my choices were. But the longer I sat there, the more details spewed out of me uncontrollably.

It only took the doctor a half an hour to figure out what it had taken me weeks to.

“You love this man,” she said kindly, handing me a tissue as I sobbed.

“I’m afraid I don’t know how to love him.” I blew my noseloudly.

She looked at me sympathetically. “Sometimes you just have to throw caution into the wind.”

I had to bring up Steele to my father. I wasn’t able to find out where he was keeping him, but I knew that Steele was still alive. For one thing, my father came home angry almost every night. I figured he must want something from Steele, something Steele wouldn’t give up. I’d tried to follow him after he left work this evening, but my cab had gotten stuck behind a large bus and the driver lost sight of him. When he came home that evening and I spotted a bit of blood on his dress shirt, I couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Where are you keeping him?” I demanded.

My father ignored me, heading into the living room and pouring himself a drink.

“Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?” I asked.

He finally turned to me, his eyes accusatory. “Did you sleep with him? You told the doctor in London that you weren’t forced.”

Red bathed my cheeks as the heat pooled. “Why would you ask that?”

My father stormed towards me, grasping me by the neck. I sputtered, shocked by his violence towards me.

“That fucker has been insinuating it for days. Tell me the truth, now! Did you sleep with him of your own free will?” He let go of my throat, and I fell backwards against the wall, massaging my neck.

“Yes,” I cried, cowering before the angry man in front of me. He raised his hand, and for a split second I thought he was going to hit me. But he lowered it and then stormed off to his bedroom, slamming the door before locking it.

It didn't take me long to formulate a plan once I’d made up my mind. I went straight to my room, pulled down myluggage, and opened up one of the pockets. Inside was a little GPS tracker that my father insisted we place in every piece of luggage we owned so we could track it if it went missing on the course of our travels. I turned the circular dot over and over in my hand, praying that my plan would work.

I tiptoed over to the foyer, feeling incredibly lucky to see my father’s briefcase still sitting there. I grabbed my mother’s seam ripper and picked out just a few seams from the bottom of the case, just enough to be able to fit the tracker inside. I took some double-sided fashion tape and rejoined the tiny tear, and then took in my handiwork.

It looked completely normal. Now, when my father left for work, I could track his location and figure out where he had Steele. Wherever he was keeping him, it had to be secure.

Secure. Which meant it would be locked.

I opened the briefcase, rummaging through the inside pockets until I found what I was looking for—a key ring with about ten different keys on it.

Thankful and determined, I crept out of the penthouse with the keys, heading out of the lobby and down the street to a 24-hour locksmith. He made copies of every key, and I felt somewhat empowered as I walked back to the building, the duplicated keys jingling in my purse. My father might think that I was dumb, but if everything came together, he’d lose his prisoner and his daughter within twenty-four hours. As I rode the elevator back up to the penthouse, my heart hammered and I put both sets of keys in my bra, worried that my father would still be awake and might potentially search me. In my heart, I knew he would think me incapable of pulling off such a stunt, but I was so close to my goal that I couldn’t leave anything to chance.

The penthouse was completely silent. I opened the door to my room, exhausted but also exhilarated.

I couldn’t sleep. Instead, I kept picturing Steele, locked in whatever place my father had him. My heart hurt and I became angry at myself for letting things get so out of control. I shouldhave told him of my father’s plan to take me back, and I should never have allowed my father to leave England with Steele. I didn’t know what I was thinking, other than perhaps I wasn’t.

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