Page 62 of In a Haze

“You put something in the coffee.” I’m standing now, gripping the letter opener in the hand that’s not holding the burner phone.

“Why would I do that?”

It’s then that I see his cell phone over by the coffee pot. Brandishing the letter opener like a knife, I move while continuing to face the men. When I get to the phone, I see an open call—to 911.

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So keeping us preoccupied with the cops on the line was his ploy. Maybe the coffee was fine after all. That he called the cops means I now have very little time.

Or maybe it’s fine. I don’t know how easily a cell phone can be located by the police, but I can’t take the chance that they could get here quickly. I press the red hang-up button, doubting it will do any good. Now, Joe is standing. “Stay there!” I say, holding out the letter opener again.

I need information.

Now.

I open up the burner phone while walking out of the kitchen, following my instincts. Pausing by a door, I look at the contacts list in the phone. Of course, there are only a couple of numbers and no names. What did I expect?

At least, there are some text messages.

I hear movement, so I open the door, ignoring the phone for the meantime. I need to stay safe, meaning I need to put some distance between us. Closing the door behind me, I’m struck with a musty smell as my eyes adjust.

This is the door to the basement.

And I’m hit with a memory full-on. There’s no stopping it.

I walk in the house from the garage. My arms feel a little tired from the workout I just completed, but I’m excited to be hitting my goals with every workout. When I run upstairs, I realize no one else is home right now, but they should be by dinner time, so I head to the kitchen. I’m pulling veggies, chicken breasts, and a package of pasta out of the fridge. I’ve just grabbed the cutting board when I hear something. It sounds like rattling.

Inside the house.

But it’s faint. I’m not going to worry about it for now. I’ll have Don check it out when he gets home. I shudder to think, but maybe we have a mouse.

As I’m filling up a pot with water, I hear more noise. Only this time, it’s not a rattle. I hear crashing and banging, bottles rolling around and breaking—and the noise is coming from downstairs.

Definitelynota mouse.

Grabbing the chef’s knife, I turn off the water and head through the kitchen to the basement door. I can feel my heart thudding in my chest, but I’m calm, grateful my children aren’t here right now.

I’ve got the element of surprise—but I’m hoping it’s nothing. Maybe some animal got in there or maybe even Don’s home and I didn’t realize it.

After flipping on the light switch, I walk down the concrete steps as the room comes into view. The sound, I’m certain, was coming from the wall where the wines are stored and, to see that, I need to get all the way down the stairs and turn a corner. As my foot reaches the floor, I hear something else.

It sounds like mumbling.

And motion. Crinkling, crunching, shifting.

My heart beats harder but I take in a slow breath, just like the teacher at the yoga center taught me.Control your breath; control your emotions.

I turn the corner and take in what I see.

The wine rack has toppled. Bottles are everywhere—some broken, some rolling. At first, I think Don’s going to be so angry, because some of those wines cost hundreds of dollars.

But then I see something else as I take more steps forward, the cause of the crash.

A person who looks to be lying on the floor but is still sitting in a chair.

As I step closer, I see she’s been duct taped to it—her hands are bound in tape around the back. There’s tape wound around her lap, keeping her stuck to the chair, and tape on her mouth so she can’t talk. She still doesn’t see me, because she’s not facing this way, and my shoes are nearly silent on the floor. Probably all she can hear are her struggles.

Finally, I’ve moved to where I can see her face—and she can see me. She’s a strikingly beautiful girl—blonde hair, blue eyes, thin, waiflike.

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