Page 28 of Web of Lies
“Sleeping.”
He nods, glancing at the wife before answering. “You can go ahead. I'll keep an eye on everything.”
I stretch my arms above my head and fight a yawn. “Alright. I'm going to the bedroom upstairs. I'll set an alarm for a few hours and then we can trade off. Call me if you need anything.”
He solutes me and turns back to the television. I'm going to have to find something else to do. I can't spend the next few days watching him watch TV. I'm already losing my mind with it and it's only been a day. I hope he enjoys playing cards or something. I almost bought a video game system to keep here but I didn't want it to be a distraction. I'm kind of regretting that now.
I pause in front of the wife on my way to the stairs and wait until she's looking up at me. “Be good.”
She blinks at me and then looks around me at the TV screen.
I release a sigh and head upstairs. Why does her attitude bother me so much? It's better than a bunch of whining and crying, isn't it? Right? Yes. So much better than crying. I hate crying and the theatrics that come along with it.
The moment I see the bed I realize how tired I am. The day wasn't physically taxing. It didn't really seem very mentally taxing, either. There have been days where I've done far more taxing work in a day than I've done today and I wasn't this tired then. I toe off my shoes and fall into the bed with every intention of falling asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.
That isn't what happens, though. I can't stop thinking about how the douchebag husband's face looked when he was talking about making her happy to see him again in comparison to how stressed sheisn'tto be away from him. Sure, she's not thrilled to be here, but there's typically a fair amount of begging, pleading, crying, and negotiating that comes along with these types of jobs and she isn't doing any of those things. How bad is her life that being kidnapped isn't something to be afraid of? More importantly, how am I supposed to make an already unhappy woman miserable? She doesn't appear to have been beaten or anything but she doesn't look great, and I'm not so sure she's trying to go back to him no matter how miserable we make her. And all of this is just dragging that nagging feeling I've had this whole time right to the forefront. I took this job because of that feeling, but I never expected to have these wild thoughts about maybe letting her get away. Maybe relocating her somewhere her dick husband won't look. Thoughts like maybe I'm supposed to save her and that's what this is all about.
I don't know how long I laid in bed questioning everything about this situation, but when the gentle chimes of my alarm go off, my eyelids feel like they're made of sandpaper. I need about six more hours of sleep and I'm going to have to settle for some strong coffee. I look at the time on my phone. It's only been three hours since I came upstairs. The guilt I have about closing my eyes again quickly dissipates as I justify the extra hour. Shaun won't mind if I take just one more.
One extra hour turns into three and sunrise is making its presence known around the edges of the miniblinds when I wake up with my heart pounding. I don't even take the time to rub the sleep from my eyes before I jump out of the bed and dash down the stairs. My anxiety launches into the stratosphere when I find the living room empty and it climbs higher with every empty room I stalk through. When I started this search I was calling for Shaun in a fairly relaxed tone, but relaxation gave way to urgency and now urgency has died in the face of the anger building inside my skull. The last room to search is the smaller bedroom at the end of that hall and they better be in there.
They aren't. The bed, however, is unbelievably destroyed; which triggers my brain to conjure up every wretched and despicable thing that typically happens to kidnapped women.
I'm going to kill him.
And then I'm going to kill Larken's piece of shit husband.
It'll be easy. It'll be fun. I'm going to enjoy it. It's the price they can pay for subjecting me to this entire kerfuffle. I could have taken any number of other jobs, but no. I had to follow my gut and take this one and now look at this mess. Maybe it's better this way and I–
Knock, knock, knock, knock...
I zero in on the frantic pecking coming from the large wooden chest at the foot of the bed. The key, shining in the sunlight from the window, has been placed right on the center of the lid.
Why?
Why did he put her in there?
Why didn't he wake me up? What could have possibly been so urgent?
The knocking picks up speed and grows louder, turning almost into pounding.
I'm still going to kill him.
And probably the husband, too.
I stomp the few steps to the trunk and grab the key. This. This is why I don't take jobs with women or children. I don't like the way it feels and I don't put them in wooden trunks. The key turns easily in the lock and I throw open the lid to find Larken staring up at me with wide, terrified eyes. Her knuckles are bruised and scraped from all the knocking she must have been doing since Shaun put her in this thing.
“Are you alright?” I ask her, reaching in to pull her out.
Her head shakes in a quick and violentno.Obviously she isn't alright. Who would be? And for the love of all things, why does it bother me?
I was wrong.Thisis why I don't take jobs with women or children. The job is not to care if she's alright. This job, specifically, is designed to make sure she's the opposite of alright. And here I am, worried about how not alright she is. Unacceptable.
She sits up and tries to climb out of the trunk, but she's probably been in there so long that her legs and feet are stiff and numb so she doesn't get much farther than sitting up. I let out a defeated breath and bend down to pull her out. Then the worst possible thing happens. She clings to me. Well, as much as she can with her hands tied together. The result is the same.
This is not good.
This is, in fact, bad.
