Chapter 13
I sent a text message to my father on my once-again fully charged phone. I’d wanted to talk to him, but I didn’t trust myself to not start crying as soon as I heard his voice. I simply said, It’s been a long, hard day, dad, but I wanted you to know I’m okay. I’m probably going to bed in a few minutes. How has your day been?
I wasn’t lying. I was so tired, I knew I could go to bed and sleep till morning, even though the sun was still shining brightly outside. The only thing keeping me up now was pure adrenaline. But I couldn’t tell if it was caused by anger or fear—or a combination of both.
It was apparent to me that Sinclair Whittier had never been told no throughout his life—so he needed to get used to the likes of me. Although I knew if I had to that I could abide by all the terms of the contract, I was digging in my heels as a matter of principle. I didn’t like being treated like a piece of property.
I sat on the bed, looking through the window outside, again mourning all I’d lost. I could hardly believe that this time the day before I was picking up the programs at the print shop, completely unaware that my fate had quite possibly already been set in motion.
My dad sent a short text that he was okay but tired, getting ready to microwave his dinner.
I’d barely told him I loved him and wished him a good night when there was a sharp rap at my door. I knew it had to be Whittier because I couldn’t imagine Edna pounding with that much force.
For that reason, I considered ignoring it.
But I was beginning to find him intimidating, especially the way he would lose his temper.
I didn’t know if he was here to inspect my bathroom, criticize the work I’d done for the day, or demand that I sign that stupid document—and I was in no mood for any of it. So, rather than answering politely, I snapped. “What?”
His voice boomed through the door. “Your presence is required at dinner in the kitchen at 6:30 sharp.”
Even though I felt tired to my bones, I forced myself to go to the door. Opening it, I planned to refuse as politely as I could—but he wasn’t there.
Apparently, he expected me to obey blindly.
I decided I would show up for dinner…but I would ask to be excused and, regardless of how hungry I felt, I would not eat.
I didn’t bother changing out of the jeans Whittier found so infuriating. It was a minor dig, but I planned to irritate him every way I could.
When I entered the kitchen, I felt my resolve fading, because on top of the other delicious aromas was the scent of freshly baked bread. Dad and I had only made bread from scratch a few times, and it had always been a treat.
But refusing to eat was one of the few things I could do that would send a message—and also that wasn’t disobeying any of the hundreds of ridiculous rules he’d laid out for me.
I arrived just a couple of minutes before the time he’d demanded. He was already seated, drinking a glass of water. Without a word, I sat across from him at the large table, shocked that Edna was still here. Maybe she was afraid of displeasing him. I could see that happening. I just hoped she was fairly compensated for her time.
Although his face showed no emotion, he was as handsome as ever. When would I stop viewing him that way?
“Punctual. I appreciate that.”
I didn’t say a word—and I didn’t even nod or shrug. I did take a sip of water, hoping that would punctuate my later message of not eating.
He said, “I inspected much of your work today. You did a good job, which means that you will be doing something different tomorrow.”
I wondered if it would be better or worse than my tasks today.
She set in front of both of us small salads. Between us were several cruets of dressing, not that I cared. Still, it was difficult, because the leaves of salad were so green, the grape tomatoes bright and red against it—and the croutons looked crunchy and savory.
As he poured dressing on his salad, Edna said, “The main course is cassoulet, one of Mr. Whittier’s favorites.”
“You do spoil me, Edna.” After he ate a few bites, he said, “Are you not eating again?”
My answer was a pair of raised eyebrows…a challenge.
When he set down his fork, it landed on the plate, making a loud clattering sound. “What do you hope to be getting out of this behavior, Ms. Miller?” My answer was nothing more than my chin jutted out, and a vein in his forehead became prominent. “You won’t sign the contract or the NDA. You won’t eat. You defy me at every turn.” He stood and started pacing, rubbing his forehead. “I’ve done you a kindness, Ms. Miller. I’ve spared you from prison, spared your father from further humility, and, frankly, I’m letting you off easy. If I wanted, I could own you for the rest of your miserable life!” By the end of his tirade, he’d grown louder.
Scarier.
I also noticed that Edna had become quiet, staying mostly out of sight by the stove. I wondered if she’d grown used to his outbursts.
But I couldn’t show fear. I also stood and hoped my voice’s intensity matched his. “I wouldn’t say you’ve done me a favor.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t?” Again, he bellowed. “And what do you think would happen to your father if I cut off all lines of communication with you and refused to lift a finger to make sure he got what he needed?” He moved to the side of the table, getting far too close to me. His voice seemed to shake the walls. “What then?”
I’d had enough. Turning, I walked from the kitchen with as much dignity as I could spare, but the tears began falling as soon as I was in the hallway. I heard Edna say, “I can take her dinner to her room before I go.”
“Absolutely not. If she refuses to eat, then she can go hungry.”
I ran up the stairs to my room, scared and angry and wondering why I’d let myself get talked into this. Maybe I would have an easier time pleading my case to a jury. Maybe this wasn’t exactly like prison, but it was beginning to feel like it.
Without thinking it through, I grabbed my wallet out of my purse, pulling out what little cash I had along with my debit card and tucked them in the front pocket of my jeans. Then I removed the sandals, replacing them with sneakers. Grabbing my phone, I left my room and ran down the stairs to the main floor and made my way to the antechamber. As I pulled on one of the heavy doors, I thought to myself, Good riddance.
It was still light out and quite warm and I had no idea where I was—other than somewhere in Denver. I planned to go home—and I’d deal with whatever consequences faced me once I got there. Instead of giving in, I’d fight. And, as for everything else, my dad and I could figure it out later.
As I walked down the block, I considered calling him—but not yet. I had to form a plan. I headed west down the sidewalk and across the block, not looking back. Whittier’s home wasn’t the only impressive structure in this neighborhood, but it appeared to be the biggest, taking up one-third of the block. Once I had reached the next street, I stopped looking at the surroundings and pulled up the browser on my phone, walking slowly so I wouldn’t fall. After a few minutes, I’d determined that I could walk to Union Station in about an hour and a half. From there, I’d take a bus to Colorado Springs—without having to spend all my money. Once I got to the Springs, I’d call my dad and we could figure it out from there.
But I was not going to spend another night in that cavernous mansion with its cruel overlord. I was ready to take my chances with the world.
It wasn’t long before I was out of the wealthy neighborhood and walking along a busy street with three lanes of traffic moving both ways. There were lots of people moving about on foot and bikes, and so I was paying close attention to my surroundings again. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until I’d walked three blocks in the wrong direction that I realized I’d done so.
Soon I was going the right way again, and I felt a little weak from not eating. I hoped there would be vending machines at the station but I wasn’t going to stop till I got there.
I was struck by the multitude of tall buildings scattered along this street, mixed with shorter buildings that managed to hold their own. I had a couple miles to go, so I allowed myself time to look around and take it all in.
After another couple of blocks, I passed by a man on the corner holding a sign asking for change. His clothes were tattered and dirty, and his smile revealed several missing teeth. Although I really couldn’t afford to give much, I thought I could spare a dollar. Shoving my phone in my back pocket, I pulled out my cash and retrieved a dollar bill that I handed to him. I would have liked to give him more, but I needed what I had to get home. “Oh, thank you so much, miss. God bless you.”
“You too,” I said, forcing a smile before crossing the street.
When I got there, two young tattooed men who looked to be in their early twenties began talking to me. “Hey, pretty lady. Got another dollar?”
I didn’t like the vibes I was getting off these guys. “No. Sorry.”
The other guy said, “We’ve got some merchandise you might like.”
The first guy jumped in front of me and smiled, opening his arms wide. “C’mon, babe. You look like you want to party.” He had a neck tattoo so heavily inked that it almost looked like he was wearing a turtleneck.
My voice was firmer this time. “No, thank you.”
As I sidestepped him, the second guy, wearing a torn red shirt, joined me to the right, linking his arm in mine. “Just give us a little cash and we’ll go away.”
I couldn’t believe these two were harassing me in broad daylight. “No!” I said, trying to wrench my arm away—and then I realized these two had to be high. That was the only reason they would think they could get away with this behavior.
But neck tattoo grabbed my other arm, holding it so tightly that it hurt the skin. “My friend asked nicely. Why you bein’ so rude?”
My heart was thudding in my chest as I tried to figure a way out of this mess, all while I hoped a good Samaritan might see what was happening and intervene.
One did—but it was the last person I ever would have expected.
“Let go of her!” came Sinclair Whittier’s booming voice.
Red shirt guy turned and said, “We found her first.”
The noise of a car horn blaring made it hard to hear any other words exchanged, but Sinclair got closer to us—and raised his voice accordingly. “Last chance.”
Red shirt started laughing while neck tattoo tightened his grip on my arm and began moving away, dragging me with him. I fought against him, slowing his progress before Sinclair grabbed his free arm. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Red shirt jumped on his back and started grabbing at his face, but Sinclair had a couple of advantages—he was sober, and it was clear he worked out on a regular basis. He turned and slammed himself backward into the wall of the building we stood in front of—but red shirt hung on. Sinclair repeated the motion two more times before the guy finally let go.
Then Whittier turned on neck tattoo—and I could feel the guy’s fear as his hand loosened its grip. “C’mon, Tiny. Let’s go!” he said, suddenly turning and running down the sidewalk. Red shirt— Tiny —struggled up from the concrete, holding his head, and then got up, stumbling at first before running to catch up with his friend.
When I looked up at Sinclair, I saw that he had a scratch on his cheek. By now, there were several horns blaring, but he ignored them. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“Would you get in the car? Please?”
The wind had been taken out of my sails, and I just nodded. When I got to the passenger door of the silver Lexus, he opened it, ignoring the car behind him with a driver who continued laying on the horn. When he got in, he said, “I’ll take you wherever it is you want to go—but you’re not familiar with the city enough to stick to safer locations.”
“We can go back…to your house.”
Nodding, he began driving the car, turning right at the next block—and I was relieved that the two men who’d attacked me were nowhere to be seen. “Are you hurt?”
“Just my arm.”
“Should you be examined by a doctor?”
“No. I’m okay. You, um…what about you? You have a scratch on your cheek.”
He touched it as if he hadn’t noticed it but didn’t say anything else until he turned at the end of another block, taking us back in the direction of his neighborhood. The farther we went, the more the landscape changed—at first, we drove past business after business, intermingled with high-rise apartment buildings. “Why did you leave?”
I wasn’t about to tell him the whole truth but I could manage some. “You wouldn’t stop yelling.”
“You wouldn’t stop being difficult.”
The landscape was slowly changing to more residential in nature as I spoke. “I agreed to work for you to help my father… I didn’t agree to being abused or yelled at.”
“ Abused? ”
Although Dr. Rakhimov had had her fair share of yelling fits, I’d always known that, at the end of the day, I had a home to go to. That home wasn’t much to speak of, but my father was there, and it was the only place where I felt safe. In Sinclair Whittier’s cavernous mansion, I felt vulnerable…and alone. “It’s going to take me some time to adjust.”
But, for some reason, I felt like maybe we’d reached a bit of a truce.
For this evening, at least.