12. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
Wyatt
I should put her back in that chest. I should put her in it myself. If I had any sense at all I'd put her in there, lock it up, put it in the middle of the woods, and mail her piece of shit husband the key.
I should put Shaun in there with her. He's the reason I've been unable to sleep tonight, not her or her insidious little smile. He's the reason I'm laying here weighing my morals against my reputation and bank account.
Well, the bank account doesn't really need to be part of the equation. I don't actually need the money I'm supposed to make on this job, it's just smart to build up a nice little cushion. A small fortune makes it easy to plan for a possible disaster and I do enjoy a solid plan. The plan, or what was supposed to be the plan for this job, is the problem.
The plan was simple. The plan didn't include allowing myself to be pulled into the marital spats of a spoiled princess and the man she chose to tie herself to. It didn't include me having an opinion about any of it, much less worrying about what might happen to her if I give her back to her husband.
The feeling I had in my gut when I was talking to him was a clear message to stay away from this job and I ignored it. I let my curiosity get the better of me and now I give a shit about the job. I can't afford to give a shit about the job. The job has to go back to her life, whatever that will look like for her. And if word gets out that I took a job and botched it, or didn't complete it, or did any of the things I've been trying not to consider…
It will be a stain on my reputation that will follow me. I'll have to change so many things.
I reach up and press the heels of my palms against my eyes, willing the pressure to allow me to see a clear path.
Larken was starving. She was starving herself on purpose. How pig-headed and willful do you have to be to starve yourself? She was doing a good job of it, too. I thought she was sick when she tried to walk after we pulled her out of the trunk on the first day. No. Just a self-imposed hunger strike. For what? I saw that house. I saw the neighborhood. She could order whatever she wanted, or pay someone to make whatever she wanted, and I guarantee it wouldn't be a peanut butter sandwich.
I need answers. I could call the husband, but he's an obvious liar. She hasn't offered any information other than what I've gathered purely from observation. She's stubborn. She doesn't like tight spaces. She's afraid of food and water.
She doesn't like for you to talk while she's trying to sleep.
I rake my hands through my hair and yank on the ends then I sit up. There's no reason for me to care about whether or not she likes being woken up. There's no reason for me to be observing anything. This. Is. A. Job.
I'm going to go wake her up.
I need to know why the husband is doing this.
I need to know if he's going to pay what he owes if I do carry through my end.
I need to know why Larken was terrified of drinking a cup of water.
I need to know why she's trying to starve herself to death.
I need to clear my head and get a grip on myself. What's wrong with me? What I need to do is go get in the car and take a drive. That almost always helps. It helps, but I don't have the time to waste. This is already a longer job than one like this should ever be. I still need those questions answered, though. Whether I have a grip on myself or not. Looking at my phone, I see that it's just after 3am . The perfect time to wake her up and get some answers. It's not like I'm getting any sleep tonight anyway.
When I get downstairs, I find an empty living room when I expect a full one. Again. Panic doesn't tighten my chest but irritation bordering on rage tries to claw its way to the surface. If she's in that chest again I'm going to drag him into the yard by his ankles and throttle him with the water hose if it isn't dry rotted. I go straight to the bedroom and grit my teeth. There he is. Sprawled all over the bed with one arm dangling over the side. The key is in the same place it was last night, right in the center of the top of the chest. I don't bother waking Shaun, I just kneel down to unlock it.
She's not in there.
The panic that wasn't there before is most definitely there now.
I stand up and grab Shaun's ankle and drag him off the bed, enjoying the thud he makes on the floor when his body leaves the mattress.
“What the fuck!”
“Where is she?”
“What?”
“Where. Is. Larken.” I don't possess enough patience to keep the words from sounding harsh and biting.
“Calm down, man. She's fine.”
Water hose it shall be. I bend down and grab his ankle again and start for the hallway.
“What are you doing?” he laughs, not even trying to stop me from pulling him across the floor.
“Where is she, Shaun?”
“Why do you care? It's just a job.”
He doesn't stop laughing until I get to the kitchen. The hose is in the back yard and that's where we're going.
“Stop, Wyatt. Stop. Let go. She's in the bedroom.”
I drop his foot. “Where?”
He stands up with an obnoxiously sideways grin eating up the side of his equally obnoxious face. “Calm your ass down, Wyatt. I don't need you having a heart attack or anything. No hospitals, remember?”
I just look at him.
He snorts another laugh and walks back to the bedroom.
“Well?” I snarl when he sits down on the bed.
“Hang on a second.”
He digs a small silver key out of his pocket and leans over the side of the bed. That's when I see it. I was in too much of a tizzy before. He unlocks one half of a pair of handcuffs and sits back up, still smiling like a fool.
“Another second.”
He rolls to the bottom of the other side of the bed and unlocks another set of cuffs. Then he rolls over the edge and pulls Larken from under the bed.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
He just keeps grinning. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
I ignore him and look at Larken. It's dark, so I flick on the light. She blinks at the sudden brightness, but stands there with one cuff dangling off a wrist and another dangling off the opposite ankle. I'm way more annoyed than I probably should be that the cuff fits around her ankle.
Her fucking husband. Sure guy, let me just make your starving, brow-beaten wife miserable enough to go running back to you with a smile.
This is such a problem.
“What? I didn't put her back in the trunk.” Shaun says it like I should be proud of him. Like he should get a sticker or something.
I hold up my hand to shut him up. “We'll talk about this later.”
“Why are you even awake right now?”
“I couldn't sleep,” I answer, then point at Larken. “I've got some questions for you. Right now. Come on.”
I grasp her wrist, the one without a cuff dangling from it, and drag her behind me to the kitchen and guide her firmly into a seat. She waits silently, waiting for my inquisition with her fingers tangled together on the table in front of her.
“You don't say much,” I start. “You don't whine or argue or scream.”
“What's the point?” she counters. “What good would it do?”
“Most people at least call for help every other minute. Don't you want somebody to come save you?”
Shaun saunters in and sits at the table across from her with that stupid smile on his face again. Larken looks at him for a few moments, looking every bit as annoyed as I feel before she answers. “I hate to break it to you, but you kind of saved me. I'm just trying to figure out what to do next.”
“I...” What? I did what? “What do you mean, I saved you? We dragged you out of your perfect house with a sack on your head and threw you in a trunk.”
She shrugs. “I'm not in that house anymore.”
“What happens when you go back?”
Her chin lifts and she stares down her nose to meet my eyes. “I'm not going back.”
“Your husband’s money says you are.”
“My husband doesn't have any money.”
There's a very loud and long silence, then Shaun barks out a laugh that turns into a cackle. Larken nearly jumps out of her chair and we both glare at him.
“I'm sorry,” he chokes, holding up both hands. “I'm sorry.”
He isn't sorry. He's still laughing.
“Exactly what do you mean? I saw the house. I saw the cars. I saw the neighborhood.”
She smiles. “Did you see the bank statement?”
She's as obnoxious as Shaun is. “Why would I?”
“I guess you wouldn't,” she sighs, rubbing her thumbs together. “But I promise you, Adrian doesn't have any money. Not enough to pay someone to kidnap me.”
I look at Shaun. He looks at me, still smiling but no longer laughing, and motions for me to carry on with the interrogation.
“He'd pay you with my money,” Larken continues.
“Come again?” I ask.
“He'd use my money, from the company and the inheritance, to pay you. I'm essentially bankrolling this kidnapping.”
I can almost feel rage-fueled steam streaming from my ears. “Is it a kink? Some kind of fetish, BDSM malarkey?” So help me, if I've been stupid enough to get tied up in a couple's sexcapades I'm going to react very, very poorly.
“A kink?” she asks with a snarl. “What kind of kink would that be? No. I'm not sure why he decided to go this route, but it's most definitely not a kink.”
I'm starting to understand why she's been so calm and quiet this whole time. “I'm having trouble understanding why he hired us to kidnap you if the only money he has is yours. What would be the point of having you brought back? Why not pay us to simply get rid of you? Wouldn't that be so much easier than all this?”
“The money.”
I give her a dry look. “You're not very good at answering questions.”
“You're not very good at kidnapping.”
Shaun snorts.
“I kidnapped you just fine.”
She nods. “You did. But then we got here. I've never been kidnapped before, but I don't think forcing the kidnap-ee to drink water, eat food, and watch you pee in the bathtub is typically part of being kidnapped.”
“Kidnap-ee isn't a word.”
Shaun snorts again. I shoot him another glare.
“Maybe not,” Larken says. “But it's still true. The only things that have happened that are in line with a true kidnapping are when you took me from the house and when he,” she nods toward Shaun, “put me in the trunk and handcuffed me to the bed frame. You're not supposed to feed me and you're not supposed to keep me for days and days. It gives the police more time to track you down.”
“The police aren't looking for me,” I tell her. “Or you. This isn't something that will get out to the public because it isn't designed to do that. A public outcry for your rescue isn't necessary because the only person who knows you're gone is your husband.”
Her face falls. “You're probably right.”
“And that's where your troubles begin.”
She looks up at me, her brows wrinkling together. “What do you mean?”
“Now you’re really kidnapped.”