Thirty-Four
Amelia
January is too cold for swimming even with the pool cranked to maximum, and I’ve read everything I’m ever going to read from that library. Thank God for the Kindle app.
My phone keeps me sane, though I’m worried I’m bugging Lucy and Sierra too much.
But it’s not the same as seeing them. I’m meaningfully cut off from everyone that matters to me, and it’s starting to wear on me.
It’s bad when a visit from a hairdresser who Linda organized is the highlight of my week.
The gate has a security code that I don’t have and is keyed to the remotes in the vehicles.
The garage is locked all the time. I’ve walked the whole damn perimeter more times than I can count, and every inch of it is fenced.
The perimeter guards ignore me, Jorge-style, but I keep my distance. The guns they carry aren’t for show.
It doesn’t matter anyway. Tony and Jorge dog my every step, and I know they’re under instructions to stop me if I start digging a tunnel or practicing my pole-vaulting.
The worst part is I can’t leave even if I did find a way. Where would I go? Back to my apartment, on which I’m still paying rent? Tony thinks the Volkovs are watching it. I don’t know if it’s true, but I’d look damn silly if I swapped one kidnapping for another.
I considered going to Lucy, but dismissed it immediately. It would take Van Wyk all of ten minutes to find me there, and that’s assuming he hasn’t already broken in and put cameras throughout. I wouldn’t put it past him. He probably knows about Sierra, too.
I fantasize about giving Tony and Jorge the slip on one of our shopping trips. It might not even be that hard; time it right, disappear into the crowds, get in a cab.
And then my sister loses her protection, Van Wyk hunts me down and drags me back, and the spanking that followed wouldn’t be our usual fun. Is there anywhere on this Earth that he couldn’t find me? Somehow I doubt it, and that’s not just fatalism talking.
That’s the thing about being married to an obsessive stalker with a voyeurism fetish and all the morality of a forest fire. He always knows where I am and what I’m doing.
Just not how I’m feeling.
After a while, the vibrancy of my feelings starts to lose its edge. A heavy numbness begins to creep in around the edges, encasing me a bit more with each day, each hour I spend in isolation. My energy melts away one drip at a time, leaving me… desolate.
I’m certain part of it is Juliette’s lingering presence, and the knowledge she cut her own throat in the bedroom. There’s a single picture of her in the whole house, and it’s on a cabinet in Van Wyk’s office. Ironically, it’s a wedding photo.
She looks happy. He looks stoic.
My thoughts turn to Juliette more often as the days go by. At first, I wondered why a woman would want out so badly that she’d take a knife to her own throat, but as I feel my spirit ebbing away and my joy of life waning, it becomes easier to understand.
She was married to Van Wyk for twelve years, and was ill for nine of them. I’ve known him for four months and we’ve been married nine weeks, yet I haven’t seen him since Christmas. The only reason I know he’s not dead is because he calls me, every day.
But I don’t answer. When he missed New Year’s, I sent him a text saying ‘In person or fuck off.’ How he can’t manage to find the time for a single visit is beyond me.
I’m clearly not as important as his work.
Or maybe he’s found another girl who thought her apartment locks were secure.
A few weeks ago, the thought would’ve been devastating and sent me on a destructive spree of some sort, but now… I’m not sure I even care anymore.
My low moods aren’t lost on the others. Tony watches me warily. Even Jorge has started to talk to me. That should be cause for celebration, but when the first words he’s ever spoken to me are to ask if I’m all right, then I know I’m really not.
Linda asks me if I’m sleeping well, and when I tell her I haven’t in weeks, she gives me a bottle of Ambien.
They do help, they knock me out, but I don’t like to take them every night.
The rest of the time, I drink. I never used to drink, but there’s an extensive wine cellar, and tipsy helps with numb.
As the days trickle by, I begin pulling away from Lucy and Sierra.
My sister brings her guilt into every conversation, and I don’t feel strong enough to support her and myself too.
Sierra wants to hatch escape plans every time we talk, partly because I haven’t told her about the mafia side of things and the threat to Lucy.
How can I? She thinks I have a ‘domineering husband’ that ‘isn’t treating me right.
’ Then she remembers all the money, switches in mid-stream to ‘how bad can it be?’ and tells me to take a shopping trip.
I do. It’s my only outlet. It’s not even retail therapy, it’s just anywhere-but-here therapy, but I’ve bought so much crap I can’t even remember it all.
Partly it was to see if Van Wyk would notice, though if he has, he hasn’t said anything.
My sprees reinforce Tony’s view of me as a princess—he doesn’t even use the term anymore, just looks at me with an unreadable expression.
My existence grows ever duller, while I embrace numb. January bleeds into February, the weather gradually improves, and I start finding patches of crocuses and snowdrops on my many long walks around the perimeter fencing.
Valentines goes by. He calls me; I don’t answer. Why should I? We’re not in love.
It gets warm enough to start swimming again, and Tony even mentions it. But I don’t.
What’s the point?
Weeks later, I’m sitting in the sunroom in my favorite wicker chair with a glass of wine and my legs tucked underneath me, watching the moon out of the east window.
Linda’s voice rings down the hallway with a note of excitement I haven’t heard in a while, then quick footsteps approach me, but they’re too heavy to be hers. That must be Tony in a rush. Maybe something has happened, but it won’t be anything interesting. Not around here.
The door opens, but it’s not Tony.
He’s two paces into the room before his eyes find me, and he stops. He looks at me, I look at him, and I feel… nothing.
“You’re back,” I say, taking a big swallow of my wine and returning my gaze to the silvery orb against the indigo sky.
I know I should be feeling something, but I don’t.
He’s back, and I wanted him back—at one point.
Now? I can’t bring myself to care. He’s only going to leave again.
Leave me trapped here, with nothing to do and nowhere to go, again.
There’s no point mustering excitement, and I’m not sure I could even if I wanted to.
“Yes.” He takes a step toward me. “I… missed you.”
I say nothing. For a while, I missed him too, but I’m over that now.
I’m waiting for him to explain he’s here for one night, and then he’ll be gone again.
I know what he wants, what he’s going to take—me.
He’s just here for a quick fix before leaving again.
Maybe he doesn’t have other women on the side.
Or maybe it’s one in every city, and I’m the lucky New York girl.
I try to find some anger or jealousy at the thought, but all I get is… hollowness. Deep, resounding, crippling.
“I’m sorry I was gone so long,” he says, coming closer.
I set my glass down, then draw my legs up and hug them to my chest.
“But I’m back now,” he adds.
Until he isn’t.
“Have you eaten?” I ask, my voice wooden in my own ears. “I think there are leftovers.”
He stands next to me, close enough to touch. “Food isn’t what I’m hungry for.”
“There’s some wine—”
“You don’t need to push, Little Stray.” He cuts across me but his voice is soft. “You know what I’m hungry for.”
I wasn’t pushing. I don’t care enough to push.
He pulls me to my feet. I stand before him, looking at his throat, until his fingers come up beneath my chin, tilting my face to his. His eyes search mine, and I don’t know if he finds whatever he seeks. But he leans in for a kiss.
His stubble is longer than usual, like he’s been too busy to shave or has decided to grow a beard. It prickles my soft skin. His mouth teases mine open, his tongue probing for entry.
I let him. What does it matter?
I should feel something, but I don’t. Am I broken? Is it me, or is it him?
After a moment, he pulls back. He’s not lifting my chin anymore, and my eyes drop back to the gap at the top of his shirt.
“Amelia?”
My name, not his pet name. “Yes?”
“Are you… all right?”
These days, I get asked that a lot. “I’m fine.”
I know he’s gazing at me, but it’s more effort than it’s worth to meet his eyes.
“I’m sorry I was gone so long.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I know you’re busy.” I should probably ask him how it went, how much of a threat still remains, to me, to my sister. But he won’t answer, so the question seems pointless.
“Yes, I was… busy. I’m sorry.”
“I said it’s fine.” I don’t know why he’s apologizing.
“It’s not fine. I’ve left you too long.”
It’s fine. “I’m used to it. I’ve been alone in this empty house for months now.”
“It’s not just the house that’s been empty,” he murmurs, softly enough that I almost miss it. “I’ve been empty, Amelia.” Those steel-grey eyes glistening with emotion. “I’ve been dead inside for so long now. For years. And you… you breathed life into me. I’ll never leave you for so long again.”
I almost laugh, until I remember that this man’s word is his bond. “What about your work?”
“When this is done, I’m quitting.”
So it’s not done yet. He’ll leave again.
And why would he quit? His work’s obviously more important to him than I’ll ever be, otherwise he wouldn’t have left me all alone for months, after he insisted on marrying.
“You should get some sleep,” I say. “You must be tired.”
Van Wyk pauses. Shoves his hands in his pockets. Stares down at his feet and then looks back up at me. “Are you going to bed?”
“I wasn’t planning to.” I don’t sleep much of late. “I can, if you want.” It’ll save him dragging me there.
“That would be nice,” he says cautiously.
He gestures to the door for me to precede him, and I walk down the hallway with him a step behind. I don’t know where Linda’s gone, or Tony, and it’s like we’re alone in the house.
I head up to my room, and he stops me as I open the door.
“I’m back, Little Stray. You don’t need to sleep in here any longer.”
I don’t want to sleep in there, where his ex-wife took a blade to her throat. “I like this room.”
His eyebrows rise. “You do?”
“You can sleep in there,” I say. “I don’t mind.” I’d prefer it.
“I’ll sleep in here tonight.” He pushes open the door and enters ahead of me. “We can talk about it in the morning… when you’re rested.”
He thinks I’m tired. I’m not tired. A little tipsy, maybe.
I still go through my bedtime routine. The en suite has two basins, and I wash my face and brush my teeth without getting in his way.
“I’m going to take a shower,” he says. “Would you like to—”
“Go ahead.” I slip out and leave him to it.
I’m lying facing away from him with my light out by the time he emerges. I don’t hear him pad to his side of the bed; he’s stealthy even when he isn’t barefoot on thick carpet. The sheet tugs, the mattress dips, and his body shifts toward mine.
I tense.
His hand slips onto my hip, then runs up my back to my neck, caressing my nape. He’s going to pin me, and I know what follows.
But he doesn’t. His hand strokes down my back again, stopping short of my ass, and returns to my hip.
“Are you tired?” he asks quietly.
“Yes.” I accept the out he’s given me, without even a sense of relief. It’s like there’s just a hole there now, like I’m bereft of the ability to feel anything.
“Then sleep, Little Stray.” His lips press into my shoulder with just a hint of his tongue, and then he draws back.
Despite those words, I keep expecting him to touch me again.
While I wait, I wonder at myself. His touch was gentle, and it kindled nothing.
It’s not him that’s broken, after all. It’s very definitely me.
More broken than the man who invaded my apartment and took what he wanted?
More broken than the man with a knife, who hunts and kills for a living?
Maybe he’s not broken. Maybe he never was. Maybe it was always me.
He still hasn’t reached for me again, and I close my eyes, letting my breathing become regular. I haven’t taken my Ambien; it’s going to be ages until I fall asleep.
It’s some time before he puts his light off, and I lie in the dark thinking about how little I care about anything.
Is that what drove Juliette to her end?