Chapter 5
ALICE - NOW
Elder Wattle’s door is cracked open when I arrive. Voices come from inside his office.
I check the time on my phone. Am I too early? Maybe he’s in another meeting. No, I’m right on time.
Looking back toward the parking lot, I see that Brayden has already taken off. So much for waiting in his air-conditioned truck.
I wait another two minutes, sun beating down on the top of my head, before stepping forward to knock on the partially-open door.
The conversation inside halts immediately.
“Alice, is that you?” Elder Wattle asks.
“Yes. I’m here for my appointment?” I say it as a question, then wince.
Of all the things that drove my dad crazy when we joined the church, it was my new habit of turning statements into questions.
Even when I knew the answer, even when I would have bet every dollar in my piggy bank that I was correct, I spoke as if I could be corrected.
I spoke as if I were uncertain, as if I were no longer the authority of my own reality.
“Come on in, Alice,” Elder Wattle says.
I step inside and see Elder Wattle sitting behind his desk.
The chair I usually take is in front of the desk.
Off to the side of the room, near a window, is another chair.
This one has a woman sitting in it. She has blond hair with streaks of white and a face full of the generic, colorless make-up favored by women in the church.
Her dress is pale green and has a high collar, long sleeves, and reaches beneath her knees.
I’m wearing the sweatshirt Brayden gave me in the hospital, along with a pair of jeans which I’m pretty sure belong to Jericha. Brayden still hasn’t taken me shopping for clothes.
Elder Wattle stands and touches his fingertips to mine. “Alice, you remember Miriam Cadonis. Elder Cadonis’s wife.”
I don’t, but I offer her a bland smile. “I apologize for interrupting. If we need to reschedule—”
“Not at all.” Elder Wattle takes off his glasses and cleans the lenses on the bottom of his shirt.
I’ve never seen him with his glasses off before, and for some reason it changes his face so much, I can only stare at him.
“Miriam is here due to the sensitive nature of your experiences. The other elders and I felt it inappropriate that any male in the church speak to you, a female, without a chaperone present.”
Because of purity. They think I’ve been tainted because I was sleeping next to my kidnapper.
“Sure, sounds good.” I say the words, approving this new therapy dynamic, despite the fact nobody asked me for my approval. My approval isn’t up for debate. Had they asked, I probably would have been fine with it because Elder Wattle has always given off a creepy vibe.
But they didn’t ask. They don’t have to, because I easily give it away.
Are you going to spend your whole life giving up pieces of yourself? Is this the future you want, Wonderland?
I’m sweating as I take the seat in front of Elder Wattle’s desk.
He looks down at a paper-filled manila folder. My name is written in all-caps on the tab. “When we left off on Tuesday, Alice, we were speaking about your sleeping arrangements with your kidnapper.”
I nod, although the word “arrangements” has connotations that feel completely wrong to this situation.
“You claim that you had no sexual relations with this man, with whom you lived, for thirteen months.”
They are fixated on the wrong things. “That’s the truth. He never touched me in that kind of way.”
“But he did touch you?” Miriam’s soft voice has an edge to it.
I shift in my chair, but I keep my gaze on Elder Wattle’s watery eyes. “He had a chain locked on my ankle. He would check it from time to time.”
When I had nightmares at night, he would put his hand on my shoulder to comfort me. I don’t share this.
“You were in a one-room cabin,” Elder Wattle continues. “Did he ever see you unclothed?”
My pause lasts too long before I lie. “No.”
Doubt is written all over the elder’s face. Skepticism radiates like the sun’s heat from Miriam’s side of the room. Sweat drips down my spine, immediately soaking into the fabric of my sweatshirt.
They let the lie go without comment, but I know I’ve “lost.” I am impure. A man who is not my husband has seen my naked flesh.
Therapy continues for another forty minutes. Question after question about what my kidnapper did or didn’t do, how I might have tempted him, whether on purpose or by accident.
“It’s all right, dear. You can tell us the truth.” Miriam’s sickly-sweet encouragements clog my ears, my throat. They stick in my teeth like toffee.
“I am telling you the truth. He never touched me or looked at me like that.”
Sometimes I thought he wanted to, but he never did. Even when I was naked, his gaze was dispassionate. I felt more like a sister to him, or a pet, than a sexual being.
Finally, Elder Wattle sets me free.
I step out of his office and onto the sun-bleached church campus, struggling to breathe.
That wasn’t therapy. Therapy was when I went to grief counseling, after my parents died. It’s supposed to help, not harm. I feel harmed, violated. I’ve lived it again, only worse—with their judgment.
Brayden will be here to pick me up soon. I hurry to another building and try to find a sliver of shadow to stand in. There, beneath a metal sign outlining the seven levels of Seven Blessed Days Church, I pull my phone from my pocket.
A search for grief counseling + Inderjit brings up his full name, and the name of his practice. When I dial, I expect to be sent straight to a messaging system. However, a woman answers. “Sharma and Crowne Counseling. How can I help you?”
“I’m…looking for therapist recommendations. I’ve been to Inderjit’s grief counseling group before, and I need someone to talk to.”
“Hold on just one second.” Her tone is warm, comforting. Why does that make me want to weep?
The phone gives a soft tone, and then I hear him. Inderjit. His voice is also warm, like he understands what I’ve been going through before I can even tell him. “Hello, this is Inderjit Sharma.”
“Inderjit, this—it’s Alice. Alice Meeks. I don’t know if you remember me—”
“Alice. I remember you. I cannot tell you how happy I am that you’re alive. What do you need?”
“Counseling. Therapy. Something…not with my church.”
“I understand.” He pauses a moment. “I would love to work with you, but based on what I know of your experiences, I think you’d do better with someone more experienced in trauma cases. Can I recommend you to my partner, Cammie?”
“Sure, anyone.” It’s hard to push out the words. My throat feels full, like I need to cry. “But, I…I need someone fast.”
“I understand. We can get you started, and if for some reason you don’t feel comfortable with Cammie, I have more recommendations, as does she.”
“That’s an option? I can start with her and then, just, move on if I don’t like it?”
“Yes. Therapy is very personal. Your comfort and trust with your therapist are essential.”
Church therapy isn’t like that. It’s with Elder Wattle, or nobody.
I use my notes app to write down the information Inderjit gives me. When we hang up, I feel a thousand times better than I felt when I left Elder Wattle’s office.
There’s one more thing to do. I open up my text messages and find the message from Lincoln and Cody. I write back, I’ve missed you both.
Immediately after sending it, I consider un-sending it. If Brayden sees this, he’ll be scared for me. Disappointed.
Then again, Brayden fucked Jericha. I’m disappointed, too.
CODY - NOW
Jordan and Alexei bicker while looking over the photos Jordan took at her last stake-out. Jordan shakes her head of dark, curly hair as she points to one on the desk between them. “This is the motherfucking money-shot, comrade.”
“I told you not to call me comrade—”
“Okay, enough.” I sit forward in my seat. “Alexei, she calls you that to piss you off. Stop taking the bait. Jordan, cut that shit out and find your top five images to share with the client. You have five minutes. If you can’t do it, I’ll let Alexei choose.”
It isn’t even high stakes. The client gets an entire flash drive full of images. We simply like to provide a few printouts for immediate recognition that the job is complete.
Alexei glowers at Jordan and mutters something in Russian. Jordan glowers back before sending an anxious glance my way and returning her attention to the photos.
Alexei doesn’t know I speak enough Russian to get by. He didn’t swear at Jordan. He called her a “beautiful, frustrating woman.”
I wonder if those two will ever hook up. Maybe they already have.
Someone knocks on the door before walking in. Landon, of course. He surveys the table covered in print-outs showing the front of Hotel Rosa Roja, with our client’s husband meeting a woman with a kiss.
“You’re still on the Poltrich case?” he asks. “Isn’t that wrapped up?”
“Just about.” I fucking love closing a cheating case.
Especially when the outcome will be as satisfying as this one.
The manipulative husband insisted on a prenup that would’ve given the wife nothing in the event of divorce, except in the instance of cheating.
According to Mrs. Poltrich, he did that as an insult.
But now it’ll bite him in the ass to the tune of millions of dollars.
“I need your help with another case.” Landon gives me a meaningful look.
Fuck. I knew he’d try to rope me in eventually. “Right now?”
“Yeah.” He waits until I flip him off, then turns around to go back to his office.
Now it’s my turn to mutter something in Russian, about how Landon is an overbearing asshole.
Alexei looks up sharply, an “oh shit” expression on his face, and the tips of his ears turning pink.
I shouldn’t laugh, but I do.
Once I get into Landon’s office, I raise my eyebrows. “This is the Alice Meeks case?”
“You talk about her like she’s a fucking stranger.”
“Because she is. I don't know her anymore.”
“You're such an asshole sometimes.”
He isn't wrong.
I shrug and lean against his desk. “So what do you want me in here for?”
“I want to find her kidnapper.”
“We already tried that.” When she first disappeared, we tried everything. We didn't sleep. We staked out her trash husband, we put all our employees on the case. As time went on, we didn't give up, but we slowed down.
And then yes. A month ago, I gave up. She had been missing for a year. I tried to get Landon to give up, too.
“Now we have more to go on.” He shakes his head, like I'm an idiot.
He's not wrong there, either.
He adds, “Look, the press is already saying she wasn’t kidnapped; they’re suggesting she ran off.”
My head snaps up. “The fuck?”
“They're pointing at the frustrated tradwife angle, the restrictions of Seven Blessed Days, and so on. You can turn on any news channel and see it.”
I don't want to see that shit. I'll probably punch the screen.
Landon's phone buzzes next to my hand. I glance down.
Wonderland: I’ve missed you both.
“You're texting her?” I point at him, then his phone. “What the fuck? She told us to stay out of her life.”
He snatches his phone. “That's not what this text says.”
CODY - THEN
As Brayden went to get his truck, Landon and I faced Alice from across the table at Blackberry Bar.
“So?” She was practically bouncing in her seat. “Do you like him?”
No, I hated him. I hated his smarmy face, his punchable chin, and the way he always had a hand on Alice. I hated the way he decided what she would eat and drink.
I also hated that Landon and I never made a move. We thought she was too young, that she thought of us as dirty old men.
Fucking Brayden Meeks was close to our age, just a year off. He wasn’t worried about coming off as a creep.
We should have pursued her. We’d have done it in a way to see if the three of us were right for each other. Gently. Patiently. Not this love-bombing shit Brayden was doing.
Alice was still waiting for us to tell her what we thought of Brayden. I decided to keep my mouth shut because I was in danger of telling the truth. And the truth was, He sucks, he’s too controlling, he’s bad news all around.
Landon said, “He seems eager to impress us, and you.”
“He is, he really wants you guys to like him.” She beamed. “He knows how close we are.”
Less than a year later, they were engaged, and Alice left us a tearful voicemail explaining that it was better we cut contact out of respect for her relationship.
Brayden played the long game, and he fucking won.