Chapter 10 #2
“It needs to be, ASAP! ’Cuz this is ridiculous!
” I heave another shaky breath, my nerves shot.
“I don’t do this, Sorcha. I don’t do fuzzy little mice or insects with fifty-eleven legs and eyes!
I’m not about that life. My idea of a bug is a butterfly.
A ladybug. Maybe a fruit fly. Not whole-ass tarantulas! ”
Sorcha merely shakes her head as if she’s trying hard not to laugh and then returns to clearing out the rest of the attic.
It honestly isn’t funny at all. I’m up here fighting for my life, and where is Lochlan anyway?
Probably watching me on one of his spy cameras. Probably laughing his ass off as I’m genuinely scared for my life.
It takes another five or ten minutes for me to calm down.
Sorcha offers to swap places with me, citing the scary spider that’s on the loose.
“Don’t worry, miss. If he reappears, I’ll squash him with my shoe,” she promises. Then she holds up her spray bottle of all-purpose cleaner. “Or maybe I’ll spritz him with enough cleaner to drown him.”
A small smile curves my lips as I nod gratefully and then move to start on a new box. But I keep one eye on the corners of the room just in case. That spider’s not about to catch me slipping a second time.
We fall into relative silence for the next hour, punctuated by occasional sneezes and the rustle of old paper.
Not only are my knees aching now, but my back and neck too. I’ve developed a runny nose from the dust floating in the air, and I’ve given up even pretending I’m staying clean.
This is genuinely the hardest I’ve ever worked in my entire life, and I include that one time I helped my cousin Monique move apartments and had to carry a box of books up three flights of stairs.
I complained for a week after that, dubbing it my “manual labor era” as a joke.
But this is definitely not a joke. This seems to be my actual life now.
I’m elbow deep in a box of old documents when I come across a stack of newspaper clippings. They’re wrinkled and yellowed with age.
My eyes scan the various headlines. The first one is from 1977.
CALLAHAN PATRIARCH ACQUITTED IN RACKETEERING TRIAL
There’s a grainy black-and-white photo of a stern-faced man in a suit—Lochlan’s grandfather, maybe?—descending courthouse steps with a smug expression that suggests he knew he was going to walk free all along.
I flip to the next one from 1982.
CALLAHAN FAMILY LINKED TO DOCK WORKERS UNION SCANDAL
Then another from 1998.
FEDS PROBE CALLAHAN BUSINESS HOLDINGS, FIND INSUFFICIENT EVIDENCE
It’s like a highlight reel of organized crime’s greatest hits, spanning decades of the Callahan family evading justice through what I can only assume was a combination of expensive lawyers, intimidated witnesses, and good, old-fashioned judicial corruption.
These people have been doing dirt for generations.
Lochlan didn’t become a monster in a vacuum; he was raised by them, molded by a family legacy of violence and criminality stretching back way longer than I’ve even been alive.
It doesn’t really make me feel sympathy for him. But it does make me understand how someone ends up the way he has.
I’m about to set the clippings aside when I notice there’re a few more. These newspaper cutouts are crisper, the print not yet faded by time.
My stomach drops as I read the headlines.
SENATOR’S DAUGHTER MISSING: CHANTAL BANKS DISAPPEARS DURING MALDIVES VACATION
There’s my face, smiling up at me from the front page of The New York Times.
It’s my official headshot from the gallery website. The recent one where I’m wearing the emerald silk blouse that brings out my lusciously deep skin tone and my braids are freshly done and I look like that girl.
The one who has her whole life figured out and who people see on Instagram and follow for girlboss inspo.
I was so happy. So damn naive and completely unaware that my boyfriend was about to sell me to a dead man.
My hands are shaking as I flip to the next clipping.
SEARCH FOR CHANTAL BANKS ENTERS THIRD DAY AS SENATOR PLEADS FOR INFORMATION
And the next.
SENATOR BANKS MAKES TEARFUL APPEAL: “brING MY DAUGHTER HOME.”
And yet another.
LAMALFA HEDGE FUND MANAGER QUESTIONED IN BANKS DISAPPEARANCE, MAINTAINS INNOCENCE
They’re all here. Every article, every single news story and piece of media coverage about my kidnapping, neatly collected and preserved like souvenirs.
He’s been tracking this. Collecting evidence of the chaos he’s created as if its trophies.
More ways for him to torment me.
That’s exactly what this is. It’s yet another way for him to make me suffer.
My breath draws short, turning into little spurts for air I can’t seem to control.
The attic walls are closing in, pressing down on me, suffocating me with dust and mildew and the weight of my own helplessness.
This isn’t just a kidnapping. It’s entertainment for him.
He’s getting sick pleasure out of toying with me. Putting me into these situations where he can then torture me.
Mentally. Physically. Emotionally.
He wants to make me suffer like the others he’s exacting revenge on.
My belly roils with a sudden queasiness.
“Miss, are you alright?” Sorcha sounds farther away than she is.
I blink and realize I’ve been staring at my own face in newsprint for god knows how long, frozen in place.
“I… I need air,” I manage to choke out. “I need—I have to get out of here.”
Before she can even respond, I’m scrambling to my feet and rushing toward the doorway. I make quick work of the narrow, rickety stairs and the hall that follows.
If I could just make it to a window without iron bars and breathe in some fresh air.
I’m so desperate it doesn’t occur to me that I have no damn clue where I’m even going. I stumble through the third floor, disoriented and desperate for some relief.
Some place, any place that won’t feel so suffocating.
The newspaper clippings flash through my mind. My face under those headlines, smiling at the camera, clueless about what the future had in store for me.
My trauma literally news for everybody in NYC to consume.
It’s so upsetting and depressing I start tearing up without even realizing it. I swipe at my cheeks, annoyed at myself for crying again.
This man has really put me through it, and it’s only been nine or ten days.
I’m halfway down a hall in the west wing before I realize I’ve gone way too far.
Oh crap. Are you kidding me right now?
I spin around, trying to figure out how to go back where I came from, but both corridors in the opposite direction look the same.
Dark and creepy and absolutely not helpful.
I’m about to do eenie meenie miny moe and pray I pick the right one when an ajar door to my left catches my attention.
It’s open enough that I notice a man standing inside with his back to the door. He’s staring at a framed photo on the wall.
But not just any man, it’s Lochlan.
He seems… different.
His shoulders are stiff and tense, his posture not nearly as confident and commanding as usual.
Immediately curious by this sudden change, I find myself creeping closer. I sneak over cautiously, too nosy to pass up a chance to see what he’s looking at.
As I come up on the cracked-open door, I’m able to make out what the framed photo is of.
It seems to be of Lochlan himself, but from the past. He’s noticeably younger, maybe in his twenties. But he’s not alone in the photo; he’s holding up a small boy in his arms, the boy caught mid-giggle.
I shift to edge even closer, causing the floorboard to creak under my foot.
Lochlan whips around, the quiet reverence he’d been indulging in gone. His eyes darken as the rest of his features sharpen into a scowl, and his body coils like a snake ready to strike.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
I stumble backward, shaking my head from side to side. “I… I got lost. The halls all look the same, and I wasn’t paying attention and ended up here by accident, I swear—”
“The attic is on the other side of the house.” He stalks toward me, and I instinctively back up even more until I hit the wall on the opposite side of the hall. “You accidentally wandered into the wing you were told to stay out of?”
“I’m exhausted! I’ve been doing manual labor for, like, six hours, which is basically a human rights violation, by the way, and I was upset because—”
“You were explicitly forbidden from wandering the house!” he hisses over me. “If you think you’re gonna wander the halls and find an escape route or you’re gonna pull one over on me by spying—”
“That’s not what I was doing!” I scream, raising my voice to match his. “I was looking for some fresh air because of what you did!”
His eyes narrow, scanning my face. Taking in the tear tracks and how I’m trembling on the spot, his scowl flips into a slow, crooked grin.
“Did my bratty little captive find the news updates I left for her? Is that what happened? I figured you’d want to keep up on current events.”
“You’re sick, you know that, right?”
“Sick for letting a captive know about what’s going on in the outside world?
” He braces a hand on the wall beside my head, looming directly in front of me to the point there’s no escape.
His face bowed, hovering mere inches away from mine, I’m left trapped.
“You know your father’s been very busy with press conferences, right?
Lots of pleas for your safe return. Very, very moving. ”
“Don’t talk about my father.”
“Why not? He certainly talks about you. He’s gone on and on about how difficult this time is for him.
” Lochlan tilts his head, studying me like I’m a firefly he’s trapped in a glass jar.
“Funny thing, though. When I actually met up with him to discuss your release, he wasn’t nearly as devoted as he seems on camera. ”
My heart slows inside my chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means dear old daddy has priorities. You just might not be as high on the list as you think.”
“You think I’m going to buy that?” I ask stubbornly. “I’m my father’s only child. He spoils me. He… he loves me.”
“Does he, though? I told him my price. You know what he did? Tried to haggle. Offered me favors instead of money. Threw around names like that was gonna impress me.”
“So what? He doesn’t fund criminals!”
“Actually, it’s more like he was a lot more concerned once I mentioned certain… information I have on him. Then he didn’t even hesitate. He folded pretty damn quick.”
His claims do what he wants them to—cause me to go silent, my brain emptying of any rebuttal. It plays exactly into what I’ve always felt about Dad.
Nothing’s more important than his political career. Nothing matters more than his image and his seat in Congress.
Mom couldn’t compete, and neither can I.
I’ve learned the hard way after a lifetime of missed birthdays and canceled daddy-daughter dinners. Really anything that involved him having to set aside time to notice his own kid.
My throat aches as I swallow against the tide of deep-rooted emotion rising up.
“You don’t know anything about my family,” I whisper, hardly convincing even myself.
“I know enough.” Lochlan pushes off the wall, stepping back. “Now get the fuck out of my wing before I give you a real reason to cry.”
He doesn’t need to tell me twice.
So frazzled and thrown off by everything, I turn and do as he says. I rush from the hall, once again scrambling away.
Deep down I know Lochlan’s not the only thing I’m running away from.
It’s the ugly truth that maybe Dad isn’t fighting so hard to bring me home after all.