Chapter 20 #2
I finish sipping on my cucumber mint spritz and shrug. “That’s where I was. It was underground and had stone walls. Very medieval torture chamber vibes.”
“The psycho must’ve transformed his basement into one,” she says, shaking her head in disgust.
“Honestly? It tracks,” Monique jumps in.
She’s seated across from me, her sisterlocks piled into a cute pineapple updo.
Her expression is deadly serious despite the bright floral 1960s vintage Pucci dress she’s wearing.
She leans forward conspiratorially and says, “I read about this underground bunker network in the Bronx. It used to be part of the old subway system before they rerouted. Whole thing got bought up by some shell corporation in the nineties.”
Simone’s arched brow lifts higher. “Neek, what does that have to do with Chantal’s kidnapping?”
“Girl, I’m saying these kidnappers have whole networks to stash people,” she answers. “You think all these people going missing in the news are disappearing into thin air? Make it make sense.”
“I think you’ve been listening to too many true crime podcasts,” Simone says.
“That’s why I stay ready. Nobody’s ever going to catch me slipping. You see how Chantal’s kidnappers are running circles around the NYPD?
It’s been weeks, and they’re no closer to solving the case.
But Detective Neek is on it,” she explains, winking.
She reaches into her vintage Gucci handbag and pulls out a manilla folder.
“I’ve been putting together a theory sheet.
So there’s this other missing woman married to a New York City councilman.
Wealthy, connected, disappeared about eight months ago from a yacht in the Hamptons.
But here’s the wild part—the physical description Chani gave of her captor?
Short, stocky, with a limp? It’s a match. ”
“I mean… there’s a lot of short and stocky men out there,” I mumble.
“Sounds more like a coincidence,” Simone says.
“There’s no such thing. I’m telling you, this is connected. I’m thinking about hiring an independent investigator. We need to get to the bottom of this.”
“Neek,” I groan. “You can’t start investigating my kidnapping like it’s some true crime show. It’s an official police investigation.”
She holds up her hands. “All I’m saying is it’s probably connected. Erica Cranston didn’t just fall off the face of the earth. They’ve probably got her in a different medieval dungeon somewhere.”
“That’s unhinged,” Simone mutters.
“It is. But to catch a criminal, you’ve got to get in the mind of one.”
“Neek, I think instead of the fashion business, you missed your calling as a detective.”
“Well, what do you expect? When somebody messes with my cuz, I’m not about to let that go down,” she says. “What did you say his voice sounded like again?”
Simone pauses between bites of her quiche. “She said it was gravelly like Batman.”
“Um, how about we talk about something else?” I mumble.
Monique reaches over and pats my hand. “Of course, cuz. How about we decide what we’re actually doing after this brunch because you know me—I’m ready to hit that new thrift store on Madison.”
“Ooh, the one with all the vintage designers?” Simone asks.
I release a sigh of relief as the topic of conversation finally pivots. It’s as if I’ve been holding my breath from the time we first sat down for brunch.
But I’m doing that a lot these days since most people who come in contact with me want to know about the kidnapping.
Sim and Neek are two of my favorite people on this planet, and even they’ve been unable to hide their curiosity.
Monique tells us about a first date she went on with a high-profile attorney that’s showing promise. We laugh along at her story about how he took her out to a Korean restaurant and the two bonded over their shared love of the cuisine.
“He let me sample his bulgogi! Tell me that’s not husband material,” she says.
Simone nods, impressed. “Seven figures and a foodie who shares? Sounds like a keeper.”
The three of us laugh as we finish our brunch and then vote on our next stop. Monique wants to hit up the upscale thrift store that’s recently opened while Simone votes for the oldie but goodie, Bergdorf’s.
I’m the tie-breaker, choosing the latter.
I’m totally up for it… at least until I’m not.
When we enter Bergdorf’s luxurious store that’s a shopaholic’s version of heaven, I immediately feel overwhelmed. The scent of expensive perfume is too potent, and the many glittering departments and thousands of items for sale stimulate me to the point I feel dizzy.
The crowds only make it worse. So do the bright lights and cheery music.
I flinch when a pair of shoppers pass by too closely and their shoulders brush mine.
“Chani?” Monique says, frowning. “What’s the matter? You good, girl?”
“Um… I… um… I actually think I need some fresh air.”
Simone and Monique share a look and then promptly go into bestie mode. On either side of me, they escort me from the large, luxurious department store and snap at anybody who is in our way.
“Move!” Monique says, her resting bitch face fully activated for my crisis. “Fashion emergency coming through. Get out of the way, Susan!”
A startled blonde stumbles over her own two feet to clear our path, which would be hilarious if I didn’t already feel like I’m about to pass out.
The spring air rushes me at once when we make it onto the sidewalk. I draw in a deep breath and close my eyes to remind myself I’m fine.
I was just overstimulated. I’m not as used to crowded public spaces as before.
“Maybe this was too much too soon,” Simone says. “We’ll try again some other time.”
I nod, grateful for the excuse to go. “Yeah, I’m actually kind of tired. I didn’t sleep much last night. I’ll text you both later.”
My bestie and cousin both offer comforting smiles, but they sense the same thing I do.
I’m not myself, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever again be the Chantal Banks they once knew.
I’m relieved when I make it back to Dad’s penthouse and find Dayna already gone for the day. Dad still hasn’t made it home, probably in the middle of more campaign strategy with Stephen.
Kicking off my Valentino flats, I pad barefoot through the large apartment, gaze set on the Manhattan skyline through the tall windows.
It’s technically the same skyline I used to stare at from Lochlan’s estate, except from the opposite direction.
At the time I had longed for freedom. For my old life back.
But now as I look at it, my mind goes to my captor, and I wonder how he’s doing. The last time I saw him he was a bloody mess, literally shot in the stomach yet more concerned about me.
Is he okay? Has he managed to evade the Callahans after the confrontation on that road? Is he still plotting revenge?
I’d feel sooo much better if I could at least speak with him. Thoughts of finding a way to contact him have entered my mind.
What if I could find a way to reach out? Would it be insane to check on my captor?
What is wrong with me that I’m even wondering this?
My feelings for him had to be some form of Stockholm Syndrome. That’s what I’ve told myself every time I find myself thinking about him.
…even missing him.
It has to be some psychological trick I adopted in order to cope with being kidnapped. Yet no matter how many times I tell myself this, I’m still longing to speak to him. See him again.
The ache in my chest deepens.
Lochlan is a bad man. He’s hammered that point home again and again. But you know what? He’s also honest almost to a fault.
He keeps it real and doesn’t hide the ugly parts of himself. Optics don’t mean shit to him.
…and it’s become even more refreshing as I’ve returned to my old life. I didn’t have to hide myself either.
Lochlan knew I was spoiled and prissy. He called me brat for a reason.
But he also accepted these things about me, finding it attractive that I stood my ground and advocated for myself.
Our relationship wasn’t just about me being a young, fun plaything he got to show off on his arm like the other men I’ve dated.
It was a constant push-and-pull where we challenged each other and then gave in when the attraction became too much.
I shake my head and turn away from the Manhattan skyline. I’m such a mess and don’t know what to make of any of it.
My phone buzzes, and I snatch it up, noticing Dad’s name on the screen. A little spark of hope flickers through me as I answer.
“Hey, Daddy. You on your way?”
“Sweetheart, listen—” he pauses, sounding distracted against the backdrop of other people talking.
“It turns out something came up. Some of the campaign donors have invited me to dinner at Gallagher’s Steakhouse to discuss the upcoming gala event.
They say it’s important we finalize the details.
You understand why I would have to take them up on the offer. ”
My heart sinks and I mumble, “Oh… okay. Right.”
“I’m so sorry. I know we had plans, but this donor gala could make or break the campaign.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. It sounds real important.”
“I’d bring you along, but it would only be stressful for you, and you need rest right now. I’ve already called Dayna. She’s on her way back so she can look after you for the night.”
“That’s okay,” I say quickly. “You know what? Neek mentioned coming over with takeout. I’ll just let her know I’m available now.”
It’s a lie, but it’s not the first one I’ve told in recent weeks.
“Right, right. That sounds excellent. We’ll do a rain check, okay, sweetie?” he says. “I’ll even take you to Cartier. I haven’t forgotten that yellow diamond tennis bracelet you had your eye on—”
“Dad, it’s fine. I’ve got to go. You, um, get back to your campaign stuff.”
“That’s my girl. Love you, sweetheart.”
He hangs up before I can say it back, which only makes me sigh again.
Tossing my phone onto the sectional sofa, I can’t even say I’m surprised. Dad claimed we’d do our daddy/daughter dinner like old times.
But the gag is, him canceling last minute is just like old times.
Dad always used to do this when I was a kid. He did it so often I learned to brush it off. I told myself the consolation gifts were enough.
My mind goes back to Lochlan, and how he told me Dad was all about his political career and campaign donations… even when I was missing.
It mattered more to him than bringing me home. At the time it struck a nerve.
As Dad once again chooses his career over dinner with me, I can’t say Lochlan was totally off.
Instead of calling Monique (or even Simone), I decide to distract myself another way.
Sorcha would be proud as I wander the penthouse and search for an area to clean or organize. Dayna does an excellent job herself, but I’ve gradually come to enjoy stuff like gardening and organizing pantries.
I decide on the hallway closet outside Dad’s home office. It’s been chaotic for years now, with Dad stuffing boxes upon boxes of files from his position in Congress inside.
With only one arm, I’m obviously extremely limited, but like always, I work with what I’ve got.
Armed with a stepstool due to being vertically challenged and deep determination to take my mind off the hot mess that’s my life, I carefully climb up and set to work.
I’m able to balance each box in one arm as I pull them out of the closet and start reordering them on the hallway floor.
By the time I’m done, Dad’s messy closet will be neat and orderly, and I’ll have successfully distracted myself.
As I’m on my knees alphabetizing some of Dad’s files, I wonder how Sorcha’s doing, and if she ever did shoot her shot with Robby.
I’m reaching for another box when I realize this next one doesn’t belong to Dad. It’s labeled GLADYS – PERSONAL.
It’s a box of Mom’s things. Promptly lifting the lid, I start digging inside and find exactly what I’d expect.
Things like old photos, birthday cards I made her when I was a kid, a dried flower, her favorite silk scarf that still smells like her perfume.
I press the scarf to my face and breathe in deep, both comforted and saddened by how it reminds me of her.
Then I notice the stack of papers underneath. I pull them out, frowning at the official letterheads and blocks of small print.
They’re medical bills from her cancer treatment.
But that doesn’t make sense.
Dad said he handled all of that. He told me Mom had the best care money could buy, and that he spared no expense despite the fact they were in the middle of a divorce.
Yet these bills are stamped OVERDUE in huge red letters.
FINAL NOTICE. SENT TO COLLECTIONS. CARE TERMINATED.
I flip through them, my frown deepening with each page. Thousands of dollars in unpaid treatments. Threatening letters from collection agencies. Notices from the hospital demanding payment or care will no longer be provided.
The dates are from when she was still alive. When she was still fighting.
I gasp as I stare at these unpaid bills and wonder what could possibly be going on. Did Dad fail to pay for her treatment like he claimed, or is this some kind of misunderstanding?
The shock runs so deep, I’m on the cold hallway floor for almost an hour sorting through the bills. Suddenly I have a whole new slew of questions I don’t have answers to.
But I’m damn sure going to find out.