His touch grounded her, as it always had. She took a trembling breath, reached out and gripped his hand. “She wouldn’t stand him up, would she?” There was hope in the last word. Hope that her daughter was abandoning this marriage. A humorous development, considering she had been thanking her lucky stars just one day prior. Julia had done well. Her new husband was successful. Adored the ground she walked on. Would do anything to make her happy. But now, there were only two possibilities. Something was terribly wrong, or Julia had cold feet. She prayed for the latter.
Her husband held her gaze steadily, more moisture in his eyes than she had seen in quite some time. “I don’t know, Debra. I really don’t know.”
Down the hall, there was the sound of shouting, and she wiped her eyes. “Let’s go back. See if anyone’s heard anything.”
Chapter 60
She was not responding. They had found her on the floor, still tied to the chair, a pool of blood around her head. One man had panicked, calling the man who shouldn’t have been called. And now they stood, in a circle around her body, repeatedly checking for a pulse and untying her limbs. They carried her to a bed, a bed that had already hosted its share of dead bodies, and prayed that hers wouldn’t join the ranks. If she was to die, it was only by his order. Now was not the time, and failure was unacceptable.
♦♦♦
In actuality, I never had a chance to walk down that aisle. It was never in the cards, plans made to remove me from the equation long before I ever tried on wedding dresses, long before invitations were sent. I don’t think dramatics was their intention. Perhaps they thought that snatching me the night before would be enough advance notice to hold the ceremony—to call guests and cancel the event. As it happened, my absence was not discovered in time, and even then, was suspected to be a case of pre-wedding cold feet.
♦♦♦
“Can we panic now?” Rebecca screamed into Olivia’s face, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her roughly, the girl’s thin body shaking like wet spaghetti. “It is time, the guests are seated, and they are about to start the damn music!”
“Stop yelling at me! It’s not my fault she isn’t here!”
“Who called her cell last?” one of the wedding planners asked anxiously.
“I did,” Julia’s mother said, wrapping her sweater tightly around her shoulders. “Her voicemail is full.”
The strands of music almost missed their ears, drifting among the room casually, weaving easily between their strained words. The second planner looked up with a stricken look. “Oh my God. They’re starting.” She fumbled for her sleeve, pushing back the material to reveal a watch face. “Early.” She fled the room, her heels clattering down the hallway.
The room sat in silence, the chords of the song changing as it reached its crescendo.
Becca finally spoke. “So ... what do we do?”
The remaining wedding planner spoke. “We go. Just like we planned. It’ll take ten minutes to do the procession. We’ll just have to pray she shows up.”
♦♦♦
“She’s breathing,” the man spoke rapidly, and the doctor shot him an irritated look.
“I’m well aware of that; I did attend medical school. Please back up and let me examine her.”
“I’m just saying, she must have only been out for a few minutes. I think she’s just sleeping now. Might still be from the chloroform. If she’s breathing then she’s not dead, right? And we checked for a pulse—it seems ... present.”
The doctor bit back a sarcastic response and started his examination. “It means she’s not dead yet. That could all change quickly depending on what is going on with her brain. At the minimum, we’re talking a concussion. What are these?” He ran his fingers lightly over a bandage on her shoulder, blood staining its edges.
“We cut her. With a knife. When we found her on the floor. Some thought she was faking. But she didn’t flinch.” He chewed at the edge of his cuticle nervously.
The doctor raised his eyebrows but said nothing, moving to the front of her body and lifting her head slightly, his fingers gently probing the wound on the back of her head.
“Best I can tell: she was unconscious when you found her. You’re right in that she is sleeping—that can be from her concussion. Her pupils show that she was sedated recently, that she might have just gained consciousness recently before her head trauma. The drugs are still in her system, and could partially account for her state. But head trauma is a messy and unpredictable animal. Normally, I’d do a CT or MRI scan. But I’m assuming that this is a situation where you don’t want her to be moved?” He glanced at the men, one giving a silent nod. “Well, I don’t want to put any more drugs in her system. From the looks of the wound, and the fact that she is sleeping right now, the impact on her skull was pretty severe. All we can do is wait, and let me talk to her when she wakes up. A concussion can be deadly, but we’ll know in a few hours if you’ll have another body to deal with.” He pulled off his latex gloves and dropped them in the closest trashcan. “I’ve got to get back to the house. Call me if anything changes.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
Hands were shaken and the doctor left, leaving the two men alone with her, their eyes meeting above her body, silent communication passing between them.
“The boss is gonna be pissed.”
“Not if she pulls through. You still got her phone?”
“Yeah. Lots of calls and texts. Should I respond to any more of them?”
“No. Drive a few miles away and kill it. I’ll watch her. Talk to the boss while you’re gone. Feel out the situation.”
There was a silent power struggle, and then the man spoke, “Okay. I’ll be back soon. Call me if she wakes up.” He glanced at the girl, then back at the man. “I’ll be back soon.”
“And I’ll be here.”
Chapter 61
Brad exhaled, his hands clasped before him, the collar on his tux scratchy. Finally. Fourteen months after she had walked into his office. Thirteen months after she had broken in and stolen his heart. The year-long engagement had dragged on, punctuated by empty nights where she stayed at her house, nights he realized how much he wanted and needed her to be his wife. He felt lost without her—incomplete—like he was missing out on something incredible. She had become, in those twelve months, his best friend as well as soul mate, the power of their relationship terrifying in its perfection. And now, finally, he would have security. Would have the strength of their marriage. A message to his family and to the world that they were, and always would be, together. Musical chords began, the orchestra gradually joining in, bit by bit, until the entire ensemble was participating, their notes rising in a strong crescendo. His heart swelled along with the music, until he thought it would burst, and he smiled despite himself, a break in the dam that they had reached this day safely.
The doors opened and the wedding procession began, Julia’s mother entering to the tones of Bach.
Had Brad paid any attention during the procession, he would have noticed the tight faces of the women, their hands clenched around their bouquets, worried glances flitting from one bridesmaid to the next. But he didn’t pay attention to them. He stared, fixated on the large arched entrance, and waited. Waited for Lohengrin’s March to begin and for the love of his life to appear.
Tones played, and he worked through the processional schedule in his mind, trying to sort through how many more individuals would walk through that arch before Julia. It had to be soon, her mother and bridesmaids having already made the slow walk. His palms sweated as he stared at the space, waited for her to appear. A small blonde appeared, Catalina, his niece, throwing petals into the air with happy abandon, a small tuxedoed boy at her side. The presence of Catalina reminded him that Julia was next, rose petals an indication of her pending arrival.
The music changed, familiar notes beginning, the announcement of the bride. The audience turned as one, a hushed silence falling over the room. He attempted to breathe slowly, attempt
ed a calm veneer, but couldn’t stop his mouth, grinning widely. This was one of those moments that defined—one of the few moments in his life where he was certain he was in the right place, at the right time.
The music continued, the audience waited. Waited. Strands floating through the air, the rise and fall of notes sweet and perfect in their promise. There was uneasy movement through the audience, heads turning, voices whispering. Then the notes ended, silence fell, the doorway remained empty, and Brad’s world ended.
Silence. It was often the worst and loudest sound in the world.
♦♦♦
The time at which my body chose to wake was an unfortunate one. Or very fortunate, however you chose to view it. It’s said that when your brain reawakens, its initial moments are perfectly clear, superhuman in their speed of thought, the brain pure before it is again bogged down by thoughts, worries, and unnecessary details. I awoke to the sound of a zipper, my legs spread, my lower body naked in a cold room. I opened my eyes, looking at a stained tile ceiling and bright fluorescent lights. I felt a hand, the palm calloused and rough, grip my thigh, felt something brush against my mound and I tensed in response, my mind shuddering through recent events as understanding of my situation suddenly came into focus.
I did not move, I did not scream. I waited, my eyes closing, and tried to ignore the events happening below my waist. My mind shuffled the cards of Ben’s training, picking up and discarding different defensive strategies. I listened, trying to figure out if anyone else was in the room. But all I could hear was one, his hard breaths, the slick sounds of his hand as he prepared himself for entrance. He seemed to be in a hurry and suddenly reached up, leaning forward as he pulled my shirt up, over my breasts, his free hand roughly gripping a breast in one hand. The change in position, the hand suddenly within my grasp, changed everything, my mind focusing on the golden opportunity that was suddenly presented.
Chapter 62
Brad moved, taking the steps quickly, moving down the aisle, crushing delicate petals in his wake, strides increasing as he passed through the crowd, fixated on and anxious to get through that arch and into the arms of his bride. His mind struggled with the possibilities that were battling for attention—all of the reasons why she hadn’t walked down that aisle.
He burst through the opening, entering the ornate lobby, his eyes skimming over the few individuals there, looking for a white dress, then her face, then any sign that would point him to her. A blonde stepped forward, clipboard in hand, a tight face that screamed ‘problem.’ He focused on her, recognizing her features: one of the overpaid wedding planners Rebecca had insisted on. “Where is she?”
“She ... ahh ...” Her hands flapped nervously, a clipboard still in one hand, creating a puff of air. He had the urge to grab them, submit them into stillness.
“Where is she?!”
“We don’t know. We haven’t seen her this morning, and she isn’t answering her phone.” The calm voice behind him caused him to turn, and he looked to a brunette with a direct stare. The other planner. This one seemed to have a hold on her emotions, something he appreciated.
“And no one planned on telling me?”
“We thought it was cold feet. It still could be. It’s common, though the brides normally arrive by the start of the wedding.”
“It’s not that. She wouldn’t do that.” And she wouldn’t. If Julia was having second thoughts, or had decided not to wed, she would have told him. Communication had never been a problem between them, even if they didn’t like what the other person had to say. He pulled out his phone and called the police.
Holding the phone away from his mouth, he spoke to the woman. “Get the bridesmaids. Have them call her roommates and find out when they saw her last. And get all of these people out of here.”
She nodded and turned, walking off with quick and efficient strides. Stevie walked in and Brad snapped his fingers, catching his attention. Covering the phone with his hand, he communicated everything to Stevie in one determined look. “My father. Find out where he is.”
Chapter 63
A. Arm Across. I moved, wrapping my legs around his torso and pulling him tightly to my body, my left hand grabbing his right arm and shoving it across his body. He fell toward me, his eyes meeting mine in surprise.
S. Scoot away. I moved quickly, sliding my body away from him, pushing him down my chest. He swung his free arm upward, but the additional space made him unable to reach my face.
L. Leg over his shoulder. Putting his trapped arm in my other hand I waited until he reached back with his free hand and then I swung my leg over his shoulder, his head now trapped between my legs. He gritted his teeth, glaring at me, struggling to free himself.
Brazilian Jujitsu was developed with one main focus: to allow smaller and weaker practitioners to defeat much larger and stronger opponents, using leverage in ways that couldn’t be overcome by strength or size. I had practiced this move for five months, able to easily submit Brad, a man of massive proportions and strength. This man, a hundred and seventy pounds of coward, caught off-guard and unprepared, was a cakewalk.
A. Ankle. I released his hand and grabbed my raised ankle, tucking it under my other leg and tightened my legs, causing a scissoring motion to occur on his neck.
P. Press Head. Pressing down on his head, I squeezed my legs.
The triangle choke did not kill through asphyxiation; instead it restricted blood flow to the head while making breathing difficult, causing the victim to pass out. I held tightly, unable to see his eyes, staring at the top of his head, a head that struggled, his free arm reaching but unable to inflict damage, and knew the minute that unconsciousness hit, his entire body going limp against me. I continued the hold, using the time to look around the room, taking my first assessment of the space. It was a small room, consisting of the bed we now laid on and little more. White linoleum floors, one metal folding chair, a squat counter, trash littering its surface. The door to the room was closed, giving me no clue into what lay behind it or if it was locked. I had two options at this point: release the man, giving myself anywhere between thirty seconds and a minute before he would gain consciousness; or, I could maintain the hold for another four minutes, until his brain starved for oxygen and he died.
I tightened the hold and waited, starting a slow countdown in my head.
♦♦♦
Very few people have held the life of another in their hands. Have had the horrific opportunity of choosing whether someone lived or died. I had no desire to kill this man. Horribly maim and disfigure him, yes. Lock him away in prison, yes. Death was a sentence I was not equipped to give. And four minutes was a long time to contemplate, a long time to calculate the time I would need to escape. But thirty seconds to escape, when facing a closed door, with no idea of what was on the other side—it was not enough time. So my choice was clear. Save him or save myself.
One minute. I looked down; the only part of the man visible was the top of his head. Spiky hair, thin enough that I could see pale skin underneath. I wondered if he had a family. If I was killing an innocent child’s father. I closed my eyes, forced myself to breathe, and counted. Listened hard to see if I heard anyone. Four minutes was a long time. I could be putting myself at risk waiting that long. Maybe it’d be smarter to stop. To release him and run like hell. Pray that a clean exit lay on the other side of that door.
Two minutes. My arms were tired. I had a cramp in my right bicep, a cramp that was screaming for attention. I shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position, and second-guess my plan. I was killing this man. This was not a movie, or a book. He was dying, the life leaving him with each passing second, and would never wake up again. Would never hug his wife, or kiss his daughter. Would I be able to handle this? Was this one move that would mentally fuck me up for the rest of my life? And how selfish was I that my main concern, while killing someone, was about the physiological impact on myself? I focused on my breathing and told my whiny bicep to man th
e fuck up. I forced myself to slow my counting, and listen, but could hear nothing from outside the door.
Three minutes. Who did this man work for? Why was I taken? I thought I was safe, a non-issue. I thought Brad’s family would stay away, and any slight risk from outsiders would start after my marriage. I can’t do it. No matter who this man was, what his purpose, I couldn’t kill him. Maybe I wasn’t mentally strong enough. Maybe I wasn’t cruel enough. Three minutes had been long enough. Long enough for him to still live.
I moved before I could second-guess the decision, shoved his weight off my body, his mass hitting the floor with a dull sound. I avoided his face, avoided the slack expression of unconsciousness staring accusingly out at me. I sat up, swinging my legs off the bed, testing the stability of my limbs before standing. My head roared with pain, my throat was dry, and I was still naked from the waist down. I glanced over and saw gray fabric, my pants from last night, bunched in a heap on the floor, purple panties peeking out of the sweats. I yanked the clothing on, rushing to the door and twisting the knob, letting out a moan of relief when it turned. I hesitated, unsure of what lay on the other side, then yanked hard, bursting through the door and into an empty hallway.
Twenty seconds.
I ran, worn linoleum underneath, my eyes picking up and processing items as I moved. I seemed to be underground, the hall artificially lit, the rooms I passed windowless and dark. It was almost empty, my eyes picking up on offices and storage rooms flying past. I saw the sign for a stairwell and flung open the door, headed up the empty stairwell, my bare feet quiet on concrete steps. As I climbed, I thought, trying to plan some sort of strategy if I encountered someone. I had no weapon, no phone, weak arms and legs, exhausted from four minutes of exertion. It was a depressing equation my brain had no solution for.