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“I just feel…” I can’t find the words. Mama Jenn holds out her arms, and I concede, allowing myself to be wrapped in her embrace.
“I know,” she states as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I know you feel helpless, useless, and afraid, but you need to be strong for her. You need to fight for her.” As if on cue, my phone rings, and I jump out of Mama Jenn’s arms and rush to the kitchen where it’s lying on the counter.
“What’d you find?” I ask, not letting Jamie get a word in edgewise.
“Well, hello to you, too,” he barks as if nothing important is going on and he just called to shoot the shit.
“Jamie,” I warn, not in the mood for his antics.
“Jesus, I was just gonna say a hello would have been nice.” I grunt my reply and wait for him to continue. “I found the guy that left the comment,” he starts, and I sigh in relief. When I got off the phone with JJ hours ago, I sent Jamie a text with a screenshot of the comments on Clara’s video, specifically the ones that mentioned seeing her later. I told him that I wanted him to do whatever it took to find the son of a bitch who sent her that message and send me his location. I had a sick feeling that wherever the guy was, would be where we’d find Clara.
“Thank God,” I whisper, hoping he has even better news than that.
“But…” My stomach sinks, and I lean my head against the kitchen cabinets. “I don’t have his location yet. I’m close. His name is Brandon Phillips, and he’s local. I can tell you that much.”
“How do you know?” I ask, wanting to know as much about this fucker as I can.
“I found his social media accounts. All the geotags are local, but I’m having a hard time tracking down his actual address. I’m close. Give me another hour.” Without thinking, my fist goes through the cabinets as I scream into the phone.
“She might not have an hour! You have twenty minutes.” I hang up. My chest heaves, my breathing labored. The new silence is deafening. I think back to my 9-1-1 call where they casually told me to wait seventy-two hours before reporting Clara as missing. I knew that when I called Jamie, he was my only hope. My fingers grip the edge of the countertop, my knuckles going white. I look down at my hands and see blood dripping from my knuckles. When I raise my gaze, I notice the fist-sized hole in the solid wood cabinet in front of me.
“Damon, maybe you should sit,” Liam urges, tentatively clasping his hand on my shoulder. I sag against the weight of the unknown. It’s suffocating, and I know the only way for me to breathe properly is to discover where Clara is being held.
“I can’t…” I grit through my teeth. “I can’t sit until I know where she is and that she’s safe.”
Liam says nothing, just looks back at JJ, who’s sitting next to Mama Jenn, talking quietly. I notice her dry her eyes more than once, and I wonder if my outbursts are making everything worse.
“Maybe take a minute, go have a shower, calm down. Leave your phone here. If it rings, I’ll get you.” My eyes lock with Mama Jenn’s, and she gives me a curt tilt of her head. I dip my chin.
“That phone makes a sound…” I mutter, watching him try hard not to roll his eyes at me.
“I’ll run in and get you. I want her back too, you know.”
“I know, man. Thanks.” I take my leave and head into my bedroom. The moment I walk into the room, I freeze. Clara surrounds me. I can see her clothes on my floor, her brush on my dresser, and I know if I smell her pillow, it will have hints of her perfume. I bypass the bed, making my way to the bathroom and start the shower.
I don’t know how much time I spend with the spray pelting my skin, but by the time I get out, the water has long gone cold. My head pounds with the idea of my life without Clara, and I can feel myself start to lose control. I rip the towel off the wall and shut off the water as I wrap the terrycloth around my waist. My reflection stares back at me, and all I see is heartache.
“Please don’t take her away from me,” I beg whoever is listening. I’m not a religious man, but I will become one if it means that I get to see Clara again.
Pounding sounds outside the bathroom door, and I hear Liam shout. “Get out here. Phone!” I don’t care that I’m half-naked. I don’t care that tears stream down my cheeks. I run into the living room and take the phone from Liam’s grip.
I don’t bother with words. I grunt as Jamie says the five words I’ve been waiting hours to hear. “I know where she is.”
19 CLARA
I’ve been down here for hours. The sun is slowly sinking from view, and I know if I don’t do something soon, I’ll regret it. He told me his name is Brandon, as if that would make me forget the fact that he hit me over the head and locked me in his basement. Yet, every time he comes down to check on me, his eyes search mine as if he’s waiting for his feelings to be reciprocated.
Fat chance.
Brandon leaves for the third time in as many hours, and I know from the last two times that I have about thirty minutes of peace. He never touches me, although he alludes to it every chance he gets, making me wonder if he took me only to keep me locked up, or for some other nefarious reason. I take stock of the room for the thousandth time and try to figure out a way out of here. My eyes keep going toward the two small windows near the ceiling, and I know they’re my only shot at freedom.
I know from experience that I can fit through one of them easily—summer camp when I was a camp counselor when one of the kids locked me in a basement—but I know I’m not tall enough or strong enough to hoist myself up and out. I need a ladder…but wouldn’t you know it? There’s no ladder in this psycho’s basement.
My eyes search the room, and I notice a couple of boxes across the way. I slowly and quietly make my way over to test them out. I pick one up, only to find that it’s empty. Fuck! I think to myself, this is not gonna help at all. My eyes scan the room once more and come up with nothing. I sigh and lean back against the concrete wall. My back bows because of the iron pipe sticking out, and I spin around to examine it.
I can climb this sucker and get out.
Knowing this is my only shot, I look at the staircase and listen. No sounds to speak of, so I decide to go for it. I take my bound wrists, lift them above my head, and wrap my fingers around the rusted copper fitting. The moment I hoist myself up, my fingers gripping tightly, my bare feet braced against the concrete wall, I know this won’t work. I need full motion of both my hands. I can’t do this if my hands are bound.
