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Melisa paused for a moment. “Grant, would you consider writing her a letter? Then if she does contact me I could share it with her, and she’d know how you feel. That you want to ‘check on her,’” she finished delicately.
“Yeah, sure. Great idea,” he said, desperate to get off the phone.
After they’d hung up and Grant had been alone once again, he’d spent a full twenty minutes pondering the start of a letter to Melinda. Then instead of writing one he’d stood from his desk and gone back to the woodpile.
A good idea, maybe, but who had the time? There was too much work; on property like this, there was always work. There was comfort in work. There was avoidance in work.
But after an hour of splitting wood, the pressure of his thoughts had become too much. Was what he had done up there actually coercion? He tossed pieces aside, added another log to the block, and swung. Or worse, assault?
Grant rested the maul’s head on the ground and stared at the property’s frozen stream, forcing himself to further ponder the unconscionable. Had Melinda initiated sex with him, not once but twice, because she thought him dangerous and wanted to stay in his good graces? The thought made him physically ill. Every moment, every kiss, every intimate touch—what if she’d thought they would save her life?
Disgust at himself surged through his veins. Barely seeing the round in front of him, he’d heaved the handle skyward and swung it home. A little too aggressively, it seemed, as the stump beneath the log had also split. Grant’s arms burned with effort as his face burned with shame.
Suddenly he was done working. Grant left the split pieces on the ground and left the wedge in the stump—a big no-no, but he couldn’t stop himself. He had something to do and something to say.
Grant had pushed through the back door, not bothering to remove his boots. He tromped down the hall, scattering wood shards onto his father’s rugs. Grant didn’t care. He had to get to his desk. He rounded the doorway to his office and dropped into the chair.
Just a quick note. He selected a piece of paper. He took a pen from the drawer and stared at it. He could do this. A few words would be okay. Nothing too aggressive, just a check-in.
Then he began writing, and then he was unable to stop. Putting the words on paper felt like a trance, and when he was finished he read them as if for the first time. Clunky but heartfelt. He folded the letter away. Worse would be to re-read and tweak it to death.
Grant felt better, but there was something missing. He needed to clear his conscience in a different way. He reached for another piece of paper.
To Whom It May Concern at the Police Department,
I’m writing to confess to the kidnapping of Melinda Sen by means of a fake Kaar at DIA on Sunday, December 2nd, 2018. I took her to a cabin in the mountains and held her there for four days.
Her account of the story should be considered gospel. I am ready and willing to turn myself in at any time. Contact me at the number and address below.
Grant Samson
He tucked both letters into an envelope and sealed it, then wrote her name on the envelope’s face. He felt lighter immediately. Something real had gone into those letters, and Grant felt free again. He felt alive. He drove down below to drop the envelope at Paul’s apartment, then he turned around and came home.
The second he had pulled into his driveway, the anxiety kicked in. What the hell had he done? Could he never leave well enough alone?
Now, nine days later, he was a basket case. His thoughts were on paper, maybe already in Melinda’s possession. Grant positioned a log on the splitting stump, eyed a crack that looked like it would give, and let the maul fly.
Thwack!He’d included a confession. Two pieces split. He grabbed the larger one to split again. She hadn’t called.
Whoosh, thwack!More pieces. She hadn’t texted.
Whoosh, thwack!Piece after piece.
She hadn’t. She just hadn’t.
But.
Go after the girl.Again, Grant let the maul rest on the stumps. Again, he moved as if in a trance toward the house. Where was his phone? She said I could call her.
~
Melinda stared at her phone. Her phone, fully charged, stared back from its place on her coffee table. It was always fully charged now; she couldn’t sleep unless it was. Oh look, a coping mechanism.
Speaking of which, it was time to call her parents. Which one, she didn’t know. But it was time. Three nights ago, she’d dreamed of her mother and father. Last night, of her brother. They were calling to her; it was time to return the favor.
Melinda hadn’t told anyone what had happened, but she’d been overrun with blog topics after the first week of post-liberation hibernation. She’d barely sat down for the last seven days—she’d been too busy crafting and drafting “Rock and a Hard Place Chili,” “Snowed-In Spaghetti,” and “Lost Cabin Muesli,” among others.
“Trapped Tiramisu” was an immediate hit among her internet friends. It was the typical concoction of ladyfingers, espresso, and whipped cream, but she’d trapped treasures between the layers—crumbled pistachios, bitter chocolate flakes, white chocolate mini-chips. The aim had been to represent the surprise joys of being snowbound; the taste had been unusual but satisfying.
