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My father, ladies and gentlemen.
Always taking up new, hip hobbies. Like kidnapping.
He’s obviously new at it because he made some beginner errors. Like the duct tape. And leaving me alone. Seems Bill Lamont hasn’t gotten any smarter over the last decade. He always underestimated me to his detriment. Why mess with tradition?
Just then I hear heavy footsteps coming down the hall.
When I was younger, that sound always set my nerves on edge. My body has the reaction ingrained into its DNA, and no matter if I’m stronger, smarter, and tougher now, my heart rate picks up.
But when my father opens the door, I keep all trace of fear off my face.
I don’t let him see anything at all as I play unconscious.
“Fuck this,” he mutters. And that’s all the warning I get before he grabs the front of my shirt, hauls me up, and slaps me.
Hard.
I may know how to take a hit, but a gasp still escapes at the shock of the sting.
“You awake now?” My father shakes me, and pain collides in shocking ways, ricocheting throughout my skull. The dull throb from the knockout hit melding with this new sting. There’s a strong iron taste of blood in my mouth. Seems my tooth caught my lip in the wrong way during his blow.
I shouldn’t do it. I know I shouldn’t.
But I’ve never been able to fully stifle knee-jerk, irresponsible urges around my father.
I spit a glob of blood into his face.
Bill drops me, and I land hard on my hip. Stumbling backward, he curses my name and tugs off his shirt to wipe the drool and gore off his cheek.
With him in front of me shirtless, I acknowledge the one department my father hasn’t been lazy in is his workout routine. Mid-forties and he’s still roped in wiry muscle. If only he’d set up my old bedroom as his weight room. I’d have a lot more to work with once I get time alone to search for weapons.
“You’re disgusting,” he hisses at me.
“And you’re pathetic, jellybean.”Never antagonize your captors, I often tell my clients. Why can’t I listen to my own advice and keep my mouth shut?
Do as I say, not as I do.
“Bill!” My mother’s voice gives him pause in the act of kicking my rib cage. We both look to the room’s open door.
And there she is. The woman whose face I always wish I could never see in my own. She stares back and forth between us, shock in the sky-high set of her brows. Because even for our family, a tied-up beating isn’t normal.
“What did she do?” my mom asks.
Of course. Briefly, I’d let myself hope my mother would be some kind of ally. That she’d let a little bit of selflessness into her heart.
Naive.
I should have known she’d never truly question my father. That the idea of her daughter deserving this treatment only requires a simple explanation before her sign-off.
“She’s been keeping secrets from us. Trying to steal from us.” My father has the confidence of a man with no conscience.
“What do you mean?” Did I hear a quiver in her voice? Probably at the fear of losing money.
“I mean your mother’s money. We’re going to get it.” His words ring with triumph. The hero saving the day. “Enough to set us up for a long while. As long as your daughter stops lying.”
Funny how it’stheirmoney, but I’mherdaughter.
My dad retrieves a slip of folded paper from his back pocket, handing it over to his wife.
