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Has my family.
That thought has my vision cast in red. She’s my babygirl. But fuck, the idea of a family is something I never considered before her. Now, I can’t imagine the hell I could unleash on anyone that would threaten my wife or my children.
Wife.
I need to take care of that shit right away.
As soon as I get her back.
What the fuck I was waiting for I’m not sure, but as soon as her hand is back in mine we’re going to the courthouse or the church—or whatever she wants—and she’s going to be mine in every way. She’s never getting away from me. Ever. I shake my head, refocusing on the issues at hand and trying to calm my racing heart.
“I don’t need to give you anything.” He answers, breaking into my thoughts. “Your trump card is played. You want her alive. I’ll keep her alive and she will stay alive as long as you never see her again. Never try to contact her again. That’s the deal you are being offered, the only one that lets her live. There is no negotiation. My life for her life. Fair trade. Now get to work planning my new life. Your time, or her time, or both is running out.”
The line goes dead.
12
Ginger
The nausea I’ve been fighting all day is growing with each minute.
I’m straining to hear the muffled whispers of grandmother and the guy. They stepped out onto the front porch but before they did they secured me with a handcuff around one wrist and the other end attached to a pipe on the wall.
I catch words here and there as I lean farther toward the window where the sound is clearest.
“I cared about you.” I think I hear that right from my Grandmother but I can’t be sure.
“I wasn’t good enough for your family then. But now I have what you want.” The man’s low voice seeps through the closed door. “How things change.”
“It was the way it had to be. I kept in touch as you’d asked. Sent you pictures. But, that was all I could do, you know that. My husband, he would have cut us all off if—” Grandmother’s voice trails off as I hear feet moving around on the wooden porch. They are too far away for me to hear anymore.
Every second I imagine Stas busting down the door and making this all go away. But I’m still sitting here, it’s been a couple hours since the phone call, and besides some cryptic information from my grandmother about this man and how he ties into all this it’s been a vacuum of silence.
They come back inside as I feel my insides lurch.
“I need to use the bathroom.” I manage to say through the waves of sickness.
I hate that in this moment I’m feeling so weak. I want to be a granite wall but my body isn’t cooperating.
“You just went.” The man paces by the window as Grandmother sits across from me at the table, hands folded in front of her with that same look of disdain and disappointment that is her permanent make up.
“Fine. I’ll sit here and channel Linda Blair, shall I?” I lower my head, slipping my hands into my hair on both sides and practice some deep breathing. When I sit back up I push my glasses back up and ask, “Can I at least get a cold towel or something?”
Heat begins to raise in my core and the room feels like it’s pulsating.
“Get her a bucket or something. She looks green.” He heads toward the front door as his phone begins to ring. “I’ll be back.”
I turn my head and look through my dangling hair at my grandmother, who isn’t moving.
“Just let me go to the frickin’ bathroom! I’m sick. What am I going to do? There’s nothing in there. No gun hidden behind the toilet. It’s practically just a hole in the stupid floor.” I take a deep breath and sit up, staring her down.
She presses her lips into a thin line, drawing her brows together.
“Go. But you do anything funny and you’ll regret it.” She reaches into the pocket on the side of her skirt and draws out the tiny key, then unlocks my wrist and nods toward the small bath just off the kitchen.
“Didn’t think you understood the concept of regret there, dear Grandma.” I take ginger steps forward, each one seeming to only push the bile up in the back of my throat.
The smell inside the bathroom is so pungent I lose my balance. My insides turn and before I can take a breath, I’m heaving whatever was left in my stomach into the stained bowl of the commode.
When the retching finally stops, I step to the sink, pull off my glasses and set them aside and throw cold water on my face, then look in the mirror and realize the guy was right, there’s a green tinge to my usually white skin.
