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She died three days later.
My fists clench around the sink and I have to force myself not to release a bellow of agony.
The soup begins to boil, pulling my attention. I look at my distorted refection in the window above the sink, tell myself to get it together. Then I go through the motions of piecing together a meal. Soup in bowl, water in glass, add ice. Napkin, spoon, tray.
As I step in the living room, blue and red lights reflect against the curtains.
“Thank God,” Sylvia murmurs. “The cops are here.”
I set the tray on her lap, sit next to her. We stare at each other for a moment, listening to the noise outside, unbelieving of the situation we have found ourselves in.
I look away. “Eat, please. It’s time to take your pain pills.”
We shift our attention to the television just as a headshot of each of us fills the screen. The headline:Local woman found.
I quickly change the station to the weather channel, turn up the volume.
We sit in silence, Sylvia, Shirley, and I, for six rounds of Local on the Eights, staring blankly at the television. The noise outside finally fades, the road empties of vehicles. My focus begins to waver and I realize how tired I am.
* * *
At one o’clock in the morning, Sylvia falls asleep on the couch.
I retrieve a pillow and blanket from her room, and cover her up.
The light of the television flickers over her face. Shadows circle her eyes, giving her a ghostly appearance. I look down at the leg she kicked out of the blanket immediately after I covered her.
Six bandages.
I imagine her ripping open her own skin—with her own nail nonetheless.
Who would do that?
I think about my longest stretch in the hole in prison. Six days. Six days caged in a small black room, hardly tall enough to stand in. No light. Total darkness for 144 hours. I had to feel my way to the bucket in the corner meant to serve as a toilet. I was allotted only enough food and water so not to die. The water tasted like dirt, and the food came in the form of a squeeze gel pack. Rats dipped in and out of the room, centipedes as long as my finger crawled up my legs. I was bitten several times. Hurt like fire. Yet, even in that kind of environment, I never once considered slicing myself open with my own nails.
I quietly push myself off the couch, walk to the window and stare into the darkness.
Sylvia said her abductor dragged her out of the house and into a vehicle…but there were no drag marks found on the ground.
She said she was pouring a glass of wine when her abductor pulled a pillowcase over her head. Yet, her wine glass was found upright on the table, the bottle sitting next to it. Wouldn’t she have dropped the glass, and/or the bottle, startled by the confrontation? Shouldn’t the glass be in a million pieces on the floor?
The doctor said Sylvia’s tests indicated that she was not dehydrated—despite having her hands tied to a barn wall for three days. Did someone care for her during her captivity? Give her water? If so, why hadn’t she told anyone?
And lastly, why was Sylvia’s life spared? Why did her abductor guarantee her discovery by sending a letter with her location? Whoever did this wanted her to be found. Why?
I turn from the window, stare at Sylvia.
I study the heavy rise and fall of her chest, the jerk of her arm as she dreams. I am aware of that feeling once again, that red flag in my gut that screams at me every time I see her.
Her story doesn’t add up.
Sylvia Stone is lying. I am as sure of this as my next breath.
Why? To what end?
Is she lyingforsomeone?
Is she protecting someone?
