Chapter Three
Detective Simon hates interviewing psychiatrists. They’re all the same, every single one of them. He should know. During his twenty year tenure of chasing murderous psychopaths, he’s interviewed hundreds of them. And in each and every interview, they sit there in their expensive suits and skirts, their nose turned up in the air, citing ‘doctor-patient privilege’ with so much sanctimony Simon wants to gag.
The broad sitting in front of him is no different. Dr. Sheila Wainwright has treated the subject in question for the past decade. Jack Larsen, that rich asshole, is on the run after murdering his father, and this ‘doctor’ refuses to give any information that’s worth a damn.
Detective Simon knows he’s not good looking. He has a mirror. He sees that wiry flop of white hair on top of a forgettable face every morning. He’s small in frame, which makes him appear insignificant. He also possesses no charm to speak of, never has. The detective understands his shortcomings, and knows the only way to get anywhere with people is to make them feel sorry for him.
“Listen,” he says, wrapping his fingertips on the table between them. “Ever since Jack ran, my boss has been riding my ass. It’s an embarrassment for the entire department. Can’t you give me anything?”
Dr. Wainwright straightens her blazer. “I can answer your questions.”
“What did Jack say about his father?”
Dr. Wainwright raises her finger. “Except when I can’t.”
“Let me guess-“
“Doctor-patient privilege.” The doctor shrugs.
He’s getting nowhere with this woman. And it doesn’t help that she’s incredibly hot. She wears her hair pinned back in a bun, and has black glasses, giving her a sexy teacher vibe. Next to her, Simon feels like a schlub. He tilts his forehead towards her, leveling with her.
“Come on, Doc, you know Jack’s guilty. Stop protecting him.”
“I don’t know that he’s guilty. And you don’t either.”
Simon shakes his head. “I’ve been in this business long enough to trust my instinct.”
“Instinct isn’t evidence. By jumping to conclusions without evidence, you aren’t doing your job.”
Simon makes a big show of rolling his eyes. He’s pretty fucking sick of people telling him what his job is. He knows what it is, it’s putting away murderers, rapists, real menace to society types. He takes out the trash so everyone else can live out their candy colored, capitalism soaked lives, all while pretending the darker side of mankind doesn’t exist.
“The guy ran.” Simon holds his hands out in front of him, pleading with her to see reason. “That’s not something an innocent person does.”
Sheila purses her wine colored lips, and pauses for a moment. “Maybe by someone who’s consumed by grief, shock, someone who’s already in treatment for mental issues.”
Simon poises his pen over the paper. “What kind of mental issues?”
Sheila smiles coyly, and gives him an infuriating wink.
*
Did you do it?
The question repeats in Amber’s mind as she sits on the wooden dining table, her legs dangling to the floor like a child. Jack crouches in front of her, his brow furrowed in concentration, as he carefully plucks the remaining thorns from her legs. Jack searches every drawer in the cabin, eventually finding antiseptic cream and bandages. While he tenderly treats her wounds, her tongue shifts in her mouth, prepared to form the words.
Did you kill your father?
But she can’t seem to say anything at all. She’s in shock, yes, and also utter confusion. Jack hasn’t killed, raped, or hurt her in any way yet. What’s his plan? To make sure she’s patched up before she’s thrown in his underground dungeon?
Jack disappears into the small room off of the living area. Inside, Amber glimpses a cot. He digs through a duffel bag that takes up most of the space between the bed and the wall. He returns holding something folded, and silently hands it to Amber.
It’s a large white T-shirt, probably one of his. He mumbles, “put that on,” or something similar, and returns to the bedroom. Amber watches his large figure move back and forth through the door frame. She quickly slips out of her uniform and into his shirt. The shirt is soft and worn, with yellow stains beneath the armpits, even though it smells clean. It’s long enough on her to nearly reach her knees. She wraps her arms around herself, shivering. There’s no heating in here. The stove in the kitchen is filled with cold ashes.
Jack appears in the doorframe, and gestures for her to come towards him. The bandages on her knees rustle together as Amber approaches the room. She glimpses the cot, now covered with a thick, down blanket. If this is where he ties me up, I hope he lets me get under the covers.
Jack stares at her for a few moments, then opens his mouth as if to speak. He thinks better of it and clamps his mouth shut. He makes a sudden movement where Amber stands by the door. She presses her back against the wall, and closes her eyes. The next thing she hears is the door slam. Jack’s gone.
“Did you do it?” she asks the door.
*
With his dirty mistake shut away in the tiny bedroom, Jack paces back and forth, raking his hands through his hair.
You’ve done it now, he taunts himself. You’ve fucked everything up. You’re going to get caught.
A fire starts in his belly. This time, the rage is directed towards himself. He’s supposed to be in hiding. He’s not free to be out chasing pussy. He’s escaped prison, but this is a prison of sorts. The anger gives him energy. He paces furiously in the small space. The electric intensity shoots up his spine, down his arms to his hands, and begs to be let out. His fingers curl all on their own, but Jack himself hurls his fist into the wall. The wood is hard and unforgiving. More damage is done to his hand. He cries out in pain, cradling his hand. Behind the bedroom door, he hears the cot shift, as if Amber’s sitting up.
What kind of monster kidnaps a woman, and keeps her locked away in a cabin? Is it the kind of monster who could kill his own father?
Jack hasn’t used drugs or alcohol since he left the city. For the first time in a long time, his mouth waters for the taste of whiskey. His newly healed nostrils twitch to snort a line of snow white cocaine. He wants something, anything to help him forget what’s locked away in that room.
But he only has his stone cold sober mind, and the brutal fucking cold to distract him. He forces himself to his feet, and goes outside to pluck a few pieces of wood from the pile out back. He lights the fire in the stove with a ritual like concentration.
Does he have to kill her?
He watches the flames grow as they consume the wood. The fire envelopes the timber, smooth like liquid, smothering it until the bark begins to blister and crack. Jack stares into the dancing reds and oranges long enough to begin to see things. The flames curl, twisting in on themselves. In their devious shape, Jack sees his father lying in an unnatural heap on the floor of his office. He’s wearing a pinstripe suit made of Italian wool, his head blown off above his nose.
Jack blinks his eyes quickly, forcing the image away. Since that morning, Jack’s been unable to think of his father in any other way. He doesn’t think of the man who’d squeeze in a few rounds of catch with his son between business meetings, or the man who taught him to go out into the world and take whatever he wanted, which is Jack’s right. He doesn’t see the man who defiantly justified cheating on Jack’s mother. No, all he sees is a bloodied, mangled corpse.
He looks to the bedroom. And now there’s more blood on his hands.
*
The morning sun shines brightly through the window in the small room, consuming the cot in its warm rays. Amber didn’t sleep. She tried, but her brain kept her awake by going over the details of Jack’s case. She silently recited the evidence against him over and over again, as if she’d find something new.
There’s cell phone video of Jack entering his father’s office at the time of death. There was a half-finished glass of scotch with Jack’s DNA. The scene was staged to look like a suicide. Jack had motive. With his father gone, Jack was poised to take over Larsen International.
“Video, scotch, coverup, motive.” Amber repeats this under her breath as the room grows brighter. During the night, she resolved to ask Jack if he did it. Repeating the evidence reminds her to not believe whatever he might say.
She also can’t deny that it’s dangerously exciting. It’s better than reading a novel. She’s living it. She’s the protagonist, watching the events unfold firsthand.
If you get out of this alive, maybe you could write your own book.
It’s a big ‘if,’ but Amber’s determined to survive this. She’s made it this far. Last night she didn’t think she’d ever see the sun again, and here she is. She knows this is through no credit of her own. Jack could’ve killed her if he wanted to.
After the loud crash she’d heard last night, Jack’s been silent for hours. Now, she hears him rustling around outside of her door. There’s the strike of a match as he lights the stove. Her heart pounds rapidly in her chest. Her eyes are fixed on the door, opened as wide as they can go, until the knob turns, and it opens.
Jack and Amber take a moment to consider each other in the light of day. Each wonders how the hell they’d gotten themselves into this situation. Amber pulls up the blanket to cover herself, and folds her knees into her chest. Jack’s standing in the doorframe holding a tray. He’s so handsome, Amber is momentarily distracted from her terror. A dark inkling of desire wishes he’d climb into bed with her, and they could finish what they started last night.
Jack takes heavy footsteps into the room, and places the tray on the foot of the bed. There’s a piece of bread covered in red jam, and a mug of coffee.
“Eat that,” Jack demands, then exists the room, slamming the door behind him.
The last thing Amber wants is food. Her stomach is twisted into knots. She fights nausea with every small bite. But she finishes it all, even the coffee, which must be instant, because there’s undissolved crystals at the bottom. She knows the smart thing to do is to listen to what Jack says.
Later, Jack returns to collect the tray. He digs in the duffel bag beside the bed, and produces a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring at the waist.
“Get dressed and come outside,” Jack says, tossing the pants to her. He leaves, again, slamming the door behind him.
The pants are huge on Amber. She has to roll up the hems several times, and tie the drawstring tight around her waist. She wishes she could make herself more presentable. The best she can do is smooth her hair with her hands, and tuck it behind her ears.
She doesn’t waste any time. In less than a minute, she’s dressed, and walking out the door. Jack’s standing in the middle of the room. He seems to fill the entire cabin with his presence. He barely glances at Amber, then gestures for her to sit on the couch. She does as he says, folding her hands in her lap obediently.
“Will anyone miss you today?” Jack asks. His voice is gruff, and cuts through the still, frigid air.
Amber blinks, trying to get her brain and mouth to work together. “I don’t have to work today.” Her voice is little more than a squeak.
Jack nods his head like she’s done something right. Amber is ashamed of the flush of pleasure this brings her.
“Who else?” Jack says. “Friends, family?”
Amber bites her lip, acting like she’s drawing a blank. Really, she’s weighing what she should or shouldn’t say, what would benefit her the most.
“My friend, Meg,” Amber answers. “I rent a room above her garage.”
“Do you have your own entrance? Does she know you didn’t come home last night?”
Amber considers telling him, Yes, Meg would know. We have tea together every night and discuss our days. She’s probably worried sick, already called the cops. But that strategy could backfire. Jack could feel threatened, chop her up and bury her in the woods.
“There’s a flight of stairs behind the garage, that’s my entrance,” Amber says. “Meg shouldn’t notice for a few hours at least.”
Jack’s shoulders relax with an exhale. “Okay, that’s good.” He goes to the dining table and picks up her uniform. He holds it against himself while he searches the pockets. Amber is shocked to see the state of it. It’s tattered and streaked with blood. The woman wearing that should be dead. Jack finds her phone in one of the pockets. Amber had forgotten all about it, like she could’ve gotten to it anyway. When she sees the slick screen, she thinks, a way out.
“Call Meg. Tell her your going to be gone for a few days.”
A few days? Amber keeps a calm front. Inside, she’s wondering how long she’ll be trapped here.
“Where should I say I am?” Amber asks.
“Tell her you went away with a friend. Keep the details vague.” Jack extends the phone towards her. With the other, he holds the knife. “Don’t try anything.”
Amber nods in agreement, then takes the phone. Her thoughts spin around themselves, forming a plan. How can she help herself here? How can she shift the power dynamic? She swipes the screen open, then pauses. She watches the hand holding the knife, how the grip tightens, and thick blue veins protrude from the skin.
“Don’t try anything,” Jack repeats.
Amber opens her contacts, and scrolls languidly to Meg’s name. “Did you do it?” she whispers into the phone.
Jack takes a step towards her, and so does the knife. Her eyes nearly cross as they both focus on the tiny point at the tip of the blade. She forces her gaze up to his face and repeats, louder, clearer, “Did you do it?”
Jack rotates his wrist, twisting the knife. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Sometimes it seems obvious, simple, but it so rarely is.”
Jack cocks his head, staring down at her, then starts to laugh. The dark sound comes from his belly. Slowly, he reaches around to grab the back of her neck. Amber notices he keeps the knife a safe distance from her.
“Don’t I look like a killer?” He crouches down eye-level. He strokes the edge of the blade over his thick beard.
“Yes,” Amber gulps. “But you haven’t killed me.”
His expression grows hard. “Call your friend, and I won’t.”
Amber shakes her head. If he’s going to do something, she wishes he’d do it already.
“Are you just going to keep me here?”
Jack doesn’t answer. In an instant, Amber sees it all very clearly. Jack doesn’t know what to do. He snatched her from the diner so she wouldn’t tell anyone he’s in White Oak or go to the cops. He has no plans of elaborate torture. He simply doesn’t know what the fuck to do. The easiest solution would have been to kill her, but he didn’t, which means, he doesn’t want to.
Amber squints at him, calling his bluff. “You don’t fit the profile.”
Jack’s surprised, so much so that Amber sees a glimpse of a genuine smile on his face.
“Profile? You know about that sort of thing?”
Amber nods, deciding to play this out. “If you were capable of killing your own father, you would’ve killed me without question. Murderers are ego driven, and will quickly dispose of anyone that threatens them.”
Jack steps away from her. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“You took care of my injuries. You dressed me, fed me, gave me a warm blanket. You’ve been…” She stumbles over the last word. “Kind.”
Jack walks silently to the window and looks out. A few moments pass. He stares out into the woods where he’s spent most of his time this last few weeks, chopping wood for his own survival. With each whack of his axe, his head had cleared a little more. The clean air had washed away the heavy fog of Manhattan. But none of that changed the past. Amber’s voice rises up behind him.
“Did you do it?”
The fact that she’s even asking feels like a small redemption. Less than twelve hours before, he’d held a knife to her, forced her to come out here with him.
Isn’t that what you wanted, for her to come home with you? You get what you want one way or another.
In therapy, Jack learned that being honest is it’s own high. It’s the unleashing of intense pressure, and the exhilarating relief afterwards.
“I don’t know.” The words fall dully from his lips. He doesn’t like the way they sound, the way they echo hollowly in his head. How could he not know such a thing? The confusion makes him angry. He whips around to face Amber. Her shoulders scrunch up to her neck in fear. “Call your friend. Now.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Amber says through her teeth. She holds the phone out from her body like it’s a weapon.
“Call your friend.”
“Not until you answer my question.”
“I did.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Jack rushes up towards her, using his size to intimidate her. He towers over her, staring her down. The fact that he can see her hard nipples through the thin white shirt isn’t lost on him. She’s small and trembling, completely in his power. Arousal stirs inside of him. He pushes it away.
“I told you before, do as I say, and I won’t hurt you.”
Amber feels the heat rising off of Jack’s skin. It warms her deeply. What is it about the risk of being hurt that turns her on so much? A voice in the back of her head begs Jack to take her to the bedroom, to take out his aggression by fucking her. She considers arguing further, trying to squeeze more information out of him, but decides to stop while she’s ahead. Under his watchful eye, she calls Meg. Then she calls her father. Embarrassingly, those are the only two people who would miss her. She tells them both the same thing. She’s gone with a friend on an impromptu trip to a little town a few hours away, she can’t remember the name. Both press her for more details on this friend, but she remains coy. She leaves them both assuming it’s a romantic rendezvous. Since Meg and Phil both find Amber’s lonely single life as sad as Amber did, they are delighted at this news.
Amber tells her father she loves him while Jack stands over her with the knife. She hangs up, and Jack takes the phone from her.
“That’s it? No one else?” he asks.
“No one else.”
Jack gives her a long look. He opens her contacts and scrolls down the embarrassingly short list. This seems to satisfy him.
“Tomorrow you’ll call in sick for work,” Jack says.
“What about the day after that?”
It takes Jack a long time to answer. “We’ll see.”