- Chapter Four -

Georgia Mary King

Nine Years Later

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Trash. Trash. Water bill. Trash. Sighing, I fanned out my stack of mail. It wasn't like I expected anything really interesting. I just wept for all the trees being repurposed to try and sell me Mike-George's Auto Care and other junk. Hmm, flier for a local book swap meet. That could be interesting-worth hanging on to for now, at least.

Stepping back inside my apartment, I double locked my door without a thought. My third floor barred windows brought in the hazy glow of the streetlights. I could see every corner at once, no matter where I stood. I could have afforded more but it was perfect for me.

Quaint.

Efficient.

Easy to spot danger.

Humming to myself, I opened the drawer under my computer desk. It was where I tossed things I wanted to look at when I had more time to dedicate to them. Usually it was filled with coupons I'd forget to use, or poetry I'd clipped and saved because my mother had asked me to.

I paused when I dropped the white envelope inside. There was a matching set wrapped in an elastic rubber band in there. They looked no different than my water bill, but they were night and day. A stiff reminder of who I'd been and who I still was.

My story on the news was brief and open ended. No gory details—just a teenage girl escaping a dangerous man. Countless TV personalities asking, “Have you seen Facile Adams? Do you have any information to help solve this case?”

I'd expected phone calls. Hot lines with tips. Even harassment.

I received none of it.

Then, a month after people stopped talking about me, the first letter arrived.

I touched it now, feeling the crinkles from being read and re-read. My mysterious pen pal had never given me their name or home address; just a simple P.O. box. But for a little while, there was someone to talk to about my experience... and about Conway.

I even wondered if it was him writing to me. Except the questions were too focused on things he'd already know. Personal details no one else cared about.

After my mother moved us closer to Memorial Ketter Hospital here in New York, the letters stopped. I hadn't tried to restart communication. I'd had other things to worry about.

A loud knock came at my door. Placing everything carefully back in my desk, I shut it and hurried over to peer through the peephole cautiously. The girl waiting outside was tall, raven haired, and pushing the limits of everyday street-wear with her chocolate colored dress covered in zippers.

Chelsea Casey: fan of a thousand Pinterest boards, organic anything, and petting all the dogs. My one and only very close friend. I knew why she was here, and I groaned as I opened the door. “Hey,” I said, “You're early.”

“Oh no. No, no, no, my dear.” She dropped a plastic bag on my kitchen table. “You said you'd let me take you out. That means we do it my way.”

“But the party is in two hours!”

“And I'll need every minute to help you get ready,” she said, winking. Strutting to my closet, she threw it open. Putting her hand up, she recoiled in horror. “Maybe I should have gotten here yesterday. Do you really have no other clothes?”

“Of course,” I said, waving at myself. “I have these, too.”

“Hardy harr,” she said, digging through my outfits. “I should have brought some of mine.”

Picturing myself in the avant-garde contraptions she adored, I sank into my couch. “The world isn't ready for that. Or I'm not, anyway.”

“Mm hmm, mm hmm, very—ah! Here, this is perfect!”

“I forgot I had that,” I said, eyeballing the dress she'd yanked free.

She spun it in a circle. “It's sexy. Why have I never seen it?” Pausing, she fiddled with the zipper, revealing a piece of paper. “It still has the tag on! Have you never worn this?”

Flopping backwards, I pushed a pillow to my face. “I bought it in a fever dream of an online sale. It's not something I ever expected to really wear.”

Chelsea parked herself on the arm of the couch. “Well, tonight my dear Georgia-Bear, everyone...” She knocked the pillow off so I could see her giant grin. “Is going to see you in it and fall to pieces.”

****

The white dress clung to my curves. Even with all the running I did, it was a struggle to keep off the extra padding my eating habits created. Chelsea had once promised me—after she'd walked in on me elbow deep in bags of chips—that she knew the perfect diet.

I never bothered to explain to my friend that I didn't care if I was thin or not. Vanity couldn't have fit inside my issue-packed brain if it tried. Eating wasn't a compulsion. I did it by choice. I did it with glee.

After living multiple months with someone controlling what I ate, I appreciated being able to walk over to my cupboard and pull out whatever the hell I wanted. If living my life to the fullest meant getting soft around my edges, so what? Squishy puppies are incredibly popular on Instagram for a reason.

Chelsea parked her car next to a meter. “Sorry, we have to walk a little. There'll be no street parking left around the party at this hour.”

“It's okay, I don't mind.” She'd tried to make we wear heels, but I'd drawn the line and slipped on my favorite pearl colored flats. Traveling wouldn't be painful. For me, anyway.  She'd picked out some ankle-breaking gold stilettos for herself.

At the top of the sidewalk was a small electronics store, the front window full of televisions playing different channels. We were waiting for the light to turn green when I heard a snippet from the news station. “...Police believe they've found their prime suspect responsible for the abduction of multiple women.”

Unsettled by how close to home that hit, I turned to watch. It was only a bit of grainy footage. It showed a broad shouldered man ducking into a white van outside of a gas station. His dark eyes were uncomfortably familiar. It can't be him. Impossible. The video was too brief to be certain.

Then they flashed another shot, zooming in.

Nine years had done a number on Conway. The boy was now a man, his cheeks hollowed like a male model's, but his neck was thick, his arms too muscular to work a runway. He wasn't moving on the screen, but as he stared back at me, I imagined his serious face lighting up in a smile. I imagined our secret kiss in the dark.

The news anchor—a blonde woman in a red jacket—said, “This video is all we have of the suspicious man. Police Chief Markus is asking anyone with info to please come forward to identify him. If you see—”

“Is something wrong?”

I snapped my attention back to Chelsea. “It's just... this stuff on the TV.”

She squinted at the screen, making a face. “Everything on the news these days is gross. Come on, we're supposed to be helping you loosen up, and this,” she jerked her thumb at the host chatting away, “this is just going to make you miserable.”

It's not like she's wrong, I thought. Besides, what do I even say? “Hey, this suspicious man the police are looking for? He's the boy who saved my life! How weird, huh? Think he's single?”

Chelsea knew nothing about my kidnapping. My therapist had done a good job convincing me to talk to people about what I'd been through. She meant well, but when the first guy I'd tried seriously dating had listened to my tale, gone sickly green, then never called me again... I'd stopped bothering to let anyone into that part of my life.

I wished I could block myself away from it.

With a nervous look back at the store, I followed my friend down the street. My thoughts were still back in front of the televisions. Conway is actually alive. That thrilled me—I'd spent years wondering about him.

The police had never arrested his father, and no one could find head or tail of his boys. They hadn't even been able to find the body of the girl I'd stated again and again Facile had murdered. I knew it was true! Conway wouldn't lie about that!

But they'd dug up nothing.

No body.

No kidnapper.

Nothing but an empty house and a bed covered in straps in the basement. They believed me, but that didn't help me feel safe. I was part of an open case that everyone had forgotten about. Everyone but me.

“Come on,” Chelsea laughed. “This guy throws the best parties.” The house at the end of the street was two floors of lights and blaring music. People hooted on the grass out front, red solo cups abundant in every hand. I felt like an alien.

Wandering around after my friend, I began to regret my attempt at this whole “being social” thing. Did I really need to make new friends or meet guys? What was wrong with being single? I could get some cats, or a cute dog, and spend my days traveling.

I could watch Netflix on my couch while ordering from Yelp more than once a day.

That sounded amazing, actually.

“Oh!” Chelsea gushed, giving me a shove. “That's Cody Masters, he's down here from Silicon Valley. He's got a startup!”

I couldn't not roll my eyes. “Chelsea, that's...” She stared at me pointedly. “...fun! So, so fun. Go say hello.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, already backing up.

Laughing, I grabbed a red cup from one of the many tables and filled it with rum and coke. “See me making a drink? I'm sure. Let's mingle and talk about it later.”

Clasping her hands, she bounced off to go talk to Mister Startup. I watched her lips move, saw his spread in a grin, and when she giggled I was sure I'd be taking a taxi home alone. Ah, but my purse is in her car. I should have brought it inside.  I could have played on my phone in the corner and ignored everyone.

No. Chelsea wants me to mingle. She meant well, and considering how many times I'd tried to fix her life, I owed her some effort. Sipping my drink was only so fun. Swaying to the ever changing, forgettable techno beat wasn't engaging me, either.

Parties have always made me feel lonely. And my mind was still fixating on the video footage of Conway. Maybe I'm wrong and it wasn't him. It wasn't a leap to think I could be jumping at shadows. I'd done it before. But I wanted to be right. I wanted that man to be the boy I'd known in another lifetime.

Reaching up, I grazed the back of my neck, touching the skin my long hair hid. Conway had left an impact on my heart. Tomorrow, I'll go to the police and see what they can tell me. If the man they wanted was really him...then I needed to know why. The news said he was suspected of kidnapping girls. But that was ridiculous. I knew him.  He'd never do something like that.

He could never be his father.

Taking my red solo cup on a tour of the big house, I scanned all the strangers. They'd formed groups; mixing in and starting a conversation would be hard. I'd finished my drink, and was debating on getting another, when a new problem popped up.

Damn, I need to pee. Wandering up the stairs, I found the bathroom easily—there was a huge line of people waiting for it. Rocking side to side, I groaned. Maybe I should take this as a sign to just leave. Chelsea wouldn't even know. But my bladder couldn't make it all the way to my apartment, let alone a store that might let me use their restroom. Back home, you could have knocked on anyone's house, and they'd have let you use their bathroom and given you a cup of coffee.

I miss Virginia. I missed... a lot of things.

“There's another bathroom around back,” a guy behind me said, gesturing. “In the guest house. I can show you?”

He was around my height, his hair the color of summer wheat. Nice enough looking. Chelsea would dig his type. I was more interested in what he'd just suggested. “That'd be great, thanks,” I said, smiling sheepishly.

“I'm Jason, by the way.” He hopped down the stairs.

“Georgia,” I said, chasing him past rows of people. The crowd thinned towards the back of the house, and when we exited into a large yard surrounded by stubby pine trees and brick walls, we were alone.

Jason glanced back with a bright smile. “Are you cold? You don't have a jacket.”

“My friend's idea,” I said, rolling my eyes. “She thought a jacket would hide my—” I shut up, realizing that talking about my “assets” would sound egotistical. And I wasn't. I'd have been just as happy in a plastic garbage bag and left alone.

Pursing his lips, Jason pointed at a small building across the yard. His breath was visible in the cool night air. “Here it is.” He opened the door for me, flicking on the light. It was cozy; a small shag rug, Ikea furniture, one of those giant arching lamps that I was always afraid I'd tip over if I blew on it.

“Is this your house?” I asked, ducking under his arm and entering the building.

“No.” He shut the door behind us. “Paul owns it all, I've just been here a bunch of times. Bathroom is over there.”

It wasn't easy to miss, being the only other door. This place didn't even have a closet. Ducking into the bathroom, I shut myself inside and sighed happily. Of course, the one interaction I have is with a guy showing me where to find a toilet. Chelsea would laugh at that later.

Cleaning up, I dried my hands and fixed my hair in the mirror. It wasn't like I could do much with it, the reddish, thick strands were in a perpetual state between frizzy and stiff.

When I stepped out, Jason was sitting on the small white couch, his feet on the glass table. There were some books in a stack, one of them—a copy of The Great Gatsby—was now in his hand. He was holding a pose, as if I'd caught him in the moment of being intellectual. Right then I knew he was fake.

That doesn't make him a bad person, I reminded myself. I knew all about acting fake. I did it a lot to get through the day. Smiling, I cleared my throat. “All set.”

“Oh, great!” Dropping the novel, he stretched his arms across the back of the couch. “So, Georgia. Anyone ever make any jokes about you being a state incepting another state?” He made the iconic bwowm sound from the movie Inception.

I covered my mouth. “Hah, nope. I usually get better jokes than that.”

He laughed loudly, throwing back his head. When he considered me again, his eyes were warm... twinkling. “Hey. Come sit over here, let's get to know each other.”

My stomach plummeted. “I'd like to get back to the party.”

“The party isn't going anywhere.” Jason unfurled from the couch, swaying towards me. I became super aware of my distance from the door... how his body was blocking me. “In fact, there's a better one right here, babe.”

“Jason, I'm not interested. Sorry.” Why the fuck was I apologizing? Tensing my body, I gave him a sharp frown. “Let's just get out of here.”

His head tipped lower. I was reminded of a lion as it prowled. “Relax, doll. I only want to show you a good time. And you should be thanking me. I helped you out, right?”

“All you did was show me to the bathroom,” I whispered.

“Yeah. Now I'm ready to show you more.”

We moved at the same time. He jumped at me, and I darted for the exit. Jason's arm curled around my throat, tossing me to the floor. I hit hard enough that my skull was ringing—the vibrations numbing my ears.

“Learn to have some fun,” he said, sitting on me.

Rolling, I struggled to keep his hands off of my chest. “Stop it!” I screamed, “Help! Help me!”

No one could hear over the music outside. The party was roaring, rocking, and drowning out my plea. Shoving my knee up, I caught him in the groin. His eyes watered, but he didn't climb off, he simply slapped me. “Fucking hell!” he said, cupping his crotch. “You're psycho!”

He'd hit me hard enough that my gaze had shifted to the left wall. It was nice, not having to look at him.

Jason's weight vanished. I drew in air, desperate to breathe. I'd thought he'd stood up, but I turned and saw he'd been yanked off of me. A broad figure dressed in faded jeans and a glossy brown bomber jacket had Jason in a headlock. I couldn't see the new man's face.

“Let me down, asshole!” Jason shouted.

Mr. Stranger obliged.  He threw my would-be rapist to the ground. Hard.

“Fuck,” Jason gasped, hunched on his hands and knees. He started to lift his head, but the other man jammed a knee into his temple; he collapsed, out cold.

Quickly I got to my feet. “Thank you. If you hadn't showed up, I think he would have—forget it. All that matters is that he didn't get that far. You saved me.”

It was semi-dark in the guesthouse, but that didn't prevent me from studying the man's face when he turned. Eyes like a furnace that had long gone cold. Severe cheekbones covered in rough stubble that stopped just before his angular chin. His lips were thinned out by how hard he was pressing his molars together.

Once upon a time, those same lips had been soft as butter.

My heart shuddered. “Conway?”

This reunion was one I'd dreamed about over the years. I'd wake up in a sweat; sometimes I'd be sweltering, wriggling in my sheets as I imagined my long ago hero as a full-grown man. My imagination hadn't been kind enough. Conway was gorgeous.

But I already knew that. I'd seen him a couple hours ago on the news. Goosebumps went up my neck. “The police,” I said softly. “They're looking for you.”

In a split second he went from statue to cheetah. He was on top of me, muscular arms controlling my struggles, a wide hand capturing my mouth so I couldn't scream. Lightheaded from his speed—his close proximity—I didn't even fight. Nostalgia washed over me. I'd lived this exact moment when I was thirteen.

Back then it had been another man who'd pressed chloroform to my nose. Conway did it with similar precision. Forced to inhale, my eyelids fluttered, weighted down by the drug. I was a comet burning in the atmosphere; plummeting so hard I could pierce the earth's crust and land next to Hades.

The last thing I saw as I faded away were Conway's black pupils.

If I did end up in hell, at least I'd find him there.