Page 5 of A Midnight Romance

Lux

I peel my eyes open to find myself in my bedroom. A wave of panic washes over me as I can’t recall when or how I returned to my townhouse.

The sun warms my sore cheek as I reach up to rub the back of my neck which is also tender to the touch.

What the hell happened?

Did I have a nightmare?

My heart leaps from my chest when my bed vibrates, but I breathe a sigh of relief when I see it’s my phone.

In a state of alarm, I frantically search the bedsheets for a few terrifying seconds until I find it resting on my nightstand, plugged into the charger.

Grabbing it with desperation, I’m shocked to discover it’s Monday.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Hey, I haven’t spoken to you all weekend,” Stevie exclaims. “I was a little worried, but then I thought that you were holed up in your office, writing.”

“Yeah, that’s where I was,” I respond, confused.

“Sorry, I didn’t stay with you Friday.” After brushing the nervous moistness from my brow, I settle back into bed. Stevie left after she walked me through the courtyard of my townhouse. “I told you to go, remember? ”

Suddenly, memories from this weekend roll in. We were together at the club on Friday night, but she left to hook up with that guy she’s been seeing. Then I remember waking up unclothed and restrained to a bed, and I’m certain someone…

A churning in my stomach brings on a wave of nausea, so I squeeze my eyes shut at the memory before opening them again, hoping to stop the room from spinning.

Tears spill from my eyes while my throat closes, forcing me to suck in a breath. Those fucking psychos were waiting for me. But how did they…my hand flies back up to the side of my neck.

The needle.

The sharp pain.

They fucking drugged me.

“I knew you’d get it.” A door slams in the background. “Hey, I have to run, but remember we’re meeting at Dad’s favorite restaurant at six for his birthday dinner.”

With my hands still trembling from fear or maybe the lack of food I’ve had in days, I switch my phone to the other ear. My throat constricts as bile shoots its way up.

“Yeah, of course,” I rush out, my voice strained. “I’ll see you there,” I add, ending the call before she responds.

Jumping off my bed, I run to the bathroom and dry heave multiple times, emptying the minimal contents of my stomach into the toilet. My muscles scream in pain from the violent thrusts forward while the soft pile rug cradles my fall as my legs buckle, sending my knees to the floor.

“Oh god,” I whimper to myself, tears pouring from my eyes.

I need a fucking shower . I need him off me. I need to be clean.

With a swing of the shower door, I turn the faucet on as fast as I can manage.

The sudden coolness of the water takes my breath away as soon as I step in.

My skin breaks out in goose bumps, but I don’t care, I need to be clean.

Shivering, I stand under the spray, waiting for the temperature to change.

The water grows warmer and eventually the heat intensifies, but it’s not hot enough. Wrapped in a blanket of steam, I snatch the body soap from the ledge, squeeze as much as I can fit onto the washcloth and start scrubbing my skin. Hard.

I turn the knob all the way to the other side, and continue to scrub every inch of my body, until my skin burns from the heat and repeated friction.

I’m not clean enough.

My mind flashes through blurry images of a man on top of me.

The weight of his body applying a heavy pressure on my lungs, that I can barely take in a full breath.

In a panic, I take two fingers and rub them between my legs.

My body doesn’t feel like mine anymore. Foreign under my own touch, the realization is overwhelming, and I lurch forward again dry heaving in place.

Still not good enough.

The heated shower water continues to soothe my aching muscles, providing a false sense of cleanliness before I eventually get out.

Catching myself in the mirror, I’m overcome by how red my skin is.

Raw and irritated, pulsing with the color of crimson, and matching the rage now brewing inside.

Like a monster, it grows with every flashback that comes into focus.

But then a different type of memory forms when the guy in the balaclava shows up.

Like a dark shadow, donned in a black fabric mask, leaving only his eyes visible.

His steady energy was all I could hold on to, and I remember begging him to take me home.

What was most striking from the horrific weekend was the intensity of his stare and the quiet firmness of his voice, and I can still picture them when I close mine.

The man in the mask said he’d take me home, and it seems he kept his word.

Burying my feelings for later, I spend the next few hours pulling myself together while trying to snack on a few crackers and ginger ale. My thoughts cycle through every piece of information I can recall from the weekend.

I can’t tell my sister what happened and my dad can never know—and that’s why I begged the masked man in the basement to take me home.

It would ruin him. The thought alone of knowing his daughter could have become his next homicide victim would drive him to insanity, and I can’t allow my dad to carry such an unnecessary burden.

Silence surrounds me like an eerie fog as I pull my hair away from my face into a loose bun. When I lower my arms, the bruises on my ribcage ping with deep ache.

I’m not sure if the men who kidnapped me are local to the area or not.

People are more likely to commit crimes in areas they’re more familiar with, but if the police already responded to the 911 call from the cabin, the guys might be lying low for a bit to avoid coming after me if they realized I had been rescued.

Assuming the cabin where I was held is in the same county, my dad and his detectives most likely went to the scene over the weekend.

Which means, the first forty-eight hours are the most critical, so he’ll have to eat and run.

An alarm goes off on my phone to remind me of our dinner tonight and snaps me out of my spiral.

To avoid my dad and sister seeing the cuts from the metal chains on my wrists, I slide my watch lower to cover them up.

The searing pain is intense and I think of removing it because it’s almost unbearable.

Then, I reach for my jewelry box, searching for as many gold bracelets as possible to stack on the other wrist .

Deciding to deal with the pain, I gather the rest of my things and head toward the door.

By the time I get to the restaurant, which is only fifteen minutes from my place, I’ve nailed down the specific questions I want to ask my dad about the cabin crime scene.

My hope is that he’s able to share anything he might have found out that could lead to me understanding about what went on with me and those other women over the weekend.

But the moment I step out of the car, I’m struck with the realization that I’m not waiting for details from a crime scene I’m not connected to—I’m asking them for me.

Behind the open driver’s side door, I lower myself and throw up the small amount of food I managed to keep down today. Once my stomach settles, I linger by the car a bit longer, building confidence before stepping inside.

Third on 3rd has been my dad’s favorite spot since Stevie and I were young, because of his obsession with their early bird special and coconut cream pie.

My dad was never much of a cook, so we came here at least once a week.

And although we don’t frequent the restaurant as much nowadays, we still enjoy celebrating birthdays and special occasions here.

The fresh smell of chicken pot pie on a cool summer evening is all it takes for me to find a slice of peace in the painful world I’ve found myself in.

Wiping my watery eyes, overwhelmed by what has happened to me and the thought of keeping this from the two people I love the most in the world, I swallow my feelings.

With a brief scan of the cozy place, I find my dad and sister at our regular table.

“Lux!” my dad greets me as I approach the table.

“Happy birthday, Dad,” I say as he stands to pull me in for his typical bear hug.

I usually would welcome it, but my limbs lock instinctively into place.

Panic surges through my veins and I back away from him quickly.

Visions of waking up in that basement, staring at the cement ceiling while drifting in and out of consciousness.

The indescribable weight held my limbs down, barely able to move.

“You all right?” My father’s voice penetrates the flashbacks and I’m sucked back into reality. His eyes are narrowed, and worry transforms his features.

Swallowing hard, I take in a weighted breath and say, “Yeah, I got pretty beaten up the other day in self-defense class.”

“Oh yeah?” He cocks his head to the side. “Well, good. This is the exact reason I forced you two to take them all these years. To be able to protect yourselves effectively.”

“I thought you were writing all weekend?” Stevie chimes in from the other side of the table, always trying to call me out for something, like when we were kids.

I settle in next to my dad, sitting carefully in the chair, and being cautious not to worsen my injuries. “I did, but I made time for a quick one-hour class.”

Stevie’s face twists with slight skepticism. She doesn’t seem to believe me, and before she can grill me with questions, Dad interrupts her.

“I hate to do this, but I can’t stay long.” He waves over our server. “I was called out Sunday around two a.m. for a grizzly scene, and I have to get back to the station.”

You can do this, Lux .

Shifting in my seat, I turn to my dad, masking the conflicting emotions bouncing around inside me. “What happened?”

Just then, the server appears at our table so we all take a quick moment to order before my dad turns back to us with a solemn expression. The restaurant is buzzing with chatter, but a dense silence rolls in, surrounding my ears alone .

Bending forward and lowering his head, my father glances around a few times before speaking. “We found the bodies of three women shackled and badly beaten in the basement of a rundown cabin up north.”

The pounding in my chest pulses through my ears. “Where up north?”

“About an hour north of Seattle,” he tells us, trying to use discretion with the more specific details of the case. “According to forensics, someone raped and tortured them.”

Stevie gasps. “Fuck.”

“We don’t know a lot right now and the last thing we want to do is create a panic, so the press can’t find out yet,” he instructs. “My instincts are usually right on these things, but I think this is only the beginning.”

I grip my fingers with my entire hand waiting for his response.

“What makes you say that?” I ask, remembering there were different men coming in and out of the basement.

“You remember that college sex ring from twenty or so years ago?” he asks.

“Yes,” I breathe out. “Of course, I do.”

I was barely nine at the time, but that case was hard on my dad. He worked around the clock and it consumed his life for months. That was the earliest recollection I have of understanding what his job entailed.

The first book I wrote was loosely based on that case.

“I think there are multiple perpetrators involved.” He pauses, sighing. “And it might be a copycat.”

Fuck .

Based on what I heard while held captive, I figured that was the case, but to hear my dad— the police —verbalizing this causes my head to spin.

Writing always gave me the opportunity to right the wrongs and help others get the justice our system never gave them. But is it enough? There will always be more victims. More women dying and suffering at these hands of predators.

And now I am one of those women.