Page 39

THIRTY-EIGHT

STACY HOWARD

“Hey, Carissa, are you awake?” I whisper in the dark.

She sleeps most of the time, and I don’t blame her. That’s all I did when I first got here—well, aside from screaming and trying to escape. But it’s hard to find a way out when you’re trapped in the darkness with nothing to ground or guide you. Carissa screamed and cried for a long time until she wore herself out, the little bit of energy she had completely sapped. For a while there, she was so quiet I thought she was dead. I waited, listening for breathing, a whimper, any sign of life. When I finally heard a soft purr, I was relieved to know she was still alive because at least there was someone else down here with me.

After she fell asleep, I ate the sandwich and water that were thrown down the stairs. I was going to offer her some, but she was asleep, and I’ve been down here longer, so I needed it more. Plus, I’m sure she’ll receive her own food and water. I passed out not long after I ate. The food always makes me sleepy, my digestive system needing more energy to process the nutrients than I have to offer it.

“Carissa,” I whisper again.

Her chain scrapes against the pavement. I hear her yawn, and then I yawn too. Even in the pitch-black, without me being able to see her, it’s still contagious.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

Her voice croaks. “No. Where am I?”

I’m the same way every time I wake up in this basement, having to remind myself of where I am and how I got here. I wonder how long it’ll take me to get used to it. I’m sure I will eventually. One day, my eyes will open, and I’ll inhale deeply, welcoming the moldy, damp scent. My black environment that’s too dark even for shadows will calm and ground me. I won’t feel the thick metal shackle fastened tightly around my ankle, and I may forget it’s there altogether. The squeaks from the critters that come and go from the outside, seeking warmth, and the creaking of the foundation won’t scare or surprise me anymore. I’ll take comfort from their familiar sounds. And when all of that happens, I’ll know that my brain has rewired itself and successfully convinced me that this is home. That’s the human spirit for you. We can endure the worst in the physical world and still persist because only our body lives here. And that’s why, when we perish, we leave only our body behind. I wonder if anyone will ever find mine.

Carissa’s panicked breathing brings me back to reality.

“You’re fine, Carissa,” I say. It’s a lie but it’s what she needs to hear. “We’re going to get out of here.” Another lie, because I don’t know if I’ll leave by walking up those stairs or if I’ll be carried up them, my lifeless limbs dangling over someone’s shoulder.

“Where is here?” she asks.

“I don’t know.”

Her breathing slows as the panic from waking up in an unfamiliar place finally settles.

“I think I remember something,” she whispers in the darkness.

I scooch closer to where her voice is coming from, but I’m only able to move a couple feet before the chain is pulled taut, and the cuff scrapes against my tender skin. My brain immediately sends pain signals throughout my body. I wince and absorb the agony in silence. There’s no sense in crying. It’s just wasted energy, and I need to retain as much of it as I can if I’m going to have a chance in hell of getting out of here.

“What do you remember, Carissa?”

Personally, I still remember nothing... well, almost nothing. I was sitting in my car, reading a text message on my phone. My driver’s-side door was flung open and then something soft and damp covered my face. It smelled sweet, pleasant actually—however, the harsh pressure against my mouth and nose was anything but. I tried to scream but it came out muffled like I was yelling into a pillow. I felt a pinch in the side of my arm too. I flailed for only a moment before my world went black. And when I woke up, my world was still black.

“I was at work,” she says.

“Where... where do you work?”

“At a salon. My last client of the day came in, and then there was blood.”

“Did they hurt you?”

“No... I hurt him. It was an accident though. I was shaving his neck, and I slipped.”

“What happened after that?”

“I cleaned him up, finished cutting his hair, and then... I don’t know.”

“Did he leave? Did someone else come in? Did you leave the salon?” My questions are rapid, one after another.

“I don’t think he left.”

“Who is he?”

“Bob. His name is Bob.”

The name strikes something deep inside me, like a puzzle piece has just fallen into my lap but I’m not sure where to place it yet.

“Miller?” The word comes out slow and shaky.

Carissa’s quiet for a moment. The damp, still air muffles all sounds until she asks, “How do you know his name?”

If she could see me, she’d see the whites of my eyes as my lids crawl back on themselves. My heart races, pounding fast and hard. I wouldn’t be surprised if she could hear it echoing off the concrete and the piping. Maybe she can even feel its vibration through the floor. The shock wave after a nuclear explosion.

“I was seeing him—well... I had an affair with him, just one time though.”

Carissa gasps.

“What? What is it?”

“I remember something else. It’s fuzzy though, almost feels like a dream, but I think it was real. I was in the back of a vehicle, tied up, or maybe I wasn’t restrained at all. I don’t know. I only know I couldn’t move.”

“What else do you remember?”

“He was talking to someone, or maybe he was talking to himself. Something about not letting someone get away with something. He wasn’t going to let her get away with it... his wife or a wife. And that he’d take her down first...” Carissa trails off.

“Did you see him?”

“Not in the car. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t even lift my head... but earlier at the salon, I did. I only heard his voice in the car.”

“Are you sure it was Bob Miller?”

“It sounded like him. I just don’t understand why he would do this to me,” she cries.

I hang my head, knowing he had a reason to do this to me. I threatened to tell his wife about us. He told me it was a mistake, a onetime thing, that he was drunk, that I took advantage of him, that I was a whore and a thief. He wasn’t wrong. I did steal from him. I did take advantage of his inebriated state. I targeted him because I knew he had money and a wife. That’s my type. Being an event model doesn’t pay the bills, but fucking over other people sure does. It’s a risky business, and it’s landed me in legal trouble before, but I never thought it could land me six feet under—and at this point, that’s only if I’m lucky.

“I threatened to tell his wife about the affair if he didn’t pay me,” I confess.

“Like blackmail?”

“Yeah, exactly like blackmail,” I say.

“Did you tell her?” Carissa’s voice has a little bit of hope in it, like that could be our way out.

“No, I didn’t tell her.”

“So, he paid you?”

“No, he didn’t do that either. I never actually tell the wife.”

“What...? What are you talking about?”

“Bob’s not the first guy I threatened with the truth. He’s just the first guy that took matters into his own hands.”

I can hear Carissa’s panic set in again. Her breaths turn rapid and short as she tries to suck in huge gulps of air.

“Carissa.”

Her breathing becomes more labored as dread mixes together with uncontrollable sobs.

“We’re gonna be okay. Calm down,” I say, trying to relax her before she has a full-on panic attack or worse.

“No,” she cries out. “We’re not okay. We’re gonna die down here, and it’s all your fault, you fucking whore.”

I open my mouth to yell at her, to argue with her, to convince her we’ll be fine... but then I snap it closed. Because I think she might be right.