Stolen (19 page)

“I was at the morgue when this happened but there was
nothing I could say to stop all the speculation. This brings us to now.
This
is why they’re interested in you.”

I’m stunned. Rogan was being stalked, too. Rogan was
so worried about my safety, he didn’t heed the warning that he was in danger,
too. We were both so worried about the other that it seems neither of us fully
grasped the extent of what this monster could, or would, do, and now Rogan is
dead.

“Okay,” I say, standing, ready to go upstairs.

Bruce’s hand tightens around my upper arm, stopping me
from moving. “Okay? That’s all you have to say?”

Shrugging, I tell him, “What else is there, Bruce? My
boyfriend is dead. We were both being stalked. The man got into my house. He
took me and nearly killed me. Had you not gotten there when you did, he would
have. Reporters are after me now, and I still don’t know who the man is. I feel
just as vulnerable as I did before he took me. That’s not going to change no
matter if he is or isn’t in prison. My life is going to hell, and I don’t have
it in me to care anymore.

“You wanna know something? I was looking forward to
dying. I almost wish you hadn’t saved me. I mean, really? What have you saved
me from? My life will never be the same. So no, I don’t have anything else to
say. I just want to go upstairs now. Please let go of me.”

I can see it on his face that there are things he
wants to say. Pulling his hand back, he stays silent, holding onto his words,
knowing I don’t want to hear any of them.

At the top of the stairs I debate going into Cass’s
room, deciding against it. If she wants to see me, she’ll come to me. I don’t
know if I could handle another confrontation anyway. Shutting my bedroom door
silently behind me, I slide down it, landing in a puddle on the floor.

I want to cry, but I don’t have it in me to shed
another tear. Instead, I contemplate the events over the last few months; a
stalker, being kidnapped, Rogan dying, mom and Cass being less than supportive
through it all. This is my life now? 

Closing my eyes, I drift into a tense sleep. My body
not relaxing enough for anything more.

Soft taps wake me to a dark room. Momentarily I’m back
in the basement, terrified and trapped beneath that man, but a soft glow from
the nightlight in the corner of the room reminds me I’m home.

“Honey, can I come in?” I hear mom whisper from the
other side of the door.

I move enough so the door can open, and mom can walk
in. Looking down at me before taking in the dark bedroom I’m in, she turns the
lamp on my nightstand on, illuminating her and my room in a soft light. Closing
the door, she sits next to me.

“I just wanted to check on you. I haven’t gotten to
talk to you since you got home. Bruce said he talked to you about doing a press
conference. Are you okay with that?”

“No, not really, but what choice do I have? Bruce said
if I don’t, the reporters might show up at Rogan’s funeral. I can’t let that
happen, mom,” I say desperately. “I won’t let that happen!”

“You’re stronger than I ever could be. I’m so proud of
you. I don’t know if I’ve ever said that to you. I’m so sorry about Rogan. I
know how much you two loved each other. It was obvious to anyone who looked at
you two. I just can’t believe he’s gone.”  

“What am I going to do, mom? I’ve been missing him so
much, but I got through it because I thought we’d be able to be together again
after this monster was caught, but that will never happen now. I feel so lost.
My heart hurts so bad I don’t know how I’ll survive this,” I say while grabbing
my chest and falling into her embrace.

“I can’t tell you how to feel or what you’ll feel like
tomorrow, next week, next year, and I’m not going to tell you it will get better
in time. I think this will stay with you for the rest of your life in one way
or another, but I do think you’ll find a way to accept it and learn to live
with the reality of it all.

“Things like this don’t happen every day, at least not
to anyone we know, so I don’t have anything to go by as far as a twelve step
program, if you will, on how to heal. Just know I’m always here for you. You
will never be truly alone. I’ll always have you.” Holding me tighter, she rubs
her hand up and down my arm, reassuring me of her presence, her love for me,
and her constancy in my life. This is what I needed. Bruce is great, but
nothing can compare to being held by my mother.

“Do you want something to eat?” she asks.

My belly rumbles in response. “I guess so,” I say with
a smile.

“Well then, let’s get up off this hard floor and get
you some food. I’m old, you know. I can’t be sitting down here like you
youngsters.”

“Oh please, mom,” I say at her quip. “Like you’re so
old and decrepit you can’t sit on a floor, a carpeted floor, might I add. It’s
not as if we have hardwood floors or anything. Stop acting so old.”

“That’s my point. I am old,” she says, while laughing.

Pushing her out the door once we’re both standing, I
tell her to make me some grub before her senility kicks in and she can no
longer remember how.

“Smart ass,” she retorts.

“Nice language, mom!”

“Oh please, you know I learned it from you.” She
wiggles her finger in my face.

“And now you’re accusing me? Where will it end, I
ask?” I beg sarcastically for an answer.

Throwing her arm around my neck, she pushes me toward
the stairs. “Get down there and we’ll see what we can find you to eat.”

“Should we ask Cass if she’s hungry?” I ask before
descending the stairwell.

Mom’s face goes pale, recovering so fast I’m not sure
I actually saw that.  “No, I’m sure she’s fine. She ate earlier. Now come
on, slow poke.” She nudges me.

Sitting at the island, I watch as she busies herself
with pans and skillets, the fridge door opening, closing, freezer door opening,
closing, cabinets opening and slamming shut. “Mom! What are you doing? You
planning to cook for the whole neighborhood? I’m good with a sandwich, you
know.”

She stills, her face drawn, as she looks at me. “Mom?
You’re freaking me out. What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry, honey,” she says repeatedly. “Sometimes
it’s just so hard.” She trails off.

“What are you talking about? What’s hard?”

“Nothing,” she says with a fake smile plastered to her
face. “Would you mind giving me a minute?” she asks, without giving me a chance
to respond before she’s running up the stairs.

What just happened? I guess this is a lot for her to
handle, too. Closing what cabinet doors are still open, putting the pans and
skillets away, I decide to go to bed. I’m not hungry anymore. At the top of the
stairs I look between Cass’s closed door and mom’s, debating knocking to see if
they’re okay, deciding against it. Mom seemed to need her privacy and
apparently so does Cass.

Crawling into bed, I wish I hadn’t thrown away my pink
bed sheets. I need to feel as close to Rogan as I can possibly get. Opening the
drawer to my nightstand, I rifle through all the crap until I find what I’m
looking for, a picture of Rogan and me from when we first got together. We were
so happy.

Holding the picture to my heart, I remember what that
day was like, what every day was like when I was with him.

I wish those were the memories I dreamt about.

Waking up, sweaty and panting, it takes everything in
me not to scream. I just had the worst dream. It was from the day Luke died. We
had just dropped him off, but something was different. What was it? I can’t
remember, but it was terrifying. Everything was more vivid, the stories on the
news more detailed, the description of the blood at the scene more gruesome.

I fought harder in my dream not to leave him. I felt
even more adamant about bringing him back later when we knew his mom would be
home.

I don’t know why I didn’t push harder for that. I
could have saved him.

Rogan was in the dream, consoling me as he had done in
real life, but even that was different somehow, like I was more upset than I
remember being, and he wanted to take the pain away, but didn’t know how.

Tears were wracking my body uncontrollably, and in my
dream mom was there, almost more upset than I was. I don’t remember much about
that time. I think my mind blanked it out for me, as if it was just too much
for me to handle, it had to lock it away so I could never get to it, but I know
I don’t remember mom being as upset as she was in my dream.

Maybe the past with Luke and the present with Rogan
and me being kidnapped is all overlapping in my dream world, culminating in the
nightmare I just had. Whatever caused that, I hope the Cosmos don’t subject me
to that ever again!

Throwing the sweat-soaked sheets off my body, I sit up
in bed with my legs hanging over the edge. I’m restless. It’s 2:08 in the
morning. Hoping my phone still has a charge after not being used or plugged in
in over a day, I pull up Bruce’s number. The low battery warning spans the
screen letting me know I don’t have long before it shuts down. Reaching for the
charger I keep plugged in and hanging over the curve of my white wrought iron
headboard, I plug it in before sending a text to a hopefully awake Bruce.

Me:
Are you awake?

One minute passes. Two minutes pass. After ten, I’m
about ready to put my phone away and forget about talking to him tonight.

Bruce:
Of course, aren’t
I always?

Me:
I was starting to
think you weren’t.

Bruce:
Sorry, I was in
the kitchen pouring a bowl of cereal.

Me:
At 2 in the
morning?

Bruce:
Sure. Why not?

Me:
Silly me, I’m just used
to people eating cereal for breakfast.

Bruce:
Boring people eat
it only for breakfast. And I am anything but :)

Me:
That is true. You’re
anything BUT boring.

Bruce:
 Keeps me
young.

Me:
I don’t know, I think I
saw some gray hairs.

Bruce:
Hey now, no need
getting hostile! So, what are you doing awake? I thought for sure you would
sleep through the night. You must be exhausted.

Me:
I had a terrible
nightmare. I don’t want to go back to sleep.

Bruce:
You wanna talk
about it?

Me:
 Not really.

Bruce:
Do you want to
hear about the tattoo I got during spring break when I was 19?

Me:
Um . . . Yes! Dish!

Bruce:
Okay, but you are
sworn to secrecy! I probably shouldn’t tell you about this. I’m supposed to be
the adult here, but this is the only story I can think of at the moment that
might cheer you up.

Me:
Cross my heart. I’ll
keep your secret and, it’s me, I think after everything we’ve been through
together, the things you’ve seen involving me—namely a personal photo—we’re
past a “normal” relationship here.

Bruce:
I suppose you’re
right. I have a question about that actually, but I’ll tell you my story first.
This is kind of a long story, would you mind if I called?

Me:
Do what you gotta
do, so long as I hear this story!

About three seconds later my phone is ringing. “Okay,
spill it mister!”

“Wow. You really want to hear this story, huh?”

“You bet I do! Mister perfect getting a tattoo while
on spring break? This is going to be awesome, I know it!”

He chuckles at my demand to know this scandalous tale
before calming himself enough to tell the story. “So, it was the summer after I
graduated high school and some buddies of mine decided they wanted to go to
Cancun for spring break. They said we had to because that’s what you do when
you’re nineteen. Being nineteen, I was stupid and, completely down with this
idea!

“When we got there, it was crazy. People were drunk
and screaming, hanging over balconies, stripping out of their clothes, throwing
their clothes at complete strangers. It was awesome for a group of teenage
guys! We’ll skip over the less than mature things I did and got into and move
on to the tattoo.

“After a party one night, I met a girl I really hit it
off with, but she was nothing like the girls I normally went for. She was
covered, head to toe, in tattoos. She was awesome, though. After about the
sixth shot of vodka she had me doing whatever she asked of me, including going
with her to an all-night tattoo parlor. Sobriety kicked in about halfway
through the inking process, I think the pain knocked me sober, needless to say
I couldn’t stop halfway through. No matter how bad it was, I didn’t want a
half-finished tattoo permanently inked to my skin.