I knew the next day would be a different story, when the skin swelled more, when bruising took over my face. There would be questions. From my kid. From Karen and Eliza. Everyone at work.
But that was tomorrow.
I’d figure it out then.
I went to bed sore, terrified, angry, but not without hope. I went to sleep thinking that whatever Robert threw at me, I’d fight. Because I had support. Because I was stronger now.
Or so I thought.
Chapter Two
“You want some kind of revenge?” the man demanded, jerking me back into the violent present.
“Revenge?” I repeated.
The man nodded to my eye. Even his nod was violent.
“No, I don’t care about revenge,” I said. “I care about my son.”
The man froze and this time the reaction was not small. “Your son?” he repeated.
“Yes,” I said, my voice strangely cold and calm much like this foyer. My yelling panic had receded in front of the man I knew it wouldn’t affect. Plus, it wouldn’t serve me right now. Wouldn’t serve Nathan.
“My five-year-old son that my estranged, abusive husband kidnapped today from his school and that the police won’t help me get back.” I paused as utter and complete silence spread over the room. “The police won’t help me because Robert, my ex, he’s a detective. He comes from a powerful family. With money.” I gritted my teeth. “I’m not powerful. I don’t have money. But I am a mother. I’m not the best, because sometimes I forget that he has a dress-up day at school, or I do his homework for him because I’m too tired from working ten hours to explain it to him, and sometimes I feed him boxed mac and cheese because he loves it and even though I know it’s full of bad things, it makes him happy.”
That memory of a smile in front of a bowl of mac and cheese almost brought me to my knees, but I kept speaking.
“I let him watch cartoons on Sundays and I probably let him stay up too late. But I’m a good mother. I don’t have any of the things that Robert has, but I will do anything to get my son back. And anything includes asking for help. Because I don’t know what else to do, except find someone who isn’t the police, who isn’t scared of my husband’s badge and his name, someone who will help me.” I sucked in a harsh breath and willed myself not to cry. “Will you help me?” I asked the menacing man.
I begged him.
He stared at me. Gaped might have been more of an apt description. Those harsh and cold features seemed frozen from my words.
I held my breath as he didn’t speak. My heart was in my throat with the very real fear that the man in front of me had seen too much, done too much to be touched by my story, my desperation. That he would just be like the countless others I’d tried to look to for help. That would turn his back on me.
I vowed then that if that happens, I would knock on every door I could, offer up everything I had in order to find someone who had the means to get my son back. And if I couldn’t find someone, I’d figure out any kind of way. I would figure out where he was staying, living now, and I’d go there if I needed to.
I’d have to physically fight him for my son. And I wasn’t afraid of doing so. I wasn’t afraid of any single blow. No amount of pain could reproduce what I was going through right now.
I couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t kill me.
I would die for my son. In a second.
But I would not die knowing that my son would then be brought up by a monster pretending to be a man. A monster who would either lay his hands on my beautiful boy, or spew his toxic and violent morals onto my innocent and pure little human.
Neither of those options were acceptable.
I had to figure out a way to get my son back without dying.
I had a backup plan. If I had to.
I would go to wherever he was.
Not to fight.
To surrender.
I would go back there, back to the house of horrors, pretend I was going back to be the wife. I would abandon my home, my friends, all of it. I’d wear what he wanted, eat what he demanded, and take every hit he gave. If I could put my son to bed at night. Make him breakfast every morning. Listen to stories about his stuffed toy, Feebo, coming to life when I wasn’t watching. I would do that for as long as it took to find a gap in the bars. Then, again, I would take Nathan and slip through those bars and disappear again.