The New Husband (16 page)

Glen read the question and wanted to cry.

In the beginning, all he knew were tears. But at some point, he couldn't say when, the pain, his endless suffering, became less intense as it morphed into a persistent, almost dull ache. The relentless, piercing agony of those initial days, months even, after his disappearance couldn't have gone on forever. At some point the body and mind had to accept their fate. He had to do what humans had done for eons—adapt to survive. But what Glen was most thankful for was his capacity to endure. Otherwise, he'd have surely gone insane by now. And if he couldn't do what was asked of him—and much was asked—everyone would suffer.

Glen had to focus for Maggie's sake, at least until this conversation was over. There'd be plenty of time for tears later. All he had was time.

Who's my best friend?

Right away, Glen realized this was a trick question, and his pride for Maggie surged with her cleverness. She was thinking someone might have studied her, tried to learn her habits to pull off a ruse. She was right to be cautious. Glen knew better than most that people really
did
study others that way. So how to answer? He could have put down
Laura Abel, or even Benjamin Odell, but he knew neither would have been correct.

He imagined his daughter at school somewhere, because for once he knew the time of day. If he closed his eyes, he could see her blond hair and picture her sweet twelve-year-old smile. Then he realized, no, he had missed her birthday, so she was thirteen now, and the hole in his heart somehow managed to burrow a few inches deeper.

He eventually provided the correct answer to her question: Daisy. Maggie always went around saying Daisy was her best friend in the world.

Glen pictured them in his mind, his family, together as they once had been, before everything changed. He put them in their old house, even though he knew they were living across town now. He might have been absent all these months, going on years, but Glen knew everything about them—every soul-crushing detail.

Maggie's next question arrived:

What was my favorite Christmas present before we got Daisy?

Before Daisy, who would be five now, Glen calculated. So it would have been a present from at least six Christmases ago. He thought a second, and soon it came to him. He lived his life over and over again in his mind. Memories were all Glen had now, so he collected, stored, and guarded them, like a starving man with dwindling rations. He'd go year by year, day by day if possible, trying to recall specific events, experiences that had once grounded him, but too often those moments were shrouded in the fog of time. Thankfully, this wasn't one of those moments.

He remembered that Christmas morning quite vividly. Maggie was six at the time, but the way she had cried with delight made it hard to believe something so loud could come from a body so small.

They were gathered in the living room, a fire roaring in the fireplace, with a bright and glittering tree nearby. The scents of pine and gingerbread came to Glen as though he'd been transported back there. Nina, beautiful Nina, hovered behind young Maggie, waiting with nervous anticipation. She had begged for a Barbie DreamHouse for so long, lobbied like she was running a political campaign, the wait had been almost as excruciating for them as it had been for their daughter.

The memory surfaced with an ache both raw and primal. Now having his daughter so close, being connected to her this way, made his pain unbearable. Tears sprang to his eyes as his throat closed up.

Glen gave his answer and once again he was right.

The next question he got right as well. The Family Kettle—that was the name of the restaurant they had vowed never to eat at again because of the terrible food and service.

Shifting position, Glen hoped to alleviate the persistent ache in his back, but there wasn't much space to maneuver. His secret room behind the basement stairs was made of concrete and smelled of dust and mold. The room was exactly eight-by-eight-by-eight. He had measured it with his hands and feet countless times, irrationally thinking it might somehow have become a little larger.

Technically the space
was
larger, but two layers of wall had been put in, with a double row of studs along each interior side. The layers had been filled with a noise-damping compound, applied with a caulking gun. Sound clips placed between the studs and drywall provided an additional barrier for sound. The walls and ceiling also had high-end soundproofing acoustic panels. The carpeted floor was soundproofed like the walls. Every crack had been filled in with that acoustical caulk. He had named the space behind the stairs “the box.” With the door closed, nobody could hear Glen, even if he screamed.

Breathable air was a concern, and for that the room had been outfitted with an energy recovery ventilator, which brought in fresh air from outside while simultaneously pulling stale, contaminated air outdoors. In essence, the ERV system was the lungs of the space. Humid
ity and temperature were kept consistent and comfortable such that the space was warm during the cold months of winter and cool in the heat of summer. Glen didn't know everything about the engineering and installation. He knew only that it had been professionally done.

A single twin mattress rested on the floor, stained, no sheet, one blanket—his bed. A blue bucket, lined with lye to fend off foul odors—his bathroom. Dirty paper plates and fast-food wrappers littering the floor near his malnourished body—his food. A plastic pitcher and plastic cups—his water. A television was brought in only on special occasions, but it did provide one source of stimulation and entertainment. Food, shelter, water—Glen had the absolute bare minimum to sustain life, but alive he was.

Bolted to the floor in the center of his room was a heavy-duty cargo-securing base, a metal plate with a twenty-ton D-ring attached. Secured to the D-ring was a carefully measured length of grade 70 transport chain. Connected to the chain was a stainless-steel shackle, secured around Glen's ankle.

“You did good.”

The voice, even after all this time, still set a chill against Glen's skin.

Simon Fitch knelt in front of the open door to the room behind the stairs with a cell phone in his hand. Markings on the floor, pieces of electrical tape, indicated the safe zone, a spot for Simon to stand where Glen, held back by his length of chain, would not be able to reach him. Simon had spent much time and money getting the box prepared just right, and he'd been happy to share his ingenuity with the room's lone occupant.

These days, Simon often ignored his safety zone markings. He knew Glen was in no condition to attack him, nor was he all that interested anymore. The fight had been sucked out of him. Simon had been Glen's only source of companionship for nearly two years, his sole human contact. These days Glen actually welcomed Simon's visits, hoped for them. Loneliness bred strange companions.

Glen always asked for news of his family, any chance to be connected
to them, even by proxy. But this was the most contact yet. Maggie was on the other side of that phone, as if an invisible wire connected them. He'd never felt such joy and despair at the same time.

Simon might have taught history, but he knew technology, too. He figured out how to make those calls and texts to Maggie impossible to trace. Something about using internet proxy servers located overseas. As an extra precaution to make sure she never suspected him, Simon learned how to schedule messages so he could be with Maggie when she heard from Glen.

“I've got to get back to school,” Simon said, sitting cross-legged on the cement floor of the basement just outside the box. Glen knew that his prison was in the basement of Simon's lake house. It was the same home supposedly rented to vacationers, and was a short drive from the middle school, making it a convenient distance for brief visits during lunchtime. The basement had no furniture on which Simon could sit. The only thing down here, aside from the HVAC system, was that TV.

Simon had constructed a secret door complete with a concrete fa
ç
ade, so when it was closed it looked exactly like a basement wall. There was a thin outline of a door, but it was hardly noticeable. He added a gate latch to one of the bricks in the fa
ç
ade. Push on a special brick just so—only from the outside—and it released the latch, allowing the door to open.

It was an ingenious hiding place, since anyone who happened to venture down into the cellar would see a wall and not the man held prisoner by a chain bolted to the floor behind it. The chain was an added precaution in case Glen somehow figured out a way to open the door. Most of the time Simon left Glen alone in his box.

In the early days of his captivity, Simon had been quite cruel. He took twisted pride in having total power over his captive. He reveled in taunting Glen with stories of Nina and the children, like an alpha dog marking his territory. Simon had wanted everything, every single moment Glen spent in the box, to hurt.

One time, before Simon and Nina moved in together, he brought
her into the basement while giving her a tour of the house. He had placed a wireless speaker inside the box so Glen could hear her voice, but she couldn't hear him no matter how loud he called out to her.

Sitting cross-legged in his room behind the wall, tears streaming down his face, Glen had listened as Nina made comments about the basement being so clean and neat, how it didn't feel damp at all.

They didn't stay long, but Simon returned later to gloat.

“Your wife is so hot in bed,” he had told Glen. “She loves doing things with me she never did with you. She told me I'm the best she's ever had. She's glowing right now, positively glowing, in my bed upstairs.”

Glen had lunged at Simon, who stood in the safety zone, so the chain pulled tight, and his outstretched fingers brushed only air. He could move in any direction inside the box, but only within a six-foot radius. When Simon needed to get closer—to remove the ankle shackle so Glen could change his clothes, for instance—he always kept his Taser at the ready. But Glen had learned his lesson. There was no escape.

Simon, too, had become more subdued, even compassionate. Mutual dependency had forged a strange bond between captor and captive.

“We need to end this chat now,” Simon said. “I'll do the typing, you answer any questions.” A smile came to his face, eerily lit by the phone's bright display. “Let's see Nina keep working when her daughter's an emotional wreck,” Simon remarked to himself.

Ever since Nina took that job, Simon had been pressing Glen for ways to force her to quit. Glen did not begin to understand this obsession, nor did he understand any of the forces behind Simon's behavior, including his all-consuming need for Nina. But Simon was right to believe that Nina would quit if she felt her job was negatively impacting Maggie. He understood this without any help from Glen.

“Remember what I told you,” Simon warned. “Remember the consequences.”

The consequences, as Simon had made abundantly clear from the
start, were that if Glen failed to cooperate, tried in any way to warn Maggie, he would kill the entire family. He threatened to do it slowly and brutally and livestream it for Glen to watch. He said he might even kill Glen and stage the crime to look like a murder-suicide.

Glen, broken in body and spirit, close to madness, had done Simon's bidding and deceived his daughter to protect his family. But how much longer could he do his part to keep them all safe?

Ben handed me tissues he'd brought, knowing I'd need them even before I did. I started typing fast, my fingers flying over the digital letters, writing exactly what was in my head.

Please come home.

I can't Maggie.

Please. You've got to help. You've got to get him out of the house.

Get who out?

And that's when I stopped: Dad didn't know. He didn't know we'd moved. He didn't know that Mom was with Simon. He didn't know any of it, because he'd already been gone when it all happened.

What's going on? Is Mom seeing somebody? Are you living with this person now?

I hesitated before showing Ben the exchange, looking to him for guidance.

Tell him the truth,
his shrug back to me said.

Part of me agreed. If Dad didn't know what was happening, he might not realize how important it was for him to come home—before Mom became Mrs. Simon Fitch. But another part of me worried about upsetting him, hurting him more than he was already hurting.

In the end, the truth won out. I texted him about Simon and told him everything, explaining it as best I could in text-speak, mostly letting him know we were in a new house with Simon and that I didn't trust him.

Why?
he asked.

So many reasons. I'd have to tell you by phone.

I thought:
And I need to hear your voice.

Is your mom happy?
he wrote. Not the reaction I was expecting.

What does that matter?? He's not you!

I've done things. Things I'm ashamed of.

I know what you did. The waitress. Don't care.

No. You don't know everything. Nobody does. And I can't tell you. You just have to trust me.

Please tell Mom you're alive. I have to tell her. I can't keep this a secret.

MAGGIE, NO!!!!

All caps. Serious business.

IF SHE FINDS OUT IT WILL BE VERY BAD FOR ME.

All caps again.

Ok,
I wrote, feeling really crappy about upsetting him and guilty for having told Ben.

I'm serious, Maggie. Mom will tell the police, and if you tell Connor, he'll tell Mom. I can't have that. OK? Wish I could explain but can't. Trust me. Tell me about this new guy.

I typed as fast as my thumbs could move.

He's SUPER creepy. He was OK for a bit. Got worse when we moved in together and Mom started working.

I added a bunch of grimacing-face emojis—a yellow face with clenched teeth—for emphasis.

I kept typing.

He has this hidden rage. Saw it once. Like a serial killer!! Tried to record it with my phone. Broke his gun to get him mad but he winked at me like he knew what I was doing. And he freaked out about some tree branches. Lied about a trip. And made fun of me in front of the whole school! Too much to type. But trust me. He is CRAZY CRAZY!!

Nothing came through for a bit. I held my breath and then …

OK. I'll look into him. Promise.

I suddenly felt a whole heck of a lot better. Maybe my dad could dig up some dirt on Simon. Maybe with my father's help, even from afar, there was a way we could rid ourselves of him once and for all. I wanted to talk to my dad for hours, but he had other plans.

I have to go,
he wrote.

When can we talk by phone?

Not sure. Stay strong, Bunny. I love you.

And that's when I burst into tears again.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. I read and reread our text exchange a hundred times, thinking about what he could have done that made it impossible for him to come home. I wondered what he might learn about Simon, almost hoping it was something bad, something serious, proof that we were in grave danger, and it would force Dad out of hiding. I didn't pay much attention in my classes until I got to science. Our lab was due—the one on stress and body temperature—but when I went to hand it in, I couldn't find it in my backpack.

I emptied my backpack, searched every folder and notebook, but it wasn't there. That was impossible—I remembered putting it in my backpack the night before. But my teacher didn't really care what I said I did. She only cared that it wasn't on her desk with all the other labs.

A thought came to me: Simon had been in the library with us that day. He knew about the lab and how important it was for our grade. When I called Mom, my voice shaking with anger, to tell her what had happened to my homework, why my science grade was going to be a D, why Ben was going to stop being my friend, and who was responsible for the missing lab, I got her voice mail. That damn job! So far, I think it was the only thing Simon had been right about.

On top of the massive guilt I had over the secret I was keeping, I knew I'd soon have a different challenge to face: convincing my mom that Simon had intentionally taken my lab report. How much, I wondered, could I take before I snapped in half like I was one of those tree branches Simon obsessed over and he was the saw, slowly, methodically, cutting me down.