Wherever It Leads (28 page)

“But you need them.”

Sighing, I take another sip. The wine begins to fog my brain in a delicious way. I close my eyes and feel the softness that dampens my thoughts. “I know I need them,” I mutter, “But I need to get them tomorrow. I need to wrap my brain around it tonight and then ask Fenton when I can think clearly.”

“Don’t let him sidetrack you with his sexiness.”

“He uses it like a weapon. It’s like when he comes into the room, it comes in first and just obliterates a path to my clit.”

“Ha!” Presley barks. “You’re starting to sound like me!”

I groan. “That was a you thing to say.”

“I’ll take that as a win.”

“You do that. Why don’t you also flip on the television and let’s watch some Netflix?”

She swipes the remote off the table and a sitcom blares from the screen. I let the problems of the characters on the screen trump mine and snuggle in for a night of made-for-television hospital angst, leaving mine in the back of my mind for later.

“I
thought you had to work today?” Presley asks, standing up from a yoga position.

“Nope. Someone wanted to trade. Wanna do something?”

I pour a cup of coffee and glance at the clock. It’s already eleven and I haven’t bothered to even take a shower yet. Sleeping in is one of the best things in life and I’m enjoying it while I can.

“Are you seeing Fenton today?”

That’s the million dollar question. “I don’t know. I didn’t commit to anything, mainly because I don’t want him thinking he can get me to do whatever he wants.”

“I—” Presley’s phone starts ringing before she can get out the sentence. She holds up a finger and grabs her phone off the counter. “Hello?” She pauses, her smile slipping. “Yeah, sure. Hang on.”

She thrusts the phone towards me. “It’s your father.”

“Why is he calling you?” I ask, taking the device as Presley shrugs. A ball of uneasiness curls in my belly. “Hi, Dad.”

“Hey, sweetheart.” His voice is scratchy, without the usual cheer when he greets me. “You’re home with Presley, right?”

“Yeah. Daddy, what’s wrong?”

“We got a video today—”

“Is he okay?” I cry, grabbing the back of a chair. My legs wobble beneath me as I await his response. The delay makes me panic, my chest heaving. “Daddy?”

“He’s alive. That’s what’s important.”

“Oh my God.” Images flash through my mind, every worst possible scenario rapid-fires across my eyes. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the ideas that are making me want to shut down. “What happened? Did he speak?”

“He did. He said a little bit,” he sighs. His exhaustion is evident, palpable, even. “I can forward it to your email if you want. But, Brynne—don’t watch it unless you’re with Presley, okay?”

“Send it. I want to see,” I say, unsure if I really do or not.

“I’m doing it as we speak. They said they think it was taken a few days ago. There were parts the government didn’t give us, things that could be classified, so we aren’t sure what else was said. Our attorneys are fighting them to see the rest now.”

The tears blind me as I march down the hallway and grab my laptop out of my room. My hands shake as I toggle it back and forth as I go back down the hall. Presley watches me as I set it on the kitchen counter and motion for her to pull up my email.

I slide onto a barstool and soak up my tears with the hem of my shirt. Presley watches me out of the corner of her eye and gives me the best reassuring smile she can manage.

Phone still to my ear, my dad continues. “I’m trying to get to Zimbabwe. I just feel like I need to be there, on the ground, trying to find him. We’re trying to get the money gathered now, even though I have no idea where I’d even start there,” he chokes out. “This video, Brynne—it’s not pretty.”

I cry softly into the phone, saying silent prayers on repeat that it isn’t as bad as he’s making it out. That there’s a mistake. That this is a bad dream.

“Do not let this break your spirit,” Dad says, his voice even. “Wherever your brother is, he’s getting power from you—he always has. You two have always been so close. Use that connection by living well and sending him energy to come home.”

“I’ll try,” I say as the email opens. “Your email is here. I’m going to watch.”

“Call me if you need me. I love you.”

“You too,” I whisper, shutting off the phone.

The screen darkens, the frame fuzzy. It zooms in, out, and back in again before settling on a man on his knees in the middle of what looks like a warehouse. A long white robe drapes his thin frame, and as the camera zooms in, I see his face.

I gasp.

Presley’s hand flies to her mouth.

My stomach threatens to expel everything inside it.

Brady’s cheekbones are sunken in, his beard scraggly. There’s a cut above his eye that looks like it’s been bleeding recently. I examine the screen as closely as I can before a man steps between the camera and my brother.

“We come to show you our captive,” he says in broken English. “He is alive and well and wants to go home.”

I try to peek around him, which is impossible and infuriating. My tears scald my cheeks as I wait for the man in the military fatigues to speak again, my heart pounding in my chest.

“We will decide soon, America, on his fate. Because you have no heart. You know what you’ve done to our brothers around the world. And this time, you don’t get to call the shots.” He steps back and Brady is centered in the lens again. “Fighter, tell them your name.”

Brady lifts his chin, his eyes trained on the camera. They’re so lifeless it rips a hole in my soul. When he speaks, his voice is calm. “I am not a fighter. I’m a doctor—Brady Stewart Calloway from California, USA.”

“Do you want to go home?”

“Yes. I want to go home, to see my parents and my sister.” He forces a swallow and readjusts on his knees. Every move is calculated, every motion premeditated.

“He says he’s not a fighter, but he’s in Zimbabwe, in our country. In our business. America, you are fools. If you want him back, you will listen to us. We are in control.”

Presley’s hand finds mine and I grab it, pulling her close. My hands tremble as she clasps hers over them, both of us glued to the screen.

Brady faces forward, still watching the camera. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, barely breathes. The top of his robe has fallen forward, a bit of his chest exposed. You can see the outline of bones beneath the skin and it causes my tears to fall harder.

“In a few days, you will receive a list of demands,” his captor says. “If you want to see Fighter again, you will give us what we want.”

He turns to Brady, the sun streaming in the small windows at the top of the room behind them glistening off the butt of his gun. “You want to say something else?”

“Yes,” Brady says cautiously, looking at him before turning back the camera. “Mom, Dad, Brynne . . .”

I wipe the tears as soon as they hit so I can see him, but they come too quickly. His voice washes over me, my big brother trying to be the anchor even in the midst of his own storm.

“I’m okay,” he says. “I’ll be patient. But I need you to—”

The gun, a long, black piece of metal, strikes the side of his head before he can finish. I scream and Presley jumps as Brady falls to the side, the butt of the gun smashing him in the ribs. He shouts, his voice dripping in agony, as he’s struck again. This time, the force bowls him over and his face hits the ground.

The camera jolts to the asshole terrorist before it cuts out.

Jumping off the chair, shoving it behind me, I grasp the computer with both hands. “No!” I cry, trying to figure out how to rewind it. My hands won’t work, my eyes won’t focus. “Damn it! No!”

I collapse against Pres and she holds me tight, letting me sob into her shoulder. Wails wrack my body, my cries are howls as they echo off the kitchen walls.

Presley closes the computer and guides me to the sofa. We sit there until I finally cry myself to sleep.

The sofa sinks with Presley’s weight, the setting sun dipping behind the horizon. My head hurts a little from the crying, but tears also cleanse the soul somehow.

“You okay?” she asks, giving me a sad smile.

“Not how I planned to spend the day,” I groan, rising up and pulling a pillow on my lap. “This is such a nightmare.”

“I called and checked on your mom a few hours ago while you were asleep,” she says. “Your dad took her to the doctor and got her on some medicine to calm her down. She’s a wreck.”

“I need to call her.”

“I’d wait a bit,” Presley suggests. “Your father said they gave her a shot that pretty much knocked her out. I’m sure they’ll call you when she’s awake and coherent. He regrets showing you the video. I told him he had to or you’d have killed him if you found out later.”

My head rests against the back of the sofa, my body feeling numb. “I can’t believe this is happening. My dad can’t go there. How can he leave my mom?”

“Let’s just take this a day at a time and see what happens.”

I exhale roughly, feeling like I have a brick on my shoulders. I want to do something, take action, fix this entire thing . . . and I can’t. There’s not a damn thing I can do.

My eyes close, but I reopen them immediately. The darkness brings the video back to life, scrolling through my memory like an old-fashioned movie reel, and it’s one story I don’t want to see again. Ever.

“Want to grab some dinner?” Presley asks.

“No. I want to go to bed.”

“Brynnie . . .”

“Don’t, Pres. Not tonight.”

She sighs, flipping her hair off her shoulders. “Can I tell you a secret?”

I don’t react. She rolls her eyes.

“Remember your brother’s going away party?”

I nod.

“He asked me that night to take care of you while he was gone. And I’m a woman of my word.”

“Since when?” I groan, trying not to smile.

“Since forever,” she scoffs. “And I’m going to take care of you, and part of that is not letting you sit here and worry about this.”

“What am I supposed to do?” I toss the pillow across the room and onto the chair Presley usually sits in. “Just skip off and go to dinner, maybe have a margarita? Hell, let’s see a strip show while we’re at it.”

Presley stands and puts both hands on her hips. “Not my idea of a good night, but if that’s what you want to do . . .”

“It’s not. I . . . I don’t know what I want to do. I just feel rotten making plans, smiling, when I just saw . . . that.” The last bit of the video parades through my mind. “What do you think he was going to say? At the end, right before he got hit?”

Her shoulders shrug as her hands drop to her sides. “I have no idea. Probably something very Brady, something positive and motivating,” she laughs.

My lips twitch. “Yeah, probably. Or a quick question about the Dodgers.”

“Or maybe he was going to tell you to tell me he’s in love with me?”

A smile breaks my will and spreads across my cheeks. “Doubt it.”

“He is. I think I just intimidate him and he’s afraid to take a girl like me head-on. But I feel it. I’ll be the wife of a doctor someday.”

“Oh, Pres.” I rise off the sofa and face my friend.

“It’s true. Now, what are we going to do with you?”