I can’t quite shake the creeping sensation that I’m being watched as I tug an open-weave white sweater over my sports bra, lock the studio doors behind me, and walk to my car. There’s an odd tingling at the nape of my neck as my eyes scan the half-empty parking lot, seeking evident signs of danger.
There are none.
What are you expecting, Shelby? A man in a black trench-coat, twirling his mustache and cackling maniacally as he plots your demise?
After this morning’s strange encounter, I’m inclined to head straight home and hide behind the safety of a locked oak door… but I don’t want to give those thugs the satisfaction of ruining my day. Plus, knowing my refrigerator is currently as empty as one of Paul’s promises is enough incentive to turn my wheel in the direction of the Union Square Farmers Market.
It’s still early but the crowds are already thick with those out enjoying a quintessential summer Saturday morning. I move from stall to stall, selecting a week’s worth of fresh fruit and veggies from vendors I’ve come to recognize after my many visits, smiling as I barter for a bouquet of hydrangeas and a bottle of wine, plum tomatoes and fresh baked bread, summer squash and a ball of burrata cheese.
Live music drifts in the air, a fiddler playing for tips. Families stroll past on all sides, their squawking toddlers in tow. Couples lick ice cream cones and laugh as they purchase mulled cider from the carts. I watch a clumsy golden retriever puppy tripping over his own paws and contemplate, for the thousandth time, whether I should get a pet to keep me company.
Shelby, you don’t need a pet, a snarky inner voice chides. What you need is a life.
Sighing, I stow my produce away in a reusable cloth bag — really trying to regain some of my karma points with Mother Nature after the flower debacle — then grab a cup of coffee to sip as I wander around.
I love it here.
If I’m being entirely honest, that wasn’t always the case. Somerville wasn’t my first choice of living locations. I didn’t get a say in the matter; Paul purchased our home without so much as a conversation and told me I should be grateful my name was even listed on the deed of the fixer-upper Victorian he found in an up-and-coming area on the Cambridge border.
We are the new wave of gentrification, the eager millennial homeowners who have rapidly transformed a suburb once known as “Slumerville” into “The Brooklyn of Boston.” It may not be as bustling as Downtown Crossing or as hip as the ever-evolving Seaport… but it’s close enough to enjoy everything the city has to offer while quiet enough to lead a relatively private life.
The perfect place to raise a family.
Not that I’d know anything about that.
I’m winding my way through the dense crowd toward an impressive display of fresh herbs and spices when something slams into my legs with the strength of a small rhinoceros. I glance down to find a tow-headed toddler tugging at the thin fabric of my yoga pants to steady herself. There’s a pink bow in her corn-husk blonde hair and a tiny pair of red sneakers on her feet. My gaze gets stuck on her hands, splayed out like little starfish just above my knees, and I feel something pierce every chamber of my heart.
“Oh! Watch where you’re going, sweetie!” The mother apologizes profusely as the father scoops his small daughter into his arms. Both beam at me sheepishly. “So sorry about that…”
I smile politely and try to pretend I’m not struggling to breathe properly. Suddenly, I’m desperate to get home. To get out of this crowd, away from these picture-perfect families that remind me of everything my life was supposed to be. To shut myself inside my car before I start weeping in full view of the artisanal maple syrup stand.
Pathetic, much?
I race for the street as fast as my legs can carry me, flip flops smacking the pavement with each hurried stride, grocery bag swinging by my side. The throng falls away and with it the high-pitched sound of children’s laughter as I round the corner onto a blessedly empty stretch of sidewalk. When my low-slung, two-seater convertible comes into view, I breathe a sigh of undeniable relief and beeline for it.
I’m so intent on getting home, I don’t even glance around the street as I load my groceries into the trunk. The feeling creeps over me so slowly, at first I don’t even register it. Not until the hair on the back of my neck begins to stand on-end. Not until my body begins to hum with that odd, prickly sensation, zipping along my skin like an electric current.
I know, without turning to look, that there are eyes on me.
Someone’s watching.
Heart hammering faster, mind whirling with dreadful possibilities, I slam the trunk closed and try not to let my sudden tension show as I take slow steps toward the driver’s side door. I cast a surreptitious glance around the quiet street for signs of danger.
Unfortunately if anyone is, in fact, stalking me, they don’t make their presence known. Errr, that, or I’m simply not astute enough to pick them out amid the collection of nondescript sedans and SUVs parked on this block. To my eyes, things look cheerful as ever in the summer sunshine — exploding flower boxes, quaint brick, outdoor cafes, tree-lined sidewalks. Nothing remotely ominous.
You’re just rattled from this morning, I tell myself, dismissing my own overzealous imagination as I climb into my car and grip the wheel with tense fingers. Calm down, crazy pants.
By the time I turn onto Merriweather Street and pull into my driveway ten minutes later, I’ve nearly managed to convince myself that the strange sensation was nothing but a fleeting paranoid delusion. A momentary lapse in sanity. A temporary breach in my otherwise calm, cool, collected mentality.
These assurances would, of course, be far more effective if not for the fact that I make it halfway up my front walkway only to watch as a large, hulking figure detaches from the shadows of my wraparound porch and steps into my path.
“Well, if it isn’t Shelby Hunt,” Lefty says, eyes glittering victoriously.
My grocery bag falls to the ground, exploding on impact. Avocados and tomatoes roll in all directions like tumbleweeds in a windy Western movie as I backpedal away — right into something rock solid. Something that feels a lot like a man’s chest.
Righty.
The scream building in my throat never makes it past my lips; a large hand slaps itself over my mouth before a single squeak can escape. I feel my body go airborne as a beefy arm winds around my waist like I weigh no more than a damn football and starts hauling me up my front steps.
Shit.
“This really isn’t necessary!”
My protests fall on deaf ears. They aren’t listening to me — not now, to my plaintive appeals. Not ten minutes ago, when they forced me into my own home against my will as I screamed bloody murder into the palm of Righty’s hand, praying someone on my dead-end street would notice me being abducted and call the police.
Of course the one time I’m actually in need of nosy neighbors, they’re nowhere to be found…
Righty adds another loop of duct tape around my arm, securing it tighter to the sturdy maple chair at the head of the massive dining room table Paul and I picked out seven years ago and have never once eaten an actual meal at. I suppose I should be happy it’s finally getting some use — if only for what I assume will be a session of interrogation.
Or torture.
I flex my muscles against the tape, testing its strength. It doesn’t budge. I’m officially stuck until they decide to cut me loose.
“You lied to us, earlier.” Lefty doesn’t sound pleased with me. Actually, he sounds decidedly displeased as he bends down to look into my face. His dark brown eyes are terrifying. “Not a fan of liars.”
“And I’m not particularly a fan of being kidnapped. We all make sacrifices..”
“You’ve got a smart mouth.” He leans closer and I flinch back in my seat. I try to, anyway. I can barely move with my wrists and ankles strapped so tightly to the chair. “If you’re not inclined to use that mouth to cooperate, there are some other uses I’m sure we could explore…”
My face goes pale.
“I can see from your expression you don’t like the sound of that alternative. If you tell us what we want to know, we won’t touch you…” He strokes a finger down the exposed column of my neck, his eyes dropping to my cleavage. “Much.”
“Get your hands off me or I’m not telling you shit,” I hiss, struggling to escape his creeping fingers.
Smirking as though this is all some big game, he steps back and leans against the wall near his partner, who’s sprawled on the plush cushions of my window seat like we’re about to sit down for tea. For a long while, they both stare at me in silence, arms crossed over their chests, expressions unreadable. Simple enough, as intimidation tactics go, but effective as hell; my heart picks up speed and I feel my palms going clammy as the silence drags on, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“What is it you want from me?” I finally force myself to ask. I’m surprised my voice comes out so steady.
“Like we said before — we’re looking for Paul.”
“I told you already, I don’t know where he is.”
Lefty looks doubtful. “He’s your husband.”
“We’re separated. We have been for months.” My chin jerks higher. “I have nothing to do with— with— whatever it is he’s done to piss you off.”
“The thing is…” There’s a flash of rage in the depths of Lefty’s dark eyes — the first emotion I’ve ever seen from him. Frankly, I think I prefer his icy indifference. “Your husband took something that belongs to our boss. We want it back. And he hasn’t exactly been what you’d call…”
“Cooperative,” Righty finishes.
“Right. Cooperative.” Lefty smirks, but it’s colder than a glacier. “We think he might need a bit of cajoling. Just to help him make the right choice.”
Okay. I’m not liking the sound of this.
Not at all.
“Look, I already told you I don’t know where Paul is. I don’t have anything to do with him anymore, so whatever you’re planning to do to me…”
“We aren’t doing anything to you. We just need you to deliver a little message for us.”
Relief sluices through me. “Fine! I’ll tell him whatever you want, just let me go and—”
“Can’t do that.” Righty’s head shakes.
“Why not? I already agreed to deliver your damn message!”
Lefty smirks. “You are the message.”
“What?”
There’s a ripping sound as Righty tears a large piece of duct tape off the roll and steps forward. “When your husband comes home and finds you, he’ll know just how serious we are about getting our product back.”
“But— you don’t understand! He won’t find me!” I yell, eyes widening as I watch that piece of duct tape coming closer, closer, closer, like a poisonous snake about to strike. I jerk my head to the side, trying to evade him, but he grabs my chin with bruising fingers and holds me still. “I told you — he doesn’t live here anymore! If you leave me like this I’m— Mmmmm! MMMMM!”
My protests cut off into muffled, indistinct cries as he shoves the swathe of tape across the bottom half of my face. My lips move frantically against the sticky backing, trying like hell to make them understand that their plan won’t work, that Paul won’t ever get their stupid message because he no longer has a key to this house or a place in my life… but it’s no use. My screams are in vain. Useless and unintelligible.
Lefty leans in, meeting my furious gaze, and smiles stiffly. “You tell Paul he has one week to return what he took from Alexei,” he murmurs, stroking one finger slowly down my cheek. He’s so near, I can feel each of his breaths puffing hot against my face. “If he doesn’t… we’ll be back to pay you another visit. And next time, we won’t be quite so polite when it comes to his pretty wife.”
Snapping my head forward, I try to head-butt him, but he pulls away before I can make contact.
“Nice try.” His eyes gleam with dark amusement. “I must say, part of me hopes your husband doesn’t cooperate. You and I could have a lot of fun together, malishka…”
I glare up at him. My blood is boiling with fury and, much as I hate to acknowledge it, fear. Because I know, if they walk away and leave me here, tied to a damn antique dining chair with my very existence contingent upon my shit-head husband’s decisions…
I’m a dead woman.
I try desperately to convey this message with my eyes.
You can’t leave me like this!
Paul doesn’t even live here!
No one is going to check on me!
Unfortunately, neither of them seems even remotely inclined to decipher the distress in my eyes. Without another word to me, they turn and walk out of the dining room, their heavy boots sounding sharply against the glossy hardwood floors I refinished this spring, just so I had something to keep my endless days occupied.
“Mmmm! Mmmm!” I yell against the tape. “MMMMM!”
But the only answer is the click of my front door, followed by thick, pervasive silence.
For a moment I just sit there, stunned into submission, wondering how the hell this has happened. Wishing I could close my eyes and re-do this entire day, preferably not getting out of bed at all. Praying that it’s all a terrible dream from which I’ll jolt awake at any moment, only to find myself tangled in sweat-drenched sheets.
The bite of duct tape against my bare wrists and ankles pointedly assures me that this is no dream. I’m awake. This is happening.
I’m totally screwed.
My purse mocks me from the center of the table where Lefty dropped it after forcing me into this chair. It’s far out of reach — as is the cellphone I know is sitting at the bottom beside my wallet and keys. I glance around the room, looking for anything that might possibly help get me out of this situation, but there’s nothing except antique furniture and gold foil art-deco wallpaper. No convenient letter openers or sharp-edged knickknacks I could use to cut myself out of this mess.
Damn my aversion to clutter.
The bright light streaming through the sheer curtains tells me it’s probably close to noon. I spend at least an hour thrashing, attempting to get free, trying like hell to scoot the heavy chair from its spot. My bonds don’t loosen. I barely budge more than an inch, and succeed only in frustrating myself to the point of tears.
If my life were a movie, I suppose I’d be the sort of heroine who knocked the chair over, splintering it into pieces and freeing herself in the process. As we’ve already established, my life is not a movie. Even if I could topple my chair (which, for the record, I can’t; trust me, I tried) I doubt the impact would break its joints.
Say what you will about American Colonial pieces… they’re sturdy as hell.
When my muscles are exhausted and aching, I try screaming for help, hoping a neighbor might hear me through the open bay window on the other side of the room. My morose, muffled wails barely permeate the tape, let alone reach the street.
No one can hear me. Or, if they can, they don’t care enough to come investigate. (I’m not sure which alternative is more upsetting.)
The sunlight morphs from bright white to mellow yellow as the hours pass by and afternoon yields to early evening. I watch the shadows change, lengthening and growing as twilight approaches, and shiver at the thought of spending an entire night sitting here alone in the darkness.
My captors said they’ll be back in a week, if Paul fails to return whatever it is he took from their boss. One week. Might as well be a lifetime. I’ve read enough books about wilderness survival to remember the Rule of Threes.
Three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food.
Good news? I might not starve to death.
Bad news? I’m still going to die — either from dehydration or mortification. Because the fact that I’m here, asscheeks going numb from sitting so long, stomach rumbling with hunger, about to pee my yoga pants because oh my freaking god it’s been hours since I last encountered a bathroom, all due to my asshole husband getting himself into trouble with some seriously scary dudes…
That’s just pathetic.
I hear a beep from the bowels of my bag: my phone is dying. Not that it matters — I can’t reach it with my hands bound, anyway. For a while, as I listen to the rhythmic beeps of the depleting battery, I entertain the deluded thought that someone will call and check in on me. That, when I fail to answer my phone, they’ll get in their car and come over to make sure everything is A-OK at the Hunt household.
After all, a gal can’t just fall of the face of the earth without anyone bothering to notice…
Right?
The reassurances sound thin to my own ears. The truth is, the few family members still in my life reside three states away and don’t keep in touch if it’s not a major holiday — sometimes, not even then. As a freelance graphic designer, I don’t have any co-workers to notice my absence in an office cubicle come Monday morning. And my friends are all far too busy with their own lives to realize mine might be in jeopardy.
Phoebe’s off on her honeymoon with her new husband. Gemma is due to have her baby any time now, confined strictly to bed rest until she goes into labor. Chrissy has two toddlers that keep her occupied every minute of the day. Lila is working full-time as a nanny while balancing her brand new relationship. And Zoe is halfway around the world by now, sailing off into the sunset with her fiancé. It’s safe to say, “Check in on Shelby!” isn’t the most important item on their packed to-do lists.
I’m officially on my own, here.
Night falls, and with it the temperature. I shiver in the dark, wishing I could summon the strength even to cry about my own miserable luck, but I’m too tired. Every bone in my body aches like I’ve been thrown down a flight of stairs. Ten straight hours of stress have sapped my energy levels completely. To make matters worse, when all is said and done, I’ll probably have a UTI from holding my pee for this long… if I manage to survive, that is.
Straining my ears, I listen to sounds from the street as my neighbors return home for the night — slamming car doors, muffled laughter. I imagine them eating dinner, watching tv, climbing the stairs to go to sleep. Eventually, the whole block falls silent as lights are doused and eyes slip closed.
All my life, I’ve felt invisible. As though no one sees the real Shelby Hunt — merely the illusion I’ve put forth for so many years, desperate to show the world a brave face instead of a tear-stained one.
The perfect woman in the perfect house with the perfect marriage.
As the hours trickle by, silent and unyielding, I realize my well-crafted facade of perfection will be my own undoing.
No one is looking for me.
No one is coming for me.
I am alone in a prison of my own making.
I have built my walls so high, isolated myself so thoroughly, that even my closest friends and family will not seek me out when a day, or a week, or a month goes by without contact.
I will slip out of existence as easily as a ring off the finger of a cheating husband at a seedy bar whose wife waits at home with dinner on the table.
I am Shelby Hunt.
The perfect woman.
The perfect ghost.