Woman Last Seen(42)

The empty sterility of this room suggests something much more icily resolute. It has been deliberately cleared, carefully prepared for the purpose of keeping someone captive. My captor has not taken me on a whim. The thought is chilling. I’ve always believed that anything that has been planned has more chance of success than something that is impetuous. Have I been kidnapped? Does someone think Daan is wealthy enough to pay a ransom for my return? My heartbeat speeds up again. My fingers start to shake once more. I force myself to take a deep breath. I have to stay calm and focused. I’m practiced at remaining levelheaded and in the moment. Panicking won’t help.

I’ve been trying to remember how I got here. It’s tricky to concentrate because my head still aches and I’m beginning to feel the effects of not eating since Monday morning but it’s important, so I focus. I remember Monday, taking Seb to school. We walked under a cloud. I was thinking about the row with Mark, what had been said, what was left unsaid, what I couldn’t speak of. Seb is generally sunny-natured but I know he resents me walking him to school, so he is never at his best on those journeys. I suppose I have to stop that ritual soon.

I laugh cynically to myself, maybe the decision has been made for me? If I don’t get out of here, Seb will have to get himself to and from school no matter how much I want to cling to him. Who will Oli kick against, without his mother to nag him? My sad laugh turns to a definite wail. The thought of my sons left without me lacerates. I push them out of my head. I’ve trained myself to do that. I’m vulnerable if I think about them, so I mustn’t. I am the world’s best at compartmentalizing. What I need to think about now is how I got here, because it might help me understand where here is and how I can get out. I need to focus.

After I dropped off Seb—a quick squeeze of his shoulder, no chance at all of pulling him into a tight hug or planting a kiss on his head even though I longed to—I walked to the park. On the days my family and friends think I get the late train to Scotland, I meet Fiona and we have a quick coffee and a slice of cake at the café in the local park. I remember meeting her. She couldn’t stay long because she had an appointment at the hairdresser’s. Her hair is long, like mine—she was going for the big chop; she said she fancied wearing it chin length, but she was vacillating at the last minute about her decision. She showed me a picture on her phone of some Hollywood woman I half recognized but couldn’t put a name to, sporting a center-parted, wavy lob. I encouraged Fiona to go for it. “I love the soft bends below the cheekbones, it keeps things modern and breezy,” I commented. Or something like that. It seems unbelievable now that we were talking about hair texture and volume. I remember watching her walk away and feeling the usual twinge of sadness that we are not quite what she thinks we are. She thinks we talk about everything, share everything. As I watched her long narrow back disappear into the distance I felt the space between us. A gap I have created.

Try as I might, I can’t remember anything after that. Maybe someone attacked me from behind. The park is generally pretty empty at that time of morning; the dog walkers have been and gone, as have the school kids trailing into school, but it’s too early for the young mums with their designer buggies to be heading off to baby yoga or baby music classes. It is possible I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time when this psychopath struck, hit me, dragged me into his car. You do read about such things. I’m more aware than most that life is strange. Have I just been unlucky?

My gaze falls onto the water bottle, it is a supermarket own brand, sparkling. I then pick up the notes and reread them.

I am not the villain here.

Who will come for you? Your husband?

The words make me glance down at my left hand. How have I not noticed before? I’m not wearing any rings. I normally change my rings over just after I leave Fiona. Routine is very important in my world. Is it possible that I was attacked as I slipped off Mark’s ring before I put on Daan’s? Was I robbed? Daan’s rings are particularly valuable. I’m always vaguely nervous when I wear them. The engagement ring is three enormous diamonds jostling for space on a platinum band, the wedding ring is also studded with diamonds. Mark’s rings are more modest. A plain gold band for the wedding ring, a small solitaire for the engagement. I always wear my rings.

One set or the other.

The only time I have gone a day not wearing rings was the day I met Daan. My rings were at the jeweler’s, because the stone in my engagement ring had come loose and while it was being fixed the jeweler suggested he give them both a clean. They were supposed to be there for only an hour, but the day didn’t turn out as expected. I sometimes wonder how different my life might be if I’d been wearing my rings that day.

Something occurs to me. Understanding seeps in. It is like icy water being slowly poured over my head, shoulders, arms. It pools around my feet, engulfs me. I might drown.

I am left-handed. If I were restraining someone, anyone, I would chain them up by their dominant hand. Generally speaking, that is a person’s right hand, but I’ve been tied by my left. My captor knows I am left-handed. He knows I prefer to drink sparkling water over still. The realization is horrifying.

I was not robbed. I was not attacked by a random psychopath.

I know my captor.

Who will come for you? Your husband?

“Mark?” Silence. “Daan?” Nothing.

I feel sick. Weak. My body turns to liquid and shivers crawl through my soul like spiders disturbed, scampering from a dusty corner. I have thought about this moment a thousand times and every time I have thought about it, I’ve closed my eyes, batted away the inevitable shame, pain, horror. I knew it could not last forever, the life I have constructed.