Are you sara, p.19
Are You Sara?, page 19
“Do what?”
“Be mean. Nathan’s trying to comfort you, Ellis. He’s nothing but nice to you . . .”
I scoffed. Andrea is so naive, and I was tempted to tell her that men are nothing but nice, and then they get what they want, and they leave you feeling like nothing at all.
Andrea didn’t let up. I wanted to tell her that this wasn’t the first time Nathan had touched me, but she was seriously upset and about to storm off, so I apologized for being dramatic and promised her I would say sorry to Nathan, too. After we finished our coffees, I asked her if she wanted to catch a movie on Main Street because I didn’t want to be alone yet, but she said it was getting late and went back to her dorm. I went to the theater anyway, and I was deciding whether or not it would be super depressing to go inside by myself when this older guy started talking to me, and, well . . .
I’m home now, safe. I was sober tonight, so I can’t even use that as an excuse. Like I said before, men are nothing but nice. But later, after it’s over and you have nowhere to go but home, you remember that they leave you feeling like nothing at all.
52.
Friday, October 7
Who is it?” I ask. I’m standing halfway between the bed and the door, in the short corridor by the bathroom. No one answers, so I take another step forward.
“Hello?” I say again, a little louder. “Who is it?”
“It’s Carl.”
I furrow my brows, and a beat later it comes to me. It’s Carl from the concierge desk.
“Oh, hello,” I say sweetly. “Can I help you with something?”
“Would you mind opening the door?”
“It’s rather late—”
“How is Mr. Knox tonight?”
I race to the door and look through the peephole. Carl is standing next to a security guard.
I hold my breath, resting my forehead against the door. Someone must have seen us enter on the hotel’s security camera and summoned Carl. It would be risky to unlock the door, but it would be more dangerous not to. They might suspect foul play, or think I’m holding him up here against his will, which I am, and call the police. I’m tempted to let them. I want Jason to burn up in flames, but if there’s a way not to get dragged down with him, I want to find it.
“Excuse me—”
“Yes, yes,” I say, impatiently. “Just one minute, please.”
I strip off my dress and kick it out of view, and I pull on one of the terrycloth robes hanging in the closet. Before I go back to the door, I look down the length of the hall. The armchair I’ve pulled to the edge of the bed is visible, but that’s it. Jason’s limp body is out of sight.
“Sorry.” I yawn as I open the door, throw Carl my most wholesome smile. “I was just getting ready for bed. It’s late!”
“How is Mr. Knox feeling tonight?”
“You saw us enter, didn’t you?” I shake my head. “Then you know as well as I do, Carl, he’s not feeling well at all.”
“That’s unfortunate.” Carl nods. “I’d be happy to check on him. See if there’s anything I can do—”
“It’s nearly midnight.” I try to close the door, but he stops it with his foot. “Mr. Knox is fine, thanks. He’s had too much to drink—”
“I really don’t mind, Ms. Bhaduri.”
I bet he doesn’t. Carl’s words are kind and his tone cheerful, but his hand is now on the door. He’s applying enough pressure that I have to lean against it to keep it from swinging open.
“I also thought Mr. Knox wasn’t much of a drinker.” Carl blinks. “I must be misremembering.”
My heart is beating hard against my rib cage. I bite my lip to keep it steady, and then, when I’m ready, I open the door wide.
“You’re not misremembering, Carl,” I say. “Jason stays here all the time. You know he doesn’t drink that much. You also know he’s a lawyer, likes to stay here whenever he has business downtown.” I pause. “You know he’s rich.”
Carl opens his mouth to speak but doesn’t. I take a step forward, blocking their entry.
“But did you know Lacey found out about me, Carl? Or that Jason is being sued for malpractice, for some bullshit mistake his assistant made?” I laugh, softly. “Do you know his little Jillian has ADHD and got kicked out of school on Tuesday—”
“Ms. Bhaduri . . .” Carl’s face is beet red, but when he tries to speak again, I wave him off.
“Or that all this stress has caused Jason to”—I lower my voice—“lose his erection?”
I shift my gaze to the security guard, who is unsuccessfully trying to hide a smile, and then turn my eyes back to Carl.
“Viagra, three beers, and a few lines of coke really knocked him out tonight, Carl. But of course, you and Mr. Knox are so close, I’m sure you already knew all that.” I shrug, standing back from the door. “Now let’s go check on him—”
“I’m terribly sorry, Ms. Bhaduri.” Carl is stammering, a bead of sweat on the side of his forehead. “Truly. I’ve disturbed you long enough—”
“Yes, you have.”
“I apologize. I was just—”
“You were just concerned about the safety of an esteemed guest,” I say briskly. “Now, if you don’t mind.”
“Can we do anything? Anything at all?” Carl looks at the security guard, as if for inspiration. “Breakfast. Yes. I’ll bring up a breakfast tray personally in the morning. All of Mr. Knox’s favorites.” He nods at me, wanting approval. “Nine a.m.?”
“That’ll do.”
“And if there’s anything else I can do. Anything. Anything at all—”
“No, there’s . . .”
I pause, wheeling around to look down the hall. There’s not much in there to work with. I do need Carl’s help, after all.
“Jason lost his phone at dinner,” I say. “The restaurant can’t find it. He has to get some work done in the morning, and he’ll need—”
“Of course.” Carl smiles, nodding. “I’ll have one sent up first thing.”
“No,” I say. “I’d like it sent up now.”
53.
Saturday, October 8
I have a plan. I think.
Carl returned twenty-two minutes later with a brand-new iPhone, still in its packaging, and left it outside the door. It’s now in my hand, which is trembling so hard I can barely hang on to it. I glance at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It’s nearly 1 a.m. And Jason won’t wake up.
I’ve tried poking him, shoving him, slapping him, but he just groans or ever so briefly writhes on the bed before settling back into his stupor. I go down the hall and fill the ice bucket from the machine, mix in some water and then dump it on his face.
That does the trick.
I pull the chair closer to him, but still out of arm’s reach in case he should get free from his bindings. He’s blinking, moaning and speaking incoherently. I wait a minute for him to come to.
“Where am I . . .”
He’s mumbling now, starting to make more sense. Quickly, I lean forward and slap him on the cheek.
“Who are . . .” Jason’s rolling his head back and forth on the bed. He opens his eyes as if they were being pulled open. He’s still staring at the ceiling when I start to speak.
“You’re on Ambien,” I say. “That’s what Rachel put in your drink.”
His face falls to the side, toward me.
“But don’t blame her. I told her it was molly.”
His eyes bulge. He can hear me. He’s starting to understand. He tries to move, but the binding stops him. He looks all the way up, and then down. Then he glances back at me.
“If you try to attack me again, if you so much as move a muscle . . .” My voice is wavering. I take a deep breath. “I’ll kill you.”
He laughs, feebly. “How—”
“With this knife.”
I flash him the tongs from the ice bucket, and a beat later put them back next to me. He’s loopy enough to buy it, I think. He doesn’t say anything further, and I keep going.
“Now, let’s get down to business. Shall we?”
Jason swallows hard. “Water?”
“No.” I stand up. “You don’t get shit from me. You’re going to shut up and listen.”
“I’m listening,” he says, although he’s not. His tongue is slipping out of his mouth. His eyes are starting to droop. I slap him on the face again.
“Jason!” I scream, a bit too loud. He’s staring up at me, dazed.
“If you don’t want me to slit Jillian’s throat,” I say forcefully, “you better pay attention.”
I step back, and Jason’s eyes follow me. I open the new iPhone and show him a picture of his daughter.
“If only other parents were as security-conscious as you and Lacey.” I hold the phone closer so he can look at his daughter, who is smiling widely next to a little blonde girl. “Jillian Knox isn’t a common name.”
“How did you . . .” He trails off. He’s struggling to stay awake.
“This little one here is Quinn. And Quinn’s mommy updates Facebook on her movements about fifteen times a day.”
Jason snarls. He tries to lift his arms, but the binding catches him.
“I wouldn’t move if I were you,” I say. “And if you ever want to see your daughter again, then you’ll leave me alone. You’ll let me go—”
“You’re going to kill Jilly?” he asks evenly.
“I’m going to slit her throat—”
Jason cuts me off, laughing. Howling. My face flushes and I yell at him to shut up.
“You don’t have it in you.”
“Yes—”
“No.” His eyelids flutter to a close. “You don’t.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he’s right. Of course Jason doesn’t believe me. Of course this won’t work.
I’m used to having my way, to making people believe whatever I want them to. But that’s because every lie, every maneuver—there was always a sliver of truth to it. A part of myself or reality I could draw on, or exaggerate.
But nothing inside me is a murderer. I could never kill a child. I don’t think I could even kill a man like Jason Knox.
I sigh, exasperated, and start pacing at the foot of the bed. The alarm clock now reads 1:34 a.m., and I’m one hour closer to dawn, to the Ambien wearing off, and still have nothing to show for it.
My mind races. What do I know? What could I use against him? I . . .
“What’s the next move, Sara?”
I stop dead in my tracks. Jason’s eyes are still closed, but there’s a smile plastered on his face. The same evil grin he surely had when he wrapped his large hands around Ellis’s neck, thinking it was mine.
I wish I had the guts to kill him.
“You’re going to pay for what you did,” I say. My voice is shaking, but I don’t care.
“And what’s that?” he slurs.
“Everything,” I spit. “You are disgusting. Evil . . .”
I never cry. I can control my emotions. But right then I simply cannot, and it starts pouring out of me, uncontrolled and with a will of its own. It is every tear I’ve ever held back. Every tough pill or circumstance I’ve had to swallow. Every terrible decision I’ve ever made. It’s out now. It’s a roaring wave.
“You killed Ellis!” I scream. “And you and Ollie, that night—”
“What are you talking about?” Jason mumbles. His eyes open for only a moment.
“You help men like Ollie run the world, huh?” I wipe my nose. I’m standing too close. “And at what cost? Knowing what he does to those innocent . . .”
I’m crying so hard I can’t even speak. I sink to my knees, crumbling forward.
My head is on the ground as I sob. I’m on fire, and if there was ever a moment I could kill a human being, it wouldn’t be Jillian, or Jason, or even Ollie.
It would be myself.
54.
That fateful night two months ago, I went to Jason’s hotel room as instructed and found a paper bag in his safe containing at least thirty thousand dollars. I put the cash in my purse, got back in the car and asked the driver to take me to the address Jason had given me. I’d been expecting a restaurant or bar, maybe the penthouse of a condo building. Instead, he took me to a house in one of the richer suburbs, large and modern. There was a basketball hoop over the garage and the lights were out. It looked like no one was home, but when I walked up to the front door, I heard the faint sound of music playing on the other side.
I knocked twice but no one answered. Hesitantly, I rang the bell. Two minutes later, a man opened the door. He was older than Jason, white, ugly. He looked me up and down like I was a piece of meat. He was grinding his jaw. He was high as a kite.
“What’s your name?”
He slurred his words and I took a step backward, nearly tripping down the porch stairs.
“Who invited you?”
“No one.” I cleared my throat. I hated the way he was looking at me. “I work for Jason Knox.”
“Jason! Where is he—”
“I need to speak with Ollie,” I interrupted. “Ollie Cullen. Is he here?”
“Ollie?” He stepped out onto the porch. “He’s tied up. Do you want to come in?”
“I’ll wait.”
“We’re having a little party—”
“I’ll wait,” I repeated firmly.
The guy stared at me as I sat down on the porch bench. I pretended to text on my phone, avoiding his gaze until he turned on his heels and went back inside. Twenty minutes later, I sent my driver home. Twenty minutes after that, I texted Jason and asked him when the hell he was getting here, but he brushed me off.
He told me to do my job and wait.
“You’re still here.”
I looked up, dehydrated and fuming. The ugly man from earlier had returned. I’d been waiting for over an hour.
“Where’s Ollie?”
“He’s occupied.” The guy smiled limply, set his hand on my shoulder. He looked slightly more sober than before. “But you need to go, or come in. All right?”
“I’ll wait—”
“No, you won’t.” He squeezed my shoulder, firmly. “I can’t have the neighbors seeing you.”
I bit my lip to keep from biting this guy’s head off. It was Jason I was angry with. I was tired, tired of always having to do what Jason told me, no questions asked. I was sick of these cloak-and-dagger routines, when I was never privy to the bigger picture. I was fed up with being Jason’s fucking assistant.
I had worked for him for over a year, and I was about to start my final year of law school. Most of my classmates who would get jobs at top-tier firms already had their offers, and every time I reminded Jason about his promise to hire me for real, he shrugged me off.
Would he ever hire me?
I knew what value I added to his off-the-books business, being able to secure the trust required to manage his degenerate, money-hungry roster of clients. Here, he could control me. Here in the shadows, he didn’t have to share.
“So, are you coming?” the man asked me.
Jason wanted to lock me out. But right then, more than anything, I wanted to finally be allowed in.
I followed the man through the door, toward the back of the house, where the music was playing. The hallway was lined with family photos in expensive frames. The man in the photos was him, the same man who was now leading me down the hall. He looked much less sadistic in them, next to his wife with her blonde bob, their two children. A boy and a girl, a different age in every photograph, stopping abruptly when they hit their teen years.
“Are they your kids?” I asked, gesturing at the last photo.
“No.” The man stopped, dabbed out a line of coke onto the back of his hand. “They’re paid actors.”
“Ha,” I said stiffly.
“You want some?” His eyes bugged out as he took the hit, the way Rachel’s always did.
“No,” I said.
“Suit yourself.”
We rounded a corner, which led into a room with high ceilings and floor-to-sky windows. It was full of men like Jason Knox. From a single glance, I could tell every woman in the room was being paid to be there.
The man disappeared and left me to look for Ollie. Everyone looked drunk or high off their rocker, dancing, laughing and smoking. The music was loud and cringe-worthy, and after I scanned every face in the room and didn’t see Ollie’s, I started to really notice the people I was seeing. The bashful way one of the girls, short and rail-thin, was leading a man to a back room by the end of his tie. The way another girl kept obsessively tugging at the hem of her clingy satin dress, as if she had yet to grow the confidence to show off her body. The way some of the girls—most of them, now that I thought about it—looked much, much too young to be here.
A shiver ran down my spine.
Across the room, a door opened and Ollie appeared. His face and neck were slick with sweat, and his hair was wild. He was grinding his teeth. He had his hands all over a girl, frighteningly young, makeup covering her plump, youthful face. A handkerchief of a dress covering her half-developed body.
“Sara!”
It was Ollie’s voice calling me, asking me why Jason hadn’t bothered to show up yet. Ollie’s wet lips on my cheek, kissing me in thanks for making the delivery. Ollie’s hands taking the cash from my purse, trying to cup my ass. I heard it. I felt it. But I couldn’t stop staring at the girl. And after Ollie disappeared with the cash, I couldn’t stop myself from going up to her.
“Hey,” I said to her. She was standing at the bar, unscrewing the lid from a bottle of Grey Goose. “I’m Sara.”
The girl gave me the side-eye. “Hi, Sara.”
“What’s your name?”
She didn’t respond, holding my gaze as she poured herself a drink and then took a sip. She nearly choked on the liquid. She looked like she wasn’t used to drinking.
“Have you been here before?”
“Do you want to fuck me or something?” she asked me, without looking up.
“No.” I forced myself to giggle, although inside I felt like I was about to throw up. “Well, kind of. But I’m on the clock . . .”
She looked up, and I felt her staring at my black shift, so different from what the other girls here were wearing.
