Revealed: The Missing Years
Page 11
Perhaps it was the wine, but I’d say it was his magnetism. His words and tone enveloped the booth where we sat and filled me with a false sense of hope for a future and a career I’d lain awake nights dreaming of experiencing. For a brief moment in time, he made it seem obtainable. I bit—hook, line, and sinker—and, willingly accepting the pen he offered, signed my name.
What I thought was an imaginary agreement to my life’s dream, was in actuality a literal agreement to a nightmare.
Though I didn’t see Anthony at all the next day, he called the restaurant and asked me to dinner. I was so surprised that he remembered my name, much less asked me out on a date, that I didn’t realize that he knew my schedule. Not only did he know when I was working so that he could call, but he also knew the time I would finish work the following day.
Another rule I faithfully practiced during my dating years was to never ride with a man in his car on the first date. I always drove separately. It was my escape. That practice had proved useful on more than one occasion. However, once again, Anthony had his own plan, his own rule. Before I knew it, I’d agreed to a dinner date and to having him pick me up at my place of business. That date was March 17—the date I ceased to exist.
Perhaps if there were to be any hearts and flowers in our courtship, it was that night. He took me to a beautiful Italian restaurant, and once again, I missed warning signs. He ordered my meal, my drinks, everything. I’d never met a man like him before. He threw my world off-kilter. No matter what I thought or said, he seemed to be one step ahead of me and for some unknown reason, I liked it. After living independently with no one else to rely upon, an evening with a man in total control was a nice break in routine. I had no illusions about a long-term relationship with Anthony Rawlings. Our worlds were too different. But for a night I was treated like a princess and this dark-haired, dark-eyed gentleman was my prince.
When he offered to take me back to his hotel suite and I accepted, little did I realize that it was one of the last decisions I would make for nearly three years. Little did I realize that my fate was sealed and my prince was truly the beast of every fairytale I’d ever read. I now understand that my future was predetermined, and my pseudo-decisions—like agreeing to dinner and his hotel suite—were just that: a ruse for a bigger, darker plan.
Though my nightmare began later that night, I can’t recall any of it until the next day when I woke in my prison—my cell for the next three years of my life. Of course, that wasn’t what he called it. He called it my suite at his estate.
The captain announced their approach into Cedar Rapids as Brent turned off his app and closed his eyes. He’d heard rumors and whispers around the office. Hell, the Internet and television buzzed with the stories, but part of Brent wanted to believe that Claire hadn’t truly disclosed their darkest secrets to the world. A cold chill brought goose bumps to his arms as he imagined Tony reading this account for the first time.
As the plane touched down in Cedar Rapids, Brent fumbled with his phone, turning off the airplane mode. An onslaught of buzzes and vibrations told him that his momentary reprieve from reality was done. He obviously had messages galore awaiting his reply. Then, just as quickly, the screen went black.
“Damn,” he whispered to himself. “That battery is shit.”
As the plane taxied to the gate, Brent realized that he‘d forgotten to text the office to have a car pick him up, and his car was at the Rawlings Industries private airport. With his phone dead, he couldn’t even call Courtney, not that he wanted to disturb her. She and Claire were probably catching up. Fine, he’d take a cab. Although there was plenty of work at Rawlings, Brent wanted to go straight home. He hoped that when he arrived, he’d find Tony and Claire safe under his roof, with harrowing stories of outsmarting Catherine and saving Emily and John.
Rotating his head from side to side in an effort to relieve the tension, Brent wondered when he’d become an optimist. The tight muscles in his neck and shoulders warned him of the alternate possibilities of what he’d find at home. Perhaps even a police officer. If Tony were taken into custody, would Brent and Courtney’s roles be discovered? Would they too be taken in for questioning?
Those questions and more rattled through his consciousness as Brent exited the causeway to the airport. He wasn’t looking at the televisions sprinkled throughout the waiting area of the gate, but the headline caught his attention: RAWLINGS INDUSTRIES PLANE DOWN: 5 BELIEVED DEAD.
Perspiration dotted his brow as he fought to comprehend. Rawlings had more than one plane. Surely they didn’t mean the plane he was supposed to be on? He stared at the silent screen. The closed caption finally registered. Brent Simmons. Derek Burke. Sharon Michaels. Andrew McCain. Tory Garrett.
Brent rushed to a pay phone and fumbled for change. He called his home—no answer. He called Courtney’s cell phone—voicemail. “Courtney, I wasn’t on that plane!” he yelled into the receiver. “I’m on my way home. Oh, my God! I’m coming home!”
The ride from Cedar Rapids to his home was nothing more than a blur. He wanted to call the office, to try other phones. He hadn’t left a message on their home phone, but he couldn’t do any of that. His phone was totally dead. Brent couldn’t think straight.
As the cab turned in to his driveway and approached his house, the number of cars on the brick drive brought the tension in his neck fully to Brent’s temples. Easing his way in the front door of his home, Brent listened to the din of hushed voices coming from his kitchen. Stopping dead in his tracks, he heard his son’s voice. “Mom, we’ll be there as soon as we can.” Caleb was obviously on speakerphone. “Julia found a flight leaving in a couple of hours. We’ll stay here as long as you need. Don’t even try to argue. Nothing’s more important right now than taking care of you.”
What I thought was an imaginary agreement to my life’s dream, was in actuality a literal agreement to a nightmare.
Though I didn’t see Anthony at all the next day, he called the restaurant and asked me to dinner. I was so surprised that he remembered my name, much less asked me out on a date, that I didn’t realize that he knew my schedule. Not only did he know when I was working so that he could call, but he also knew the time I would finish work the following day.
Another rule I faithfully practiced during my dating years was to never ride with a man in his car on the first date. I always drove separately. It was my escape. That practice had proved useful on more than one occasion. However, once again, Anthony had his own plan, his own rule. Before I knew it, I’d agreed to a dinner date and to having him pick me up at my place of business. That date was March 17—the date I ceased to exist.
Perhaps if there were to be any hearts and flowers in our courtship, it was that night. He took me to a beautiful Italian restaurant, and once again, I missed warning signs. He ordered my meal, my drinks, everything. I’d never met a man like him before. He threw my world off-kilter. No matter what I thought or said, he seemed to be one step ahead of me and for some unknown reason, I liked it. After living independently with no one else to rely upon, an evening with a man in total control was a nice break in routine. I had no illusions about a long-term relationship with Anthony Rawlings. Our worlds were too different. But for a night I was treated like a princess and this dark-haired, dark-eyed gentleman was my prince.
When he offered to take me back to his hotel suite and I accepted, little did I realize that it was one of the last decisions I would make for nearly three years. Little did I realize that my fate was sealed and my prince was truly the beast of every fairytale I’d ever read. I now understand that my future was predetermined, and my pseudo-decisions—like agreeing to dinner and his hotel suite—were just that: a ruse for a bigger, darker plan.
Though my nightmare began later that night, I can’t recall any of it until the next day when I woke in my prison—my cell for the next three years of my life. Of course, that wasn’t what he called it. He called it my suite at his estate.
The captain announced their approach into Cedar Rapids as Brent turned off his app and closed his eyes. He’d heard rumors and whispers around the office. Hell, the Internet and television buzzed with the stories, but part of Brent wanted to believe that Claire hadn’t truly disclosed their darkest secrets to the world. A cold chill brought goose bumps to his arms as he imagined Tony reading this account for the first time.
As the plane touched down in Cedar Rapids, Brent fumbled with his phone, turning off the airplane mode. An onslaught of buzzes and vibrations told him that his momentary reprieve from reality was done. He obviously had messages galore awaiting his reply. Then, just as quickly, the screen went black.
“Damn,” he whispered to himself. “That battery is shit.”
As the plane taxied to the gate, Brent realized that he‘d forgotten to text the office to have a car pick him up, and his car was at the Rawlings Industries private airport. With his phone dead, he couldn’t even call Courtney, not that he wanted to disturb her. She and Claire were probably catching up. Fine, he’d take a cab. Although there was plenty of work at Rawlings, Brent wanted to go straight home. He hoped that when he arrived, he’d find Tony and Claire safe under his roof, with harrowing stories of outsmarting Catherine and saving Emily and John.
Rotating his head from side to side in an effort to relieve the tension, Brent wondered when he’d become an optimist. The tight muscles in his neck and shoulders warned him of the alternate possibilities of what he’d find at home. Perhaps even a police officer. If Tony were taken into custody, would Brent and Courtney’s roles be discovered? Would they too be taken in for questioning?
Those questions and more rattled through his consciousness as Brent exited the causeway to the airport. He wasn’t looking at the televisions sprinkled throughout the waiting area of the gate, but the headline caught his attention: RAWLINGS INDUSTRIES PLANE DOWN: 5 BELIEVED DEAD.
Perspiration dotted his brow as he fought to comprehend. Rawlings had more than one plane. Surely they didn’t mean the plane he was supposed to be on? He stared at the silent screen. The closed caption finally registered. Brent Simmons. Derek Burke. Sharon Michaels. Andrew McCain. Tory Garrett.
Brent rushed to a pay phone and fumbled for change. He called his home—no answer. He called Courtney’s cell phone—voicemail. “Courtney, I wasn’t on that plane!” he yelled into the receiver. “I’m on my way home. Oh, my God! I’m coming home!”
The ride from Cedar Rapids to his home was nothing more than a blur. He wanted to call the office, to try other phones. He hadn’t left a message on their home phone, but he couldn’t do any of that. His phone was totally dead. Brent couldn’t think straight.
As the cab turned in to his driveway and approached his house, the number of cars on the brick drive brought the tension in his neck fully to Brent’s temples. Easing his way in the front door of his home, Brent listened to the din of hushed voices coming from his kitchen. Stopping dead in his tracks, he heard his son’s voice. “Mom, we’ll be there as soon as we can.” Caleb was obviously on speakerphone. “Julia found a flight leaving in a couple of hours. We’ll stay here as long as you need. Don’t even try to argue. Nothing’s more important right now than taking care of you.”
