Holding his Hostage Read online

  Holding his Hostage

  Amy Gamet

  1

  Till death do us part, you son of a bitch.

  Joanne Regan shivered in the bitter December wind as a preacher she’d never met stood over her husband’s casket and spoke of God’s unending love. David hadn’t believed in God. For that reason alone, she’d been sure to get a preacher.

  Fiona’s mittened hand was clenched tightly in her own, the bitter wind stinging Joanne’s bare skin. Her younger daughter had been physically attached to her since learning of David’s death—a fist knotted in Jo’s hair, a leg crooked over hers on the sofa—as if the connection could keep death from taking her mother, too.

  Lucas stood beside Fiona, his yellow ski jacket standing out from the crowd like a daffodil in a pile of ash, and Jo let her gaze rake over the impossibly tall form of her middle child. It was as if he’d simply been stretched, the toddler she remembered pulled into a boy, and she ached to rake her fingers through his wispy blond hair, but he would only pull away if she touched him.

  So much pain.

  Her throat clenched with an intensity of emotion David’s death had failed to stir. Lucas was only beginning to see his father’s shortcomings before the anger and resentment had been washed away, a single phone call obliterating all.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, her teeth chattering against the cold.

  Life without David had long been her dream, but she hadn’t wanted him to die, for God’s sake. A divorce, neat and clean, the end to this year-long separation and its own new beginning. But he’d fought her at every turn, the bitterness that had grown between them manifesting in custody arrangements and the division of the household.

  It had been hardest on April, the oldest of the three at nearly twelve. Joanne turned her head to take in the girl’s silhouette, April as still and willowy as a straight pin balanced on end. She was enveloped in one of Joanne’s long coats, her hair hanging in thick brown plaits and secured with pink barrettes that surely had been borrowed from Fiona.

  April was smack between woman and child, the distance between mother and daughter growing wider by the moment. Just this morning, they’d fought.

  Joanne had lifted heavy arms to stir milk into her coffee, cold winter sunshine landing in strips across the table as she contemplated the funeral ahead. April’s phone was there, and she picked it up, desperately wanting some insight into the girl’s current state of mind.

  April was the only one who hadn’t cried when Jo told them of their father’s death, whether for lack of grief or the inability to express it, Joanne could only guess, having long since been excluded from her daughter’s list of confidantes.

  Her friends will help her through this, even if she won’t confide in me.

  God, she hoped that was true, the bold colors and bright photos of Instagram flying by on the screen. She found April’s page, but there was no post announcing her father’s death, no heart emojis or prayer hands offering solace in her daughter’s time of need. She checked the private messages.

  I WANT TO MEET YOU.

  The words jumped out at her from the screen. She scrolled up to see the earlier conversation, skimming snippets as she went.

  You’re so funny…

  …I love our talks…

  My mom is pissing me off…

  My dad died.

  There it was. Three words in a private message to Justin971, the only evidence of a real friend in a sea of selfies and memes. She frowned, trying to conjure a Justin from her memory of field days and volleyball games, but failing to find a match. She didn’t even know who April’s friends were anymore, and the knowledge hurt her heart.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  She’d never seen April so angry.

  Fiona tugged on her hand, pulling her back to the present. “I gotta go potty,” she whispered.

  “Just a few more minutes. Can you wait?”

  The girl stuck out her bottom lip but nodded. “I’m cold.”

  “I know. Me, too.”

  Jo turned back to the preacher, the familiar lines of the psalm washing over her, constricting her throat. They’d been happy together once, hadn’t they? It had been so many years, she could barely remember if it was true. The lies were far more easily brought to mind, the betrayal, the pain, the verbal abuse.

  The wind kicked up and she squinted against it, her eyes coming to rest on the deep brown casket as she visualized what must be inside. Poor David. No one deserved to die as he had. The funeral director had asked if she wanted to see the remains, but she couldn’t bear the idea. Just how much of him was left after the fire?

  She looked around for the plainclothes police detective who’d been standing near the hearse when they arrived. He must have seen the body, read the coroner’s report. Maybe she should ask him. Bump herself up the list of suspects with one fell swoop. But instead of the detective, her stare collided with the green and bloodshot eyes of David’s mistress. Jo’s stomach bottomed out as if she’d swallowed battery acid.

  McKenzie Bannon stood with her arm tucked into the crook of her husband’s, her wavy red hair falling gracefully over her shoulders. If Richard Bannon knew about the affair, he gave no indication. He was one of the most prominent clients of David’s firm, that connection being the primary reason McKenzie had gotten the job as David’s secretary all those years ago.

  If you thought about it, Richard Bannon was the reason Jo’s entire life had fallen apart. There she went again, making excuses for David, putting the blame at someone else’s feet instead of his, where it rightfully belonged. Bannon hadn’t made her husband cheat on her.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Regan,” said a man’s voice behind her, startling her. The service had ended. She vaguely recognized the pudgy, balding man as an accountant from David’s firm.

  “We were separated,” she blurted, unsure why she needed to offer that information right now. “A year in February.”

  “I hadn’t heard.” He mumbled an awkward goodbye, another balding accountant stepping in to take his place. This time, she kept her marital status to herself. From the corner of her eye, she saw April approach the casket while Lucas wandered among the headstones nearby.

  “I gotta go potty,” repeated Fiona, tugging on her arm.

  “Go tell your brother it’s time to leave.” She addressed the line of mourners waiting to pay their respects, grateful at least McKenzie hadn’t set foot in that line. “I’m sorry, I need to go.” She turned abruptly and crossed to April, bracing herself for the girl’s potential attitude. “You doing okay?” Jo asked.

  “When will they lower the casket into the ground?”

  “After we leave, I suppose.”

  “I want them to do it now.”

  “Why?”

  April didn’t answer. Suddenly even colder than she had been, Jo wrapped her arms around her midsection. “Come on. Fiona’s gotta go potty.” April reluctantly fell into step beside her, Lucas and Fiona joining them as they headed for the car, the unwavering stare of the police detective tracking them like the moon on a cloudless night.

  She wanted to tell him she hadn’t killed her husband. If she was going to do that, she’d have done it long before now. The service was done. David would soon be in the ground, and she’d played the part of the dutiful wife for the very last time, albeit not terribly well.

  “Mrs. Regan?”

  She bristled at the name, turning to see Richard Bannon hustling to catch up to her, and she stifled a suffering sigh. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” She moved to turn around, knowing she was being rude but no longer caring. She needed to get out of this place, anxious to get to her vehicle and
find Fiona a bathroom, but he grabbed her upper arm.

  “Can I have a word with you? It’ll just take a second.”

  She jerked her arm out of his grasp, irritated with his touch and considering telling him so. But it was a difficult day, and the easiest path was the one of least resistance. “Go on to the car,” she told the kids. “I’ll be right there.”

  When they were gone, he said, “Beautiful family.”

  “Thank you.” She took a shaking breath in. “I only have a minute. My daughter needs to use the bathroom.”

  “We always wanted kids, McKenzie and me. Such a blessing.” He put his hands in his pockets. “You know I did business with your husband. A lot of business over the years.”

  She shifted her weight. “Of course. The firm has many excellent accountants who can help you. I’m sure they’ll work to make the transition—”

  “I don’t want to seem indelicate on the day you’re burying your husband, but I have a problem. David was in possession of a great deal of money at the time of his death. My money.”

  She took a step back. “I don’t know anything about David’s business dealings. We were separated.” Because he was fucking your wife. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  His hand shot out again, strong fingers locking painfully around her upper arm.

  “Let go of me!” She yanked her arm, but he kept his hold.

  “Money that needs to be returned.”

  Her eyes shot to the spot where the police detective had been standing, but he’d walked to the winding cemetery road and was getting into an SUV. There were no mourners left, Bannon and Joanne the last ones around, and she wondered where McKenzie had gone. She swallowed against her dry throat. “How much money?”

  “Two-point-three million.”

  She gasped. “I don’t have it. I don’t know anything about any money.”

  “He didn’t take it with him, which means it’s somewhere on this side of the great beyond. I need your help to find it.”

  “You don’t understand. We were getting a divorce. He didn’t share money with me. We didn’t share anything.”

  “Except your children.” He turned her so she faced the vehicle. “Look at them. It would be such a shame if anything happened to one of them.”

  A trickle of fear ran down her spine. “Are you threatening me?” His clawlike fingers dug into her flesh. April stared back at her with wide, worried eyes, the yellow of Lucas’s coat just barely visible behind her.

  “I prefer to think of it as motivating you to do the right thing.”

  “You wouldn’t hurt them,” she whispered.

  “Like I didn’t hurt your husband?”

  Her mouth fell open, her stare fixed on the dilated pupils of his eyes, wolflike and predatory. Was this the last thing David had seen? This monster of a man bearing down on him, demanding money? David had been shot, his body burned beyond recognition as his hunting cabin went up in flames around him.

  If Bannon killed David, he was capable of terrible things. The vision changed, Bannon now holding young Lucas in his clutches, and her heart skipped a beat as terror flooded her nervous system.

  “You have one week, Joanne.” He lowered his voice. “You get me my money, or the oldest one dies.”

  The detective’s SUV rounded the corner, heading toward them. Bannon looked from her to the vehicle and back again and growled, “You go to the police or the feds, and I’ll kill all three. You got that?”

  He released her. She watched helplessly as the detective passed her minivan and drove away.

  “We’ll be watching you, Mrs. Regan. Now go find my money.”

  2

  Joanne gripped the steering wheel tightly, the slick snow-covered roadway glowing in the dim light of dusk as they got close to home. Her skin prickled, dry air from the heating vent blowing in her face, and she was sure she would never be warm ever again.

  Lucas and April bickered, but she wasn’t listening. Fear was a funny thing. It had the power to immobilize you, or to force the weakest muscles into profound action worthy of an Olympic athlete. She was waiting to see which reaction would prevail.

  She’d grown up in a house of fear, never knowing what the day would bring. Times like these, when fear tucked itself tightly between her collarbone and heart, she relied on her upbringing to fuel her race to safety.

  But this was different. How the hell was she going to find that money? For nearly four hundred days, she’d been painstakingly untangling her life from David’s, a slow and difficult process that couldn’t be undone.

  “Who was that man?” asked April.

  “Someone your dad worked with.”

  “He grabbed your arm.”

  “He was upset.”

  “Why?”

  “Who knows why people do things, April? It’s a difficult time for us all.” She drove by the police station, wishing she could walk inside and find safety, but she knew in her heart all safety was gone.

  “I think he’s following us.”

  Their eyes met. Joanne adjusted the rearview mirror. She hadn’t been paying attention, and she cursed herself. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  She turned onto a two-lane road that led to her property outside of town and sped up, watching as the car behind her followed suit. Her hands broke out in a sweat. “Just the man, or the woman, too?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I’ll be watching you.

  This man had killed David; now he was after her. She needed help, her mind desperately searching for anyone she could turn to and coming up empty. Perhaps the police could protect them, but would they even believe her? That detective seemed to think she was a murderer. That definitely wasn’t a chance she could take.

  Jo turned onto their street, her hands gripping the steering wheel so hard it was difficult to move the wheel. She couldn’t catch her breath, the anxiety that was her constant companion now spiraling into a full-fledged panic attack. They needed to get away, to find somewhere safe. She needed to protect her family.

  But how?

  The house appeared in the distance, a white rail fence and acres of manicured rolling hills surrounding a big white ranch with a barn and stable visible in the distance. She suddenly wished that fence were electrified and at least twenty feet high, but even as she thought it, she knew she still wouldn’t feel safe with that man somewhere out there.

  She pulled to the side of the road and stopped at her mailbox, April putting her window down and collecting the mail. Behind them, the car had stopped some hundred feet back, headlights blazing. They weren’t even trying to be inconspicuous. This was an intimidation game, a tactic to terrorize her, and it was working.

  She pulled into the drive, fresh snow crunching under her tires. She waited to see if the other car would follow.

  “Who’s Evelyn Nowak?” asked April.

  “Evelyn?” The name was a relic from her past, a part of her life that seemed more like a story about someone else than an actual piece of her memory. But if that was true, then Evelyn was one of the best parts of the book. “An old friend. My ex-boyfriend’s mother. Probably a sympathy card.”

  “Looks like it.”

  Jo glanced in the rearview. The car stayed on the main road with its lights on. Better than following them to the door, but worse than driving away.

  “How old were you?” April asked.

  “Seventeen.” She opened the garage door and pulled inside. Her panic was subsiding, and she knew it was the mention of Evelyn’s name that had comforted her so quickly. There was only one place she’d ever really felt secure, only one place she’d ever had a friend she could trust and people who felt like family. That was in Evelyn’s house, and she longed to be back there now.

  She pushed the ridiculous idea out of her mind. To get there, she would need to cross a bridge she had long since burned to the ground. She would feel better when she got inside and set the alarm. Make herself a cup of tea and get some perspective on this
whole god-awful day. Maybe try to log in to David’s bank account and see just how much money he had squirreled away.

  She grabbed the mail and her purse, her finger trailing over Evelyn’s perfectly formed script as the kids climbed out of the car.

  “I get the Xbox,” called Lucas, racing ahead.

  “I want princesses!” whined Fiona, trailing after him.

  April got out but turned back. “You coming?”

  “I’ll be right in.” The door closed, the car suddenly filled with silence. She took a deep breath and opened the envelope. A watercolor iris graced the front of the card, and she knew immediately Evelyn had painted it by hand. Inside, she read, “Dearest Joanne, I was so sad—”

  The garage door to the kitchen opened and Lucas appeared, screaming, “Mom!”

  She held up a finger, continuing to read. “—to learn of David’s passing. I wish I were there, so I could give you my shoulder on which to cry. When you’re ready, please come for a visit so I can hug you properly and reminisce. Love always—”

  A knock at her window made her jump. April stood on the other side. “You need to come see this.”

  The horrified tone had her scrambling to get inside. Something was clearly wrong. Had Fiona hurt herself? She pushed the door open and froze.

  Utter destruction.

  Drawers from the antique hutch were strewn about the floor, their contents scattered about like leaves in the fall. Pictures had been taken off walls, their frames and canvases separated with slices and rips.

  She stumbled toward the kitchen, Lucas weaving his way through the room like he was crossing a pond on stones. “Who would do this?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jo lied, avoiding April’s knowing stare as she bent and picked up a picture of the kids, its glass shattered and wooden frame fractured. It was a favorite of hers, their last family portrait, and she pushed the glass aside, cutting her finger. She gasped and popped it in her mouth.

  A sudden shriek echoed through the house. The picture forgotten, Jo flew down the hallway toward Fiona’s screams. She should have grabbed a knife from a kitchen drawer, and she chastised herself as she ran, rounding the corner to Fiona’s room.