Headache gone, I leaped from the bed and ran down the stairs, searching for Anthony. The house was silent and dark. I had no idea how long I’d been asleep. It was bright daylight when Anthony knocked on my door, that much I knew, but in my disheveled frame of mind I couldn’t remember what the time was. For all I knew, it could’ve been before noon or almost twilight.
A ding came from the living room. I hurried to check my phone, but there were no messages—it was a stupid game notification.It’s already eleven?My search of the house was fruitless. He was gone. Boneless, I sank down onto the same couch I’d cowered on earlier.Alive—they’re alive.
My mind split open, ripping away the numbness to let the emotional pain out like a knife cutting open a pathway to my tortured memories. The faces of my children flashed in my mind.
Every day for five years, I paced the rooms and halls of my home, memorizing the pictures on the walls. Every day I recited precious stories of my husband and children so that my memories would stay fresh. But I didn't speak of my children to anyone, except the people working on their case. For five years, I’d refused to say their names out loud. I kept them inside, in my mind and in my heart. My attention moved to a picture of both of my boys, taken the day we brought our youngest home from the hospital.
“David,” I whispered, “are you still taking care of your little brother? Do you still call him Dannel?” Daniel would be six and David would be eleven. For the millionth time, I wondered what they’d gone through, and if they’d suffered. I rose, trying to recapture the numbness before the pain broke me.Those kinds of questions always led to pain.I was desperate to be numb again. How could I know if Anthony was telling the truth? His disappearance made his claims even less credible.
It took me several minutes to compose myself. Shuffling into the kitchen for a bottle of water, I grabbed it out of the fridge, but didn't drink. Instead, I ogled the clear liquid, wishing it was alcohol. Opening the cabinet above the refrigerator, I looked up at the bottle of whiskey. We always kept the liquor there, well out of the reach of the curious David.
About a week before my world went black, I’d purchased the bottle. I wanted to drink the entire bottle and make the pain disappear. My numbness was gone, and the pain was back as if the horrible events happened yesterday.
The weeks after their disappearances were horrible. I couldn’t come up with a single reason why Michael would leave with the children. Horrible scenarios plagued my thoughts, leaving me anxious and nauseous.
After extensive questioning of me and anyone connected to our family, the police called in the FBI. They agreed it would be out of character for Michael to leave with the kids of his own volition. They also agreed that he would’ve needed help. Help to vanish without a trace—and to be able to take their things. I was left with the baby books and memory boxes and the hard drive with pictures stored on it.
Both Michael and I lost our parents before we met each other; mine in a car crash, his gone from cancer and a heart attack. There was no family to help him, and our friends wouldn’t have.
The investigators found no links on his computers or phone. They combed the house for forensic evidence. Nothing came up. There was no evidence of foul play, and the only DNA they found was ours.
With no clues, our only option was a reward hotline. I cashed out our meager retirement plan to put up the ten-thousand-dollar reward, but each tip turned out to be someone angling to get the money. After a year, they canceled the reward and told me they assumed his actions were intentional. They turned my family, my heart, my reason for living, into a cold case. They said they were forced to assume Michael had indeed taken the children.
I closed the door on the whiskey and trudged upstairs to change into workout clothes. My solace was my gym. The dapper Anthony might return and give me answers, but it was more likely that I’d never see him again. Might as well continue my monotonous life. I changed and bolted out of the house before I could change my mind and guzzle the whiskey instead.
With my family gone, I’d taken a three month leave of absence from my management position at a local coffee shop. The position was ideal because I’d always liked to work with the public, plus the shop was close to home and offered decent pay and hours.
When I couldn’t face another day of sitting beside my phone, begging it to ring, I returned to work. But still, I’d go home at night and lie awake, staring at my phone. Sleep would elude me for days at a time, which would cause me to get sick and take more time off work. Thankfully, the owners were always patient with me.
Once I began my self-defense training, I learned that pushing my body to the brink of exhaustion was the only way I could manage to rest. I’d sleep all night with just an occasional nightmare.
I’d worked my way through every available self-defense class, traveling farther and farther away from home to find a challenge. A former Marine started to do private training at a gym near me. He was willing to continue my training beyond the generic classes I’d already taken. He encouraged me to explore martial arts and spend more time building up my strength and endurance. The exertion tired my body and my mind; I lost weight, settling into a size twelve again, some days even a ten.
Elias, my trainer turned friend, had said my body was likely meant to be curvy, since I’d done intense workouts for four years and stopped losing weight. I was happy with my body and hoped that I’d be able to show it to Michael one day. He loved me no matter my appearance, but he’d be happy for my health.
Lacing up my running shoes, I put earbuds in to stream some of Michael’s favorite music and jogged the mile to my twenty-four-hour gym.
Heading straight for the punching bag in the corner, I jogged in place to keep my heart rate up as I wrapped my hands. The bag swung to and fro as I punched and kicked out my anger and frustration. My body moved to the rhythm of the heavy guitar riffs and drumbeats of Black Sabbath.
I pulled my fist back to hit the bag again and found my right bicep locked in a strong grip. I turned and lashed out at whoever was behind me. Elias jumped out of the range of my fists and emotional turmoil. My shoulders sagged once I knew I was safe, that it was just Eli, and my rage and pent-up ire left me at once, exhaustion taking its place.
“What are you doing here so late?” He pulled out my earbuds. “Do you need to spar and wear yourself out?”
“Not tonight.” I yawned. “I’m tired. It’s been a long and emotional day.” I turned to the small refrigerator in the corner to grab another bottle of water. This time, the thought of replacing water with whiskey didn't tempt me.
“Riley, what happened? I knew today would be hard for you, but you normally hole up in that shrine of a home for the day. Did something change?” He touched my arm and peered down into my eyes.
I debated what to tell him, if anything. He’d become a close friend and confidante. I couldn’t stand to speak to any of the friends Michael and I had shared before his disappearance. They had eyes full of pity. I didn’t want their pity, or their sorrys, or their wishes they could help. I simply wanted my family. Elias didn’t give me pity—he gave me defense. He gave me the confidence that I’d be able to keep myself safe in a world that would rip my children from me. He pushed me to work harder and train longer, and I owed him a large part of my sanity, such as it was.
“Honestly, I think you’d have me committed if I told you how my day went.” I laughed humorlessly as I walked over to the weight bench and sat down. Crazy or not, I knew I needed to run my day by someone, and I trusted him more than I trusted anyone alive.
“Sit down, E. It's a strange story.” I told him the details of my day. I even included how easy it was for Anthony to disarm me. His face displayed shock throughout the entirety of my story, and when I finished with, “and then I woke up,” his jaw dropped.
“Riley, doll, you can't go back to that house.” I tried to interrupt, but he put his hand on my mouth. “No arguments. He neutralized you in seconds, leaving you utterly defenseless. And thenyou blacked out—most likely due to emotional stress—but we need to have you checked out. And then you’re staying with me. I won’t let you argue this.”
I sighed and studied his face. Elias was another exceptionally attractive man, but for years, he was purely my friend. Any other possibility had never entered my mind. After the surge of hormones I experienced today while dealing with Anthony, I found myself considering Elias in a completely different light. I imagined myself allowing a modicum of attraction into my life. A smidgen of desire.
He kept his blond hair cut close, still a Marine at heart, even though he’d been honorably discharged before I’d met him. Warm eyes, the color of milk chocolate, were framed by thick lashes any woman would kill for. He often joked that his eyes were basic brown, but his self-deprecating humor was lost on me. His eye color was stunning.
