The New Husband (18 page)

Glen felt sick to his stomach.

He had lied to his daughter. Deceived her. Tricked her. What kind of father would do that to his child? He imagined what people would say about him if they knew.

Should have given her obviously wrong answers, you idiot! Then she'd know something wasn't right. She'd have gone to her mom, broken that promise she never should have made. They would have gone to the police and figured it all out. The police would have protected your family from Simon, and eventually they would have found you and freed you. You fool! You dummy! You dolt!

They could think that, but they'd be wrong. They didn't live with Simon. They weren't
in
the box. The box changed a person. It broke them in every way.

He was afraid. It was as simple as that. One wrong answer would bring the worst consequences. He saw blood. Gashes to Nina's face, deep slashes across Maggie and Connor's throats. He saw himself watching their deaths via a live video feed.

The horrific visions consumed him. He believed Simon, took him at his word, and in his heart Glen knew he was right to believe.

So many moments over these months Glen had wished for death. He was already entombed; all he needed was for his heart to stop beating. He thought about using the chain to choke himself to death, or go on a
hunger strike, even stop drinking water, but again fear held him back. He couldn't and wouldn't leave his family to Simon.

He knew eventually, soon perhaps, there'd come a tipping point. Nina would upset Simon more than she already had with that job of hers. Maggie would cross him one too many times … and then the blood … then the knife to their throats. So Glen existed—he breathed, ate, pissed, defecated, solely to keep Simon from acting impulsively—or worse, violently—taking from his situation the only parts he could control so that his family might live another day. He had no other purpose.

Horrible as it was to lie to her, it was also unbelievably uplifting to be connected with his daughter again. He felt human. The proximity was intoxicating. He felt like a castaway catching the glow of a distant rescue ship; his heart never felt so full. Alive again. Alive.

When he closed his eyes, Glen transported himself out into a field with Maggie, playing catch with lacrosse sticks and a ball. He felt the sun on his face, so bright and warm, the wind rustling through his hair; he inhaled fresh spring air deep into his lungs. Oh, how he longed to breathe fresh air again. Roll in the grass. Touch the earth. Gaze at the sky. Hug his daughter. Tell her how sorry he was for everything, for tricking her, for lying to his family.

Tricks.

That was how he got into the box in the first place—a dirty, nasty trick.

Suddenly, Glen wasn't in that field anymore. He was back at the Muddy Moose, reliving the day he first met Simon. He was at the bar, talking with Teresa, doing what he always did back then, nursing a beer because money was tight. Hiding out. He didn't want to be anywhere near Seabury, and Carson had good fishing, so it was as fine a place as any to try and get his life going in the right direction again. But that effort wasn't going anywhere; he wasn't lying to himself anymore. At least he liked the town. He liked the waitress, too. He even liked the man who called himself Bill, who was loose with his wallet
and quick with the jokes. Bill had dark hair and a mustache, but those were disguises, worn in case Glen recognized Simon from home.

The whiskey went down easy and then easier. At some point the room was tilting and Glen's hand made its way to Teresa's leg. Or had Simon—as Glen now knew him—put it there? Glen didn't remember. He knew only that he was feeling very drunk. Confused. Then he was outside. A flash. Photographs. He didn't see anyone taking those pictures, but Simon had shown them to Glen enough times so he knew it had happened. He
had
kissed Teresa outside the Muddy Moose. But even more happened, and later on Simon would tell Glen about the roofie he had slipped into his drink.

Lowers inhibitions and awareness. It lowers everything.

“Got to be more careful, buddy,” he had lectured, when Glen was in chains. “Never lose sight of your drink at the bar. That's drinking 101. But I guess that's what they teach the ladies.”

Glen woke up with a hangover like no other and no memory of how he ended up naked in those rumpled sheets, the smell of sex in the room and Teresa lingering nearby.

“Well, that shouldn't have happened,” Teresa had said as she poured him coffee.

And it never happened again. Simon got what he had wanted—those two pictures to complete his plan and set everything in motion.

The next time Glen saw Simon it was at the boat launch. Simon had scouted that spot on Lake Winnipesaukee numerous times and correctly anticipated no one but Glen would be there at that hour. Glen was always the first on the lake. It was a thing with him, a source of pride.

Simon parked his truck near Glen's. It was the same make and model as the one Glen drove, a purchase Simon had made a year before, anticipating this day. He wanted everything for Nina to feel familiar. It was the same reason he wore Glen's brand of cologne.

Simon climbed out of the cab and, for good measure, erected a barricade across the access road on which he placed an official-looking
ROAD CLOSED
sign purchased from the internet.

He approached Glen and Daisy with a friendly smile on his face, but no fishing pole in hand. Daisy barked as Simon grew nearer, but he had a dog treat at the ready to win her over.

“Sweet pup,” Simon said, as he crouched to give Daisy a pat. When he stood, Simon drew his Taser and blasted Glen with a jolt. Glen didn't have time to raise his hands in defense. He fell to the ground, grunting, convulsing wildly. Simon fed Daisy a second treat to quiet her down, and then silenced Glen with electrical tape over his mouth. After that, Simon secured zip ties around Glen's wrists and ankles to further immobilize him.

Glen had no memory of this, but Simon lifted him off the ground and effortlessly threw him into his boat. He slashed Glen's arm with a Bowie knife, releasing enough blood to make him even woozier. He quickly applied bandages to the wound, knowing he'd suture the gash closed when he brought Glen home, applying the skills he had perfected on pillows.

Simon used his Taser on Glen a second time for good measure. When he moved him from the boat into his truck bed, Glen was, in Simon's words, limp as a rag doll. With Glen subdued, Simon got his boat into the water and, using more treats, coaxed Daisy aboard before piloting the craft toward the middle of the lake. He was careful not to step in any of the blood covering the deck. He wanted the blood to throw everyone off balance. Keep them guessing. Make Nina uncertain and unsure, which he equated with more vulnerability. Accident? Did he drown? Did he fake his death?

At a spot that felt right to him, Simon dove overboard. He had left his shoes in the truck, and he swam to shore in his clothing. The entire sequence took fifteen minutes and forty-two seconds to complete, a bit shorter than planned.

He retrieved his barricade, checked for fresh tire tracks and, seeing none, drove home with his passenger in the back of the truck. Simon carried Glen downstairs, put him in the room he had spent months constructing, changed him into a gray sweatsuit, and put him in chains.

Simon took great pleasure in sharing every detail of his plan with Glen, boasting of his cleverness, beginning with that fateful setup at the Muddy Moose. He had been tracking Glen's movements for years, studying his patterns. He knew Glen was as predictable as the tide. Almost without fail, Saturday mornings were spent fishing on the lake with his loyal dog, Daisy, serving as first mate. Sundays he was with Nina and the kids. Sometimes he'd go with them to church. He spent Monday through Friday hiding out in Carson.

But now he was Simon's guest, every single day.

And every day was basically the same. Boredom. That was something Glen would never overcome. He had his exercises—yoga to keep his muscles from shortening too much, along with a bodyweight routine he'd developed to keep them from atrophying completely. Simon would make regular checkups, make sure Glen was staying healthy enough. Too much weight loss, any sort of hunger strike, was always countered with threats of violence.

Glen had the TV, but it was only an occasional treat. Every two weeks, Simon would provide Glen with five books, mostly nonfiction, often topics related to history. Simon said it was to keep Glen's mind sharp so his brain didn't go to mush. Five books in. Five books out. That was the routine. Glen had those two weeks in which to read them all. New book day had become as intoxicating as those whiskies had been.

But today was even better. Today, he'd spoken to his daughter—well, sort of spoke to her. Excited as he was, guilt and regret ate away Glen's appetite. He was always hungry, but the hamburger Simon left for him had gone untouched. Food, like the books and TV, was another reward.

Suggest the best present for Nina—get greasy fries.

Give Simon something to say, a perfect compliment, something Nina would like to hear—maybe earn a cup of hot coffee.

The first question Simon had ever asked Glen was food-related:
What's your wife's favorite meal?

Glen had told him: eggplant rollatine.

He got treats like a dog for doing Simon's bidding, but now he couldn't eat. His stomach was the size of a walnut.

Once Simon moved in with Nina, Glen was certain that would be it for him. It was the milestone he felt he'd been marching toward, the plank on which he walked. But after move-in day came and went, Simon did what he always did—pumped Glen for information about Nina and the kids.

It was Nina's unwillingness to say yes to Simon's marriage proposal that Glen now believed had saved his life. Simon wanted a ring on Nina's finger. He taunted Glen with his plans for marriage, but didn't seem to trust himself to keep the relationship going without more and more insider information. That was Glen's job, and he knew that once Nina and Simon were officially engaged, or more likely married, he was as good as dead.

He started to cry. He seldom cried anymore, but Maggie had opened a door in his heart long shuttered. Alive. She had made him feel alive. Human again. And now the worst had happened—in through that open door, Glen allowed hope into his heart.

Hope was a dangerous thing down in the box. Hope didn't belong here. Hope was a trick of the mind. No matter how hard Glen tried to suppress the feeling, up it sprang, like a blade of grass sprouting from muddy earth. Hope lived inside him now. What to do with it?

Glen's thoughts were as dark as the room. Simon had taken away his only light—a small battery-powered LED fixture that stuck to the ceiling, bright enough to illuminate the closet-size space. It was punishment for Maggie's obstinacy. “How dare she call me a serial killer,” he had howled. “She doesn't understand. But we'll get her in line, won't we, Glen?” He had said it in a threatening way. No hidden meaning there.

“It will be hardest on Nina,” Simon had mused. “The grieving, but I'll be there for her.”

Glen had been made to believe this was all about Nina, for reasons
still unknown, so why did Simon care so much about what Maggie thought of him? While motives were scarce, Simon's reaction had been illuminating. Finally, after all this time, Glen felt he had a critical bit of information, a crack, a sliver, a fingertip-size handhold from which he could hoist himself up and actually do something. Something, yes, but what? Chain. Box. No way out. But now … hope. Think. Think. And then it came to him. One possibility. Like that blade of grass growing a tiny bit taller.

The conversation with his daughter had unwittingly revealed something of Simon's fractured personality. No doubt the tactics had advanced Simon's agenda, but the way Maggie spoke of him, her utter contempt, had wounded him deeply. Even though he was intentionally manipulating Maggie, and Nina as well, Simon clearly wanted Maggie to like him.
Why?
Glen could only speculate, but clearly Simon understood the way to a mother's heart was through her children.

Naturally, Maggie hearing from her father after all this time would make her act increasingly anxious. A distraught daughter might serve Simon's purpose in one sense by forcing Nina to leave her job, but it might also create a new set of problems by making Nina rethink her future with Simon as tensions built at home. Knowing his wife the way he did, Glen could see her thinking that this new man, not the new job, was the source of Maggie's growing distress.

Hope.

Glen thought: What if he promised Simon he could turn Maggie from an adversary into an advocate?

If he could somehow convince Simon to change tactics, make him believe Nina would blame the relationship for Maggie's distress, that she'd leave him before she'd quit her job, he might find a way out of the box. What Glen really wanted was some reason to get back in touch with Maggie. He needed to send her a message.

NICE GUY.

That was how he and Nina had met—a hidden message Glen had created using bold type in his online dating profile. It had stood out to
Nina; so much so that she felt compelled to make contact. If Glen could deliver one more secret message, this time to his daughter, something that would stand out to her as well, maybe, just maybe, he could warn everyone of the terrible danger they were in.

Nina exchanged a flurry of short messages with Hugh, the last of which included her phone number. He had asked for it and she had given it in a moment of pure impulsiveness. Apparently, what he had to say, the reason he felt they had to talk, could not easily be explained over text. Nina checked the time, realizing if she didn't start the drive home now, she'd arrive later than promised.

She navigated heavy afternoon traffic in the dark of late October, already missing the daylight hours and the leaves on the trees. Her focus vacillated between the road and what on earth Hugh Dolan could possibly tell her. Why was it so important that they speak right away? Obviously, it was about Simon; something negative, she supposed. But what?

When her phone rang, Nina jumped in her seat, startled, even though she'd been expecting his call. There was no name on the display, only numbers, so it could have been a telemarketer—goodness knows she was getting more robocalls by the minute—but somehow she knew it was Hugh making good on his promise.

“Hello?” Nina answered tentatively.

“Is this Nina?” The man's raspy voice, coarse as bark, suggested a pack-a-day habit.

“Yes. Is this Hugh?”

The air inside Nina's car grew supercharged. Her knuckles whitened on the wheel.

“Yeah … it's uh, Hugh.” He sounded out of it, not entirely sure of his answer.

“Thanks for taking the time to call,” she said, talking quickly, nervously. There was no easy entry into this conversation. “What is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

Hugh exhaled loudly, leading Nina to believe he had blown smoke out of his lungs. “Where do you live? Can we meet in person?”

Nina tensed. That was the last thing she wanted. She knew his history—or at least the part that had put him behind bars. Hugh could be completely unstable, desperate for money. He might think she was easy prey.

“No, I'm afraid I can't do that,” Nina said, choosing not to elaborate.

“Suit yourself,” said Hugh. He made it clear he thought she was making a big mistake. “Let me ask you this: How long have you and Simon been together?”

“Two years,” Nina said, stretching the time a bit, but not by much.

“How did you two meet?” he asked.

Nina weaved through traffic as she maneuvered to her exit, calculating she had about five minutes to devote to Hugh before she had to give her full attention to Maggie, still reeling from her missing lab report.

“We, um … we met through a friend,” Nina said, fumbling for the words, lying to protect her location.

Hugh scoffed. “Lucky you.” He sounded a sarcastic note.

“Hugh, what did you have to tell me?”

Irritation rose up inside her. Nina's urge to have this call over and done came on strong. Her grand vision of gaining some useful insights into Simon's past now seemed not only foolish, but quite possibly dangerous as well.

“Yeah, about that,” Hugh answered, sounding as though he were about to drift off to sleep. “Maybe we could … ummmm … work something out.”

“Work something out? I'm sorry, I'm not following—”

Alarms began going off in Nina's head.

Hang up. Forget this. It was a stupid idea.

“Look, I'm a little short,” Hugh said, his way of an explanation.

It took Nina a moment to realize he wasn't talking about his stature.

“Are you asking me for money?”

“I'm asking you for a fair exchange,” said Hugh. “Money for me; information on Simon for you.”

Nina stammered, searching for footing here. She had professional training on implementing treatments for alcohol and other drug problems, the role of domestic violence in drug addiction, and a host of other competencies, but none of them covered how to handle a drug addict extorting her for cash.

“I'm not paying you, Hugh,” Nina said, her confidence buoyed from taking a stand.

“Suit yourself.” Hugh was curt, but Nina didn't get the sense he was going to give up that easy.

“Can't you just tell me why you thought we should talk?”

Nina hit the exit ramp going ten miles over the speed limit, forcing her to pump the brakes to keep in control. She would be home in a few minutes. Time was running out, and every part of her wanted to know what, if anything, Hugh had to say. Again, she regretted giving him her phone number. Why had she been so cavalier about it
?
Now he could call her anytime, day or night. He could even threaten to tell Simon she'd contacted him behind his back. She felt foolish and angry with herself, but there was nothing she could do about it now.

“I'll tell you this much,” Hugh said. “You're not safe.”

Nina's body seized as though she were moments away from a car crash, bracing for a collision.

“Why on earth would you say that?” Her question leaked out in a breathy whisper.

“Are you going to help me out here or not?” Hugh's patience was gone.

“What do you want?”

Nina didn't have to elaborate.

“Let's say an even grand.”

An audible gasp rose from her throat.
Over a week's salary
.

“No,” she said firmly.

“Okay. Okay. How about five hundred then,” Hugh countered. “I have Venmo. You can send it to me right now.”

Nina had no idea what Venmo was.

“What are you going to do with the money?” she asked.

“What do you care?”

Nina seldom gave money to panhandlers, because once she did, the choice of how they spent it was no longer in her control. Instead, she'd buy gift cards to a coffee shop or a fast-food place for those in need, and she donated to homeless shelters every year, even when money was tight. Five hundred dollars to Hugh Dolan could end up in his arm, killing him. She didn't want that on her conscience—couldn't handle that guilt.

“I'm sorry, Hugh. I can't do that.”

“Suit yourself,” Hugh said, and with that, the call went dead.