Chapter 6 - The First Lock Was Not on the Basement Door
Saturday morning I packed.
Not dramatically.
One suitcase.
Laptop bag.
Baby things.
I had already found an extended-stay apartment near:
my hospital.
I told Carol:
“I’m leaving after lunch.”
She stared.
“Because of an envelope?”
“Because none of this feels healthy anymore.”
“Your blood pressure.”
“My doctor said reduce stress.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m less stressed somewhere else.”
That hurt her.
Frank arrived from the warehouse at:
eleven.
Carol had called him.
He walked into the kitchen.
“You’re leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Before we finish the loan conversation?”
“The loan conversation is finished.”
He laughed.
“No.”
“It isn’t.”
I reached for my car keys.
They weren’t in:
my purse.
I checked:
counter.
Hook by door.
Nothing.
“Carol?”
She looked away.
My stomach tightened.
“Where are my keys?”
Frank answered:
“You’re too worked up to drive.”
For one second I thought he was joking.
“Give them to me.”
“No.”
“You are not taking my keys.”
“We already did.”
My pulse began pounding.
I pulled out my phone.
Frank said:
“Who are you calling?”
“Myself a ride.”
He took a step toward me.
I stepped back.
“Don’t.”
Carol said:
“Megan, stop.”
“No.”
I dialed.
Frank did not grab:
the phone.
That would have made the line too obvious.
Instead Carol started crying.
“You would actually leave after everything we’ve done?”
I ended the call before it connected.
That was my mistake.
Not because I caused what came next.
Because guilt still worked.
I said:
“I need an hour.”
Frank nodded.
“Good.”
“Calm down.”
I went upstairs.
Locked the bedroom door.
Then called my lawyer.
Voicemail.
Saturday.
I texted Nina.
Family situation bad. Leaving today. Will call Monday.
She replied:
Do you need help now?
I stared.
Then wrote:
No. Just drama. I’m fine.
Clue.
I was not fine.
I wanted desperately to appear:
fine.
At two, Frank knocked.
“Come downstairs.”
“No.”
“We’re showing you something.”
“What?”
“Your mother’s boxes.”
That caught me.
My mother’s belongings were stored:
in the basement.
Old photographs.
Christmas decorations.
Her college notebooks.
Things Carol and I had been meaning to sort.
I opened the door.
Another mistake.
Again:
not causal responsibility.
Still information.
We went downstairs.
Frank first.
Me.
Carol behind.
At the bottom, Frank turned.
He held:
the loan agreement.
“Sit.”
“No.”
“Megan.”
“No.”
I turned toward the stairs.
Carol was standing:
there.
Blocking nothing physically.
But her expression stopped me.
“Just listen.”
I looked between them.
Then Frank walked upstairs.
Carol followed.
The basement door closed.
I heard:
the lock.
At first I thought they were trying to scare me for:
five minutes.
Then ten.
Then thirty.
I shouted.
Frank came back.
Opened the door.
Stayed at:
the top.
“You ready to talk?”
“Unlock the door.”
“When you’re reasonable.”
That was the first moment I understood:
I was being held.
Not metaphorically.
Not emotionally.
Physically.
I had spent years calling them:
family.
By dinner, they had become:
May you like
captors.
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