Pending – Chapter Twenty-Nine

Catch up on the previous chapters here

It was the same kind of lamp on either side of the queen-sized bed, and was that cohesive interior decorating or laziness? It helped Ben, certainly, since he could bug either one just as quickly, but he paused long enough to check the bedside tables. One was clean on top, but he opened the drawers to find a half-empty box of condoms and a glasses case. She didn’t wear glasses—unless that was part of the new and improved identity—so he crossed to the other side, which held two library books on top and some earplugs and a travel packet of Kleenex in the drawer. Really, it didn’t matter which side he picked, because it would cover the same room, but he chose this one.

One of the books was The Five, which he thought had been a big deal a couple of years back and was about Jack the Ripper, and the other was a romance. At least, Ben thought it was a romance: Love in the Time of Serial Killers. The cover on that one was cartoonish, so it was probably more about the love than the serial killers. That didn’t matter, as long as he left them with the correct one on top and didn’t shift them too far.

They each had the knotted silk cord of a bookmark poking out the top, marking how far she was. Was it weird to read two books at the same time? Maybe it was easier because one was fiction and one wasn’t, but it seemed weird to do that if it was just for fun. For class, sure, she read whatever was assigned, week by week, but … two library books at the same time? Ben shook his head and realized he was smiling a little. Man, she sure was something.

He really wanted to go through the dresser in the room when he was done, but keeping clothes in the same order—or the same mess—was a slightly different prospect than making sure books were still on the table, and the last thing he wanted to do was open up a drawer of tighty-whities and get confronted with the boyfriend’s skid marks. The condoms were honestly bad enough, thank you, but at least that meant Ben didn’t have to worry that she was pregnant and they’d have to deal with that during their flight.

Blinking, he froze, because he’d never actually thought that she might have kids. Clearly she didn’t—there would have to be signs of that around the apartment, right? Even just in the rooms he’d been in so far?—but it never even occurred to him. That was the right age for getting married and having babies, if he could believe the stories he heard, but there were so many reasons she wouldn’t have joined in on the white dress and diapers brigade. Ben wasn’t there, for one, and he didn’t want kids, for another. He quite simply didn’t want to share her.

Once the idea was in his head, though, he had to hustle out of this bedroom and check the spare, just to make sure there wasn’t a crib in it. He even looked around the desk to make sure there wasn’t a bassinet or something, just in case, even though they’d also have to have a changing table and diapers and toys and clothes and who knew what all else. There was a reason you threw baby showers: babies needed tons of stuff, and all of that added up pretty quick.

There was nothing, thank God. The lamps were different in here, so he debated, but figured he was probably pressing his luck by being here this long and leaving two when he knew the best way to install them. The most overlookable way. After all, he hadn’t been caught with these yet, and they were much better than the microphone-only ones he used to use back in the day. Back when he first met her.

Still he hesitated, lingering, because this wasn’t the bedroom she clearly had to share with the boyfriend. This was space she might inhabit alone, and it was more cluttered, more homey than the living room area. Maybe he sat there to watch his sports teams play on the television that was rather too large for the space, eating his couch snacks and cheering like he had some personal stake in the score. Maybe he was the sort of person who said we when he talked about the teams, as though he played well enough to make it on the field and get a number.

There was no point in speculating about the boyfriend because all Ben had was the photo of Hillier’s family when all his kids were kids, and the idea that maybe the oldest boy was the one he was looking for. Dark hair and dark eyes. Maybe the teeth had been fixed with braces, either shortly after the picture was taken or after he disappeared with her. It was hard to judge how a child would age, even if you’d seen how his own father aged. You really needed both grandfathers to help calculate how his face and hairline and build would change.

There was a cardigan thrown over the back of the desk chair, just a cheap thing with a bunch of brass snaps, the kind you could buy in a dozen colors off Amazon, and Ben leaned down to press his face to it and inhale. He was trying to separate all the aromas—earthy, woodsy, body wash, perfume?—when he heard a key in the lock of the front door. It was all the way at the front of the apartment, and he was at the back, but it was quiet enough for him to hear it.

His head turned, but otherwise he didn’t move. There wasn’t a direct sightline into this room, so he had some time, but he heard voices.

“— wouldn’t worry about it,” a deep male one said, followed by a jingle. There were hooks by the door, so maybe that was his keys.

“You always side with them.”

Now Ben straightened, heart pounding. That voice. Her voice? Why did he question it? It had been five years. People changed. Maybe she’d taken up smoking.

“I side with them,” the male voice responded, just too strained to be entirely patient, “because they’ve always been right.”

“They’ve never head to deal with something like this before!”

Silence. He wished he could see them. What was happening in the silence?

Then she spoke again, smaller this time: “I’m sorry.”

“I told you not to raise your voice to me.”

Oh, shit. Alarm bells. Code red. The boyfriend was that kind of man. He looked around quickly, searching for something to replace the crowbar—which, at least, it seemed neither of them had noticed—because of course he didn’t have it with him. He should’ve brought it in.

Ben had never imagined she’d have a kid, and he’d never really thought she’d have an abusive boyfriend, but those were heavy footsteps that made him think of a man in work boots and her defenseless bare feet.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered this time. It was barely audible.

“You think you can get away with it in front of other people,” the boyfriend said, voice low and measured. His words were carefully spaced in a way that was its own threat: listen, and listen well, because this was not a man who liked repeating himself. “You think you can be an uppity little bitch …”

Bitch was emphasized with a smack and a whimper, and Ben grabbed the floor lamp, ripping the plug out of the wall socket, and charged.

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This is the end of Part Four

Chapter Thirty – coming January 30