“Again, ma’am, what proof do you have?”

  “‘My boyfriend can tell you how crazy she is. It’s her. She’s messing with me.”

  “Ma’am, unfortunately, until you have some proof, there’s nothing we can do. I have nothing to put in a report.”

  “Can’t you go talk to her? Call her? Tell her to leave me alone?”

  “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Why don’t you two sit down and squash it yourselves,” he suggests.

  Realizing he’s not going to help me, I stand up and walk out of the police station. I’m going to have to handle this myself. Before getting in the rental car, I fire off a message . . .

  Look you stupid bitch. You’ve now ruined my career, you stole all my money, you broke my car, you’re posting naked pictures of me online, and for what? You’re upset Michael left you? What the hell is it that you want?

  I hit send, unlock the doors, jump in the car, and that’s all that I remember.

  ***

  Angela

  I bet I sound crazy to you guys. I’m trying to ruin someone else’s life over a man. But listen to my side before you cast judgment.

  Michael and I met when we were seven years old. We took ballet class together. Our parents raised us to be best friends. We started dating at Princeton, graduated together summa cum laude, and planned a life together.

  My entire world circled around Michael. Then one day I wake up to a note that read, “We should take a break.” Three days later, all his stuff is gone, he’s moved to New Jersey, and he’s no longer taking my calls. Then the cherry on top—he’s wiped out OUR bank accounts and taken the Range Rover I bought him, leaving me carless.

  To say this pissed me off is an understatement. At the time I was working for the F.B.I. as a hacker. It was my job to find terrorists recruiting people online, shut down their sites, and reverse their damage.

  I was great at my job until Michael left me. I got fired after my manager caught me tracking Michael’s location. HE WOULDN’T ANSWER MY CALLS. I just wanted to know where he was, who he was talking to, and what he was doing.

  In one week, I lost my fiancé, my job, my money, and my car. And to make matters worse, I was pregnant.

  Fast-forward to today: I’m working at Best Buy because I can’t get a job anywhere else. I have a two-year-old. I live in a tiny shit apartment, and I’m single because no man wants to date a woman with a baby.

  Last week, I’m surfing the web under my fake name, Maria Washington, when I see Michael has a new post on his Facebook. It’s a picture of that bitch Roxanne Evans. Roxie may not remember me, but I remember her. All three of us grew up dancing at Legacy Dance Studio back in the day. Michael’s been pining after her since we were seven years old. Seeing that post sent me into a rage. I now realize she’s the real reason he left me. They’ve probably been talking to each other in secret for years and plotting against me. I’m going to ruin both of them.

  ***

  “Hello!” Roxie shouts.

  She wakes up with her arms tied behind her back and her feet tied to a chair, in the dark. Angela had grabbed her at the police station and taken her to an abandoned building.

  “Is anyone out there?” Roxie screams.

  Six

  Roxie’s phone rings.

  Michael: “Roxie, where the hell are you? I’ve been calling you all day.”

  Angela: “Awww, are you looking for your little girlfriend?”

  Michael: “Angela?”

  Angela: “Oooohhhh, now you remember me?”

  Michael: “Where’s Roxie?”

  Angela: “111 Jefferson Street Hoboken, New Jersey. Come alone.”

  Click. The phone hangs up.

  ***

  I open my eyes and try to focus. There’s a dim light shining above my head. My hands are duct-taped together in my lap, and my feet are taped together. There’s also a rope cutting off my circulation and trapping me to the chair.

  The first thing I notice is a rancid smell exuding from somewhere. It reeks of mildew and rat feces. I’m in someone’s unfinished basement. The chair I’m in is stuck in the middle of the room facing what I would guess is the back wall. There are boxes lined against the wall right in front of me. I notice peeling white wallpaper and holes in the wall. It looks like someone might have used the wall as a punching bag.

  The floor is cement. I’m missing my left shoe, and the cold floor is freezing the balls of my feet. I try to turn to my left and right, but the rope around my chest is so tight I can barely move. If I can move the rope above my big-ass titties, I think I’d be able to escape. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see a dirty, smeared sheet covering a green couch in the corner. There’s some broken glass and old portraits lying on the floor in front of it. I vaguely remember knocking the pictures over while being dragged down the stairs. I’m guessing the path to freedom is the stairway behind me.

  I had worn some jeans and a Michigan hoodie to the police station with my orange Converse shoes. Now, looking down, I see that I’m wearing some gray sweatpants and a black sweatshirt. Did this bitch change me? The left sleeve of the sweatshirt is ripped near my bicep. I remember struggling when I was going in and out of consciousness. Also, there’s either dried sweat, spit, or blood on the right side of my face. It reminds me of dry Halloween paint. When I squint my face, I can feel it crack. It’s freezing to the point that I can see my breath. Another thing—I swear I hear cartoons and laughing echoing from upstairs.

  Think, Roxie. Think. How are you going to make it out of this trap of doom? First, I need to somehow get my hands and feet free because I don’t think anyone is coming to save me.

  ***

  Michael

  I’m not perfect. But I’m not a bad guy. Angela started off as such a sweet girl. We fell in love almost instantly. When I met her, she was a short, feisty ball of fire. She stands about 5’3”, but she has an intense fire about her. She has long, wavy hair, and she’s a mix of black and Puerto Rican.

  Our relationship started off with us texting all day and going on dates every night. Then we moved in together after three months of romance. We both met each other’s families, and we thought we’d spend the rest of our lives together. We were in our young twenties—just out of college. We were both Princeton graduates, so we had no problem landing great jobs. We were employed, made more money than we needed, and had nearly zero responsibilities.

  Over the years we fought about little stuff: me not putting the seat down, us not having enough time for each other, and the apartment being a disaster. However, we never fought over anything I thought would tear us apart until I quit my day job in an office and opened my own HVAC business. I started Forrester’s Heating & Cooling, L.L.C., in Michigan and later moved it to New Jersey. I started the company with my best friend, Ed. We handle heating, ventilation, and air conditioning. At Princeton, I studied business, so I knew how to handle the business side. Ed grew up working in HVAC, so he knew the ins and outs of the organization.

  In order to grow our business, we did any job. By any job, I mean ANY job—no matter how big or small it was. Angela didn’t like that I was getting calls at all times of the day and night. She started to grow jealous of the women calling my phone and adding me on social media. I would have never cheated on her, but the new attention I was getting was too much for her.

  Angela started listening to my phone calls and going through my texts. If it was a woman, she’d call her back and tell her my company didn’t have time to do the job. Word started getting out that we were turning clients away, and she started to ruin my business. I tried to have countless talks with her. I talked to her parents about it. I involved her friends in the situation. She pushed all of us away because she was convinced I was cheating on her. Lastly, I contacted a therapist so we could go to couples therapy. I was in love with Angela, and I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, but we needed to get back on the same page.

  Angela never showed up at the agreed-upon time, but the therapist and I agreed that I could see her for one-on-one treatment. Through my weekly sessions—which lasted almost a year—I learned to love myself, and to see how toxic my relationship with Angela really was. In the end, this awakening gave me the strength to leave her and end all communication with her.

  During that year I spent in therapy, I did my best to work with Angela and fix the situation. She never gave an inch, and, finally, I decided to leave. I broke things off with Angela, packed up all my stuff, and convinced Ed to make the journey to New Jersey. I blocked her number and her email, and didn’t tell her where I was going.

  Ed and I had to pick up and completely restart our business. It was tough, but two years later, our company is still standing.

  Fast-forward to now. With Angela kidnapping Roxie, I know I have to get involved. I’m the only person who can talk her off a ledge. I throw on a jacket, grab my keys, and make the trek to Hoboken.

  Following my GPS, I twist and wind through a dark neighborhood. One hundred eleven Jefferson Street is at the end of a subdivision. The house is an old Victorian manor, standing alone on a hill. It is dingy, paint-flaked, and seriously neglected. The windowpanes are smeared with age and dirt, and the brickwork is crumbling away. The path to the front door is overgrown with bushes and weeds—the thorns on both reaching out to capture newcomers.

  I pull in, turn the car off, and make my way to the front door. I cringe at each creak on the old warped stairs, but it doesn’t sway my determination to make it to Roxie. I raise my hand to knock, and a shadow flickers out of the corner of my vision. I freeze, and as I stand there, I catch a scent of Roxie’s perfume lingering in the air. A shiver curls through the hairs on the back of my neck as I try to decide what to do next.

  I open the door and BAM!

  Seven

  I’m still stuck in the basement trying to free myself. I’m attempting to remember everything I learned right before my semester abroad in Europe. I had to do an entire training on responding and defending myself in times of threatening situations. They even taught us how to escape when you’re tied up in case you’re kidnapped or in a home invasion, a skill it now looked like I was going to have to try to recall and put to use.

  I hear a loud thud from the floor above me. I hope Angela had a stroke and died. The stupid bitch.

  Focus, Roxie. Focus. I start going through every survival tip I can remember. First, I’ll need to shimmy the rope over my boobs so I can raise my arms above my head and then swing them down to break the tape. According to Miguel, my survival class teacher, this maneuver applies stress to the tape and causes it to break.

  I start by trying to wiggle myself left and right to get the rope to move. It isn’t budging. I try forcing it up by lifting my elbows to the ceiling, but that’s not working either. Frustrated, I start moving my body, flailing my trapped arms around and using my legs for momentum.

  Then. Plop.

  “Shit,” I shout from the floor. The chair and I have fallen over during my chaotic attempt to escape. Out of nowhere, the tears burst forth like water from a dam, spilling down the left side of my face to the cold cement. I feel the muscles of my face tremble. An invariable wave shifts through my body, the side effect of the fear of the unknown.

  “Stop it, Roxie,” I say to myself to convince me to get my shit together.

  I take a deep breath and realize the tightness in my chest is gone. Between rocking myself back and forth on the ground and crying hysterically, I must have loosened the rope around my chest. I shimmy my body left and right, moving the rope above my chest. I then use my thumbs to raise the rope over the chair and above my head.

  While removing the rope, my body falls away from the chair. Now I’m flopping around on the floor like a fish out of water. I flip on my back, raise my hands above my head, and slam them down, releasing the tape from my arms. Next, I remove the tape from my legs, and, suddenly, I’m free.

  My first reaction is to look around for a weapon. Of course, there’s nothing around but a few boxes and portraits. While looking around, I hear footsteps. I creep up the stairs without making a sound. It’s a narrow staircase with cobwebs hanging down from the ceiling. The steps are carpeted, and there’s a wooden rail. I don’t dare touch it, as there’s a chance it might make a sound. If this bitch is coming to get me, I’m going to get her first. However, the footsteps continue past the door.

  “It’s time to wake up, my love,” I hear Angela say through the door. Confused as to who she’s talking to, I try to look underneath the door. There’s a crack separating the door from the floor. I see a light from an open room to the left. My guess is that it’s the kitchen area. There’s an open doorway and what appears to be an island sitting in the middle of the room. The island is blocking me from seeing Angela and who she is talking to.

  She repeats, “It’s time to wake up, love of my life.”

  “Angela,” Michael responds. His voice seems just as confused as I am. “Angela, what the fuck are you doing?” he asks angrily. “Why am I tied up, and why are you wearing Roxie’s clothes?”

  “We’re together again, baby,” Angela says in a sweet voice. “I came back to save you from that whore you were dating. Now we can be a family.”

  “A family—,” Michael starts talking, but Angela cuts him off. “Sabrina, hunny, come here,” Angela says loudly.

  I hear little feet pattering down the steps. Then I watch tiny feet walk past the door. “Yes, Mommy,” a little girl responds.

  Now I’m confused as fuck. I had specifically asked Michael if he had any kids and he had told me no. Now I’m listening to a conversation between him, the bitch who kidnapped me, and a little girl who seems to be their child . What the fuck is next?

  “Meet your Daddy, Sabrina,” Angela says.

  The room goes silent. It feels like an eternity goes by before anyone says anything.

  “Michael, this is your daughter, Sabrina. Don’t you have anything to say?” Angela asks.

  “Hello, Sabrina, it’s a pleasure meeting you. Do you think you can give me and your mom some private time to talk?” Michael asks in the calmest voice possible.

  Before I know it, I see the little girl’s feet running past the door. Then I hear her making her way back up the stairs.

  “Angela, are you out of your fucking mind? We don’t have a fucking kid together. Unfucking tie me, right fucking now,” Michael says.

  BBBBZZZZZZZ.

  “OUCH, THE FUCK ANGELA?!” he screams.

  “When boys are bad they get tazed,” Angela giggles. “We do have a child together, silly. You just saw her.”

  “Angela, we haven’t been together in years. I’d know if we had a kid together,” Michael responds.

  “It’s been exactly two years, Michael. Sabrina is almost two years old. I found out I was pregnant with her right after you left. You know—when you stopped taking my calls and emails,” Angela responds.

  “But that’s beside the point. It’s time for you to make a choice, Michael,” Angela continues. “You can choose your family or you can choose to rot and die with your whore Roxie. CHOOSE.”

  I know this is selfish, but the only thing I’m thinking of is myself. How the hell did I go from falling in love with Earl—who didn’t love me back—to falling in love with a man with a crazy baby mama? This can’t be real life. Plus, now she’s saying I’m going to rot and die. At that moment, I know it is time to stop snooping and get the fuck on.

  I reach to turn the handle of the door, and to my surprise it’s unlocked. Damn, this bitch is dumb as fuck. I slowly turn the handle, slowly open the door inch by inch, and slide my way out to freedom. I could make a beeline to the door and run. However, my conscience won’t let me leave Michael there with the crazy.

  It’s nighttime, so the house is dark. The only light is coming from the kitchen to my left. Michael and Angela are still talking, but I’m trying to find the best way to Michael followed by how to get the hell out of there. I reach out to touch the wall, which guides me to the right. Across from the basement door, there’s a bathroom. If you keep going to the right, there’s an opening to a room that looks like a living room. When you walk through the living room, it takes you through a circle to the kitchen. I sneak into the living room, bumping my leg on a couch.

  “Sabrina, is that you?” Angela asks. I hear footsteps coming towards me.

  “Yes, Mommy,” Sabrina’s little voice rings from upstairs.

  “I’m going to check on our angel, baby. Be right back. Don’t move,” Angela says. She then kisses Michael on the cheek and makes her way upstairs.

  As soon as the coast is clear, I creep into the kitchen. It’s a small cook’s room. When I walk in, there’s a glass table with four orange place settings. There’s a sink, refrigerator, oven, and island in the middle of the room. Michael is trapped at the head of the table facing away from my direction. His hands are duct-taped behind his back, and his legs are taped to the chair.

  I sneak up behind him and cover his mouth so he doesn’t say anything. He’s startled, but then looks relieved to see me. I start untying his hands. “We’re going to get out of here. Where are your keys?” I whisper.

  “I’m so sorry about all of this,” he whispers back.

  “Michael, where the fuck are your keys?” I respond.

  “I don’t know,” he responds in a somber tone.

  Within ninety seconds, he’s free from the tape, and we’re making our way back through the living room to the front door.

  “The front door is right on the other side of this opening. I’ll open the door and we’ll make a run for it,” I whisper. We creep through the living room, holding the wall to find our way. You can see everything from the front door. When you walk in the house, to the left there’s a stairway that heads upstairs. If you look straight ahead, there’s a narrow hallway that leads to the kitchen. Before you enter the kitchen, there’s a door to the left that leads to the basement and a door to the right that leads to a bathroom. Lastly, from the doorway view, there’s a living room to the right.

 

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