His Sweet Read online

  “No decent Greek man, you mean,” Yolanda replied, sending her mother a smug look. “In my experience, the Americans are all over the map with what they want, from Big Momma-curvy to so skinny that they can easily fall into a crack in the floor.” She shrugged. “I was actually turned down for a date once because he said I had a little too much junk in the trunk.”

  “Well, frankly, I don’t want my only daughter associating with men like that. Like I’ve said before, join the Greek community, darling. You’ll be sure to find someone better behaved there.” She gave a wide smile, displaying the slight gap between her front teeth.

  As they approached the kitchen table, her mother started bringing out the sides she had made, in a variety much greater than previously mentioned. Yolanda wasn’t surprised—for as long as she could remember there had always been enough food at her house for a whole starving village, which had not done her teenage figure any favors. She lethargically plucked a drumstick from the bucket and placed a small portion of her mother’s delicious tzatziki sauce on the side to dip it into while absentmindedly staring into space.

  “What’s bothering you, honey?” her mother asked before taking a big bite of a piece of chicken, having noticed Yolanda’s obvious lack of enthusiasm for the food.

  “Oh, it’s nothing. Just a case that came in today.” Her eyes wandered toward the notebooks unceremoniously laid out on the counter. They looked so ordinary, but they were already making her uneasy.

  Yolanda finished her dinner, washed her hands, and put on some white latex gloves before grabbing the top book from inside the evidence bag. Plumping herself down onto the sofa next to her mother, she started flipping through the pages while her mom watched one of her reality romances, eagerly encouraging a character to propose already. “Has Malakia hit you on the head? Shit or get off the pot, you fool!” she screamed at the television, vigorously pointing her finger at the man standing there with a jewelry box in his hand, trying to make up his mind whether to kneel or stand.

  The pages were thin enough for Yolanda to see through them. Each numbered entry seemed just like every other item in a child’s diary, where you’d expect to read about boys or extracurricular activities, except that these entries were so very different. In one, she was talking about a book she had read, To Kill a Mockingbird, a book Yolanda herself remembered reading while still in school. She recalled profoundly associating with the narrator of the story, a little girl called Scout. It was a great book, a literary marvel in fact, that forced you to think about difficult subject matter, such as how black people had been treated in the 1930s and how far we’d come since then, yet also how little things had really changed.

  She thought of her own position and what a shock it had been to the county that she, half-black, half-Greek, and a woman to boot, had been chosen by the governor himself to be the sheriff. But that wouldn’t have happened without the old sheriff being caught in the line of fire and her saving his life by running towards the hail of bullets and dragging him to cover. Without her selfless act of heroism and the injuries sustained by her predecessor, she’d never have gotten the job, and deep down that made her sad. Sad for her race, sad for her sex, and sad for her nation, still hanging on to the idea that people of a certain color or gender deserved to be treated differently.

  The girl writing the notebooks didn’t identify with the heroine of the story as Yolanda had done, but instead with Boo Radley, the odd man who, despite being a source of fear for children, tried desperately to interact with them by leaving gifts and soap-dolls for them to find in the knothole of a tree. He turned out to be a good person, lonely but kind, and even ended up saving the children’s lives in the end. The girl said that she was the same, that she might be locked in but not because she was bad, only because Mister Whiskers didn’t want to let her out, and given the chance, she would have saved those kids too.

  Yolanda’s eyes started watering as she read the child’s writings. It was as if she were fully aware of her situation, but oddly enough, seemed to be coping incredibly well. She didn’t complain, whine, or write about how horrible she had it. She wrote about completely different topics—small yet positive anecdotes from her past, the books she read, or something she’d made up. As if she were using the words to distract herself from her captivity and by doing so, surviving.

  As Yolanda kept reading, her mind eventually wandered to her own girl. Her sweet girl who had been growing inside her belly when the accident happened. Unconsciously, she put a hand on her stomach and bit her lip as the memory fluttered by. She hadn’t been able to save her despite trying desperately, and the pain that followed had been the end of her relationship with Joshua. That fact only made her more determined to do everything in her power to save this little girl. Even if it meant using her free time to read the notebooks or swallowing her pride and calling somebody in from another county to help. It was an opportunity to make up for what she perceived as her own failure and deep within, she knew that it wasn’t just about saving the girl, it was also about saving herself.

  296

  I used to have a bit of a belly, and my thighs were bigger. At one point I even had the beginnings of breasts, but they’re almost gone now. Mister Whiskers says he doesn’t like meat on women and wants me to look like one of those models. I don’t know why. I think I look like a boy now. My chest is almost flat, and I can see my ribs protruding from under my skin. I don’t understand why he likes me to look this way. I remember my dad telling my mom that women look better with some curves, but Mister Whiskers only seems to give me the amount of food I really need, and it’s never enough for me to gain any weight.

  When I moved in, I didn’t have any hair below my belly button; that didn’t come until later. He says all women should be hairless down there and makes me pluck out every single hair. I’ve asked if I can shave instead, but he says that shaving leaves stubble, and that’s unacceptable. It’s hard to pluck them out when you can’t properly see what you’re doing. He wasn’t happy with the way I did it at first, so he gave me a small mirror to make it easier. Now I sit on the bathroom floor with my legs spread, or I kneel to get the ones in the back. The mirror really helps with getting those pesky short hairs. I remove them every day to make absolutely sure he doesn’t find any on me. Last time he did, he hit me so hard my head rang for hours. I don’t want that to happen ever again.

  I got my first period after I started living with Mister Whiskers. That was before he began regulating my meals. Before then, I would even get Cracker Jacks on occasion. I love them but haven’t had any in a very long time. I got my period a few times, and then it just stopped coming. He was furious every time he noticed it happening, so I was grateful when it went away. I still don’t know why it stopped. I thought it was supposed to be there for many years, but maybe I’m different somehow.

  I sometimes wonder if the pills he gives me have something to do with it. I get my vitamins every day, but now I also get some of these round white pills. He says they are vitamins, too, but I’m not sure they are. I’ve never seen vitamins so small. One time I got very sick with a stomach flu and threw up for days. I tried taking my vitamins but just couldn’t keep anything down no matter how hard I tried. A few days later my period started again, and that’s when I began wondering if the pills were something else.

  I took great pains to keep it hidden that time, washing every hour and soaking my underwear to remove the blood. I was lucky because he was busy at work and didn’t really come to visit all that much. Sometimes he has these big projects that don’t give him time for me. A part of me is relieved, but a part of me misses him. I get very lonely in my room, and even though he gives me these notebooks to write in, they’re not the same as having real company. Some days I think Mister Whiskers is all right, and sometimes I don’t. They say that love and hate are two sides of the same coin, and I guess they’re right. Deep down, I don’t want him gone, because then I’d be alone. Without him I don’t have anybody.

 
Yolanda had been anxiously waiting for her deputy to show up to work so they could discuss the notebooks, and she jumped on him as soon as he came through the doors of the sheriff’s office. Solomon had obviously slept in that morning, arriving with a bit of toothpaste still in the nook of his mouth and shaving cream smeared in his blond sideburns.

  “Hey, Solomon, did you get the chance to read yours?” she inquired eagerly.

  “What?” It took him a moment to catch up. “Oh, the notebooks. Yes, but I’ve only read some of mine. My youngest had a soccer match, and there was this little dinner after to celebrate their win, so there wasn’t really a lot of time left,” he responded apologetically.

  Yolanda knew he loved his girls more than anything and wasn’t surprised that he’d used his free time to support their sports adventure rather than putting in voluntary work on a possible case. Still, she couldn’t suppress her impatience. “And...?” Yolanda took a step closer to him, pulling up her brown khaki pants by the belt as she did. “Don’t hold a girl in suspense. What did she write about?”

  “Oh. Um, there were some recollections from her childhood and then some contemplations about a book she was reading. I believe it was some book by a Russian, The Good Shrek or some such.”

  “The Good Soldier Svejk,” Yolanda corrected and moved over to the boxes. “I’ve actually gotten a little farther along than you have. Some of us are obviously a bit more literarily inclined than others. ” She sent him a teasing look, but then she turned serious again. “The girl was describing some horrible things. Not bluntly or in so many words, but it still made me sick to my stomach. Little by little, I’m feeling more certain those laconic teenagers were right; these entries are written by a girl who’s being kept imprisoned.”

  “What? Naahhh... You shouldn’t take those fellas seriously. They’re always making stuff up.” He waved one hand at her while shaking his head, indicating his opinion of the youths. “What made you come to that conclusion, though?”

  “Well, you see those headers at the top of each page?”

  “You mean the random numbers?”

  “Yes. The random numbers that increase with each entry.” She pointed to three consecutive entries. She had already read those, the information burned into her memory, sending a shiver down her spine when she thought of them. “I think the numbers might signify how many days she’s been held captive.”

  “All right, that actually makes sense. I wonder how many days each book covers. Let’s see...” Solomon flipped through his notebook and jotted down the first and last numbers. “Eight hundred thirty-three minus seven hundred ninety-eight... that makes...”

  “Thirty-five days?” Yolanda suggested.

  “Yes, right. So there’s a little over a month of entries in this book you gave me and...” He did a quick count of the days in the other book. “...just two weeks in this one. The big difference is a bit odd… how many did you say yours had?”

  “There were twenty in the first one but only nine in the second. Although there were multiple ones with the same numbers, as if she was writing more than one per day. I guess it’s possible her captor is only giving her a certain number of books at a time, so she starts writing in smaller letters when she’s about to run out. At these points, she also seems to be trying to make them last as best she can by writing only one entry a day at most, which would explain the inconsistencies in the length of entries as well.”

  Yolanda watched the dawning horror in Solomon’s eyes as the logic of her words sunk in. “Yikes, that’s disturbing. Does she ever mention who’s holding her captive?”

  “No, unfortunately not. She calls him Mister Whiskers, but so far I haven’t come across a real name nor anything that might help us track down her location.”

  “Wait, Mister Whiskers? Isn’t that the name of some cat food?”

  “I believe it’s Whiskas, but close enough, I guess.” Yolanda remembered reading about the girl’s cat and wondered whether it had originally been named after the cat food. The name had then been transferred to the perpetrator, which was almost ironic in the worst possible sense, seeing as it had originally been chosen as a cute name for a fluffy pet.

  Solomon’s eyes grew sharp and focused, like the wheels in his head were spinning at an ever increasing speed. “She’s obviously trying to humanize him by giving him that cutesy name. A coping mechanism to make him less of a threat. Does he...? You know...” He took a deep breath to collect himself. “Does he make her share his bed?”

  “I think so. She doesn’t go into much detail, but I’m almost positive he does. He even seems to refer to her as his wife.”

  “Sweet Lord of Mercy… I’ve got young daughters, and the thought of someone... I just...” He sounded almost lost, his eyes glazing as images plagued his mind before he quickly shook his head and exclaimed, “We’ve got to find her!”

  Yolanda had opened one of the books and was swiping a fingerprint brush across it when she came to a halt with a gasp. She pointed to an entry labelled 857, and Solomon bent over to have a closer look, reading it out loud as he did so.

  “857 – I’ve been alone today. Mister Whiskers hasn’t visited me once, and I’m not sure he’s even home. I think it’s the weekend, and he should have at least looked in on me by now, but he hasn’t. He gave me some extra food yesterday, and even though I’ve been eating sparsely to save some, I’m about to run out. I made sure not to dance or walk around too much today to save my strength, but the bread is almost gone, and I only have one carrot left in the bag.” Solomon looked at her, his face the very definition of appalled.

  Yolanda continued, “Everything I’ve read is along those lines, and I think you’re absolutely right—we must find her before this piece of shit does something even worse than what he’s already done.” She ground her teeth, knowing exactly how her deputy felt. “We have to read through every single one of these books if we’re going to have any hope of figuring out who this girl is and where she’s being kept. I suspect we’ll need to call in some help eventually, but for now, let’s dust the rest of the books for prints, put them in order, and try to find out how long she’s been with that archimalakas.”

  411

  When I was little, I used to have this yellow bunny with the softest ears. I always petted them while lying in bed, and it gave me the peace of mind I needed to drift away into dreamland. I was an infant when I got her, so I couldn’t say bunny. I always said Bubby. The nickname stuck, so we ended up naming her that. When I started school, the kids got wind of Bubby and made fun of me. It got so bad that I decided to stop sleeping with her and put her on my shelf next to the Narnia books. From there my bunny could still watch over me while I slept, bringing me comfort.

  One time when I was about four, Bubby got lost, and we looked all over for her. I was crying my eyes out, bawling, completely devastated. My parents called all my friends, my grandma, and a whole bunch of our relatives to ask if I might have forgotten her at their house. We ended up finding her in the car. She must have fallen out of my bag, or maybe I accidentally forgot her there, neither of which mattered because I had my bunny back.

  Once when I was even younger, I refused to go to bed, and my dad was getting frustrated with me, so he threatened to throw Bubby out the window. I probably didn’t believe him, so I kept protesting until, to my horror, he actually did it. He dropped my bunny out the window of our apartment, which was on the third floor of the building we lived in. I was terrified I’d never see her again; she would end up eternally lost in the big outside. When I got her back, I stopped complaining and always went to bed when I was told to.

  Although I stopped sleeping with Bubby, I never stopped stroking her ears. I would always do it if something was bothering me. If I had a nightmare, a bit of petting made it better every time. There was something about the feel of soft plush against my fingers that had a soothing effect on me. Maybe it was a habit. Maybe it had something to do with conditioning, that with time, I learned to relax when my
fingers stroked her ears. I never really knew the reason, but whatever it was, it didn’t take away from the fact that my bunny had the power to put a smile on my face.

  I read about psychology in one of Mister Whiskers’ books and how you can train a rat to push a lever using something called conditioning. I’ve been wondering about that ever since. About whether dad conditioned me to go to bed by throwing my bunny out and whether Mister Whiskers has conditioned me to behave by threatening to yell at me, starve me, or hurt me even worse. I’ve tried my own conditioning experiments, attempted to setting boundaries and saying no to Mister Whiskers when he wants me to do things that I don’t think we should be doing. When I try doing that, he always goes out of his way to make me regret it. At this point, I’m starting to think conditioning doesn’t work on him.

  “What’s the highest number you’ve got?” Solomon asked from his position on the floor, where three table-high stacks of notebooks had risen, creating a tiny city of journal-skyscrapers around him.

  “2042,” Yolanda responded, sitting by her desk, where equally high stacks were teetering on the brink of collapse.

  “1857 here,” he replied and pointed at the top of his final stack. “You win—2042 days. Dear Lord in Heaven, that’s an awful long time to be trapped with a monster.” He shuddered.

  “I’ve also found the first entry.” Yolanda said, handing him the notebook in question. “It’s heartbreaking, seeing the difference between the first and the last chapters. Her handwriting has noticeably evolved over the years. She was just a kid when she started out, unsure about how to write the letters, and now she has developed into a young woman.”