For a while, I try to make out at least some snippets of their conversation, but eventually I give up.
Erik. The man with the bag over his shoulder had used his name so naturally. And he hadn’t been surprised to see the stranger in my house, not even for a second—if anything, it was me who had surprised him. Me and the way I was acting.
That means that this … Erik guy must have dished up the same insane story to him as he did to me. That he lives here, and that he’s in a relationship with me.
So maybe he’s not an accomplice after all? I don’t know. None of my thoughts seem logical anymore. My head is pounding; I vaguely remember hitting it on the floor earlier during my failed escape attempt.
But at least I can still remember where I store the bottles of mineral water. Rehydrating helps, and my headache gradually dissipates.
A short while later, I hear the front door click into the lock. The man with the bag has gone, I’m guessing, and he won’t be lifting a finger to help me.
I huddle into my corner. Any moment now the reprieve will be over and the game will continue. Even though I’m waiting for Erik’s next move, the sudden knock on the door still makes my heart skip a beat.
“Jo?” His voice is quiet and insistent. “Jo? Please, I have to talk to you.”
That approach again. This time he won’t get any answer from me. Stay silent, I tell myself. Play dead.
“Jo? Can you hear me?” More knocking. “Are you OK? Is everything all right?”
And if it’s not? What will you do then, asshole?
I don’t have to wait long for an answer. I hear a clinking sound; the man is probably rummaging through the kitchen drawer. A brief silence, then the sound, very close now, of metal against metal.
He’s found something to break open the door with.
“I’m OK.” My voice is hoarse with reluctance, but it’s still enough to stop Erik from working on the lock.
“Thank God,” he says. “Listen, I’m sorry I was so rough with you before, but…” He pauses.
Rage suddenly surges up within me; it’s so overwhelming that it completely drowns out my fear. Suddenly I’m almost wishing for the lunatic out there to really break down the door so I can throw myself at him with all my strength. Beat him with my fists until he’s no longer moving. Or stab him, if I can get my hands on the big kitchen knife.…
The image is so vivid in my mind it takes on a life of its own, and I’m shocked by how much I like it. I didn’t know that helplessness and violent compulsions could be so closely interlinked.
So far, though, physical resistance hadn’t helped me. On the contrary. It was time to change my strategy.
“Erik?” I make my voice sound as though I’m close to tears.
“Yes?”
“Could you turn on the light for me? Please?”
“What? Yes, of course. I didn’t realize you were sitting there in the dark.”
The eco-lightbulb under the cheap frosted-glass ceiling lamp flickers on, bathing the packed shelves in a dim light.
The can in my hand really does contain peeled tomatoes.
“Better?”
“Much better. Thank you.”
There’s a short pause. When the man outside the door starts speaking again, his voice is on the same level as my head. He must be sitting on the floor. Or kneeling.
“Listen to me, Jo. We won’t be able to figure this out by ourselves, we need help.” He sounds exhausted. That’s good. Eventually he’ll need to sleep.
“I’d like to take you to a doctor in the morning, so we can find out what happened. Maybe the stress of the past few weeks was too much for you, or…”
He left the sentence unfinished.
“To a doctor?” I ask quietly.
“Yes, Jo. Before it gets even worse. If I hadn’t stopped you tonight, you would have run out into the street screaming and half-naked, on two separate occasions. I don’t want them to institutionalize you, I mean, our situation is hard enough as it is.”
His tone is imploring and gentle at the same time, but I’m fully aware of the intention behind his words. He wants me to doubt my own state of mind, not his.
“You can’t imagine how much all this is hurting me,” he continues. “Yesterday you were telling me you love me, and today you don’t even remember who I am.”
His voice was becoming quieter and quieter. Either he really believes what he’s saying, or he’s a really good actor.
“Jo?”
“Yes?”
“I love you, and it’s awful to have to do this, but I can’t let you out of here tonight. I can’t risk you screaming for help out the window, or trying to run away again.”
If it weren’t so sad, I would have laughed. My cell was of my own choosing. I had imprisoned myself in the very place where I couldn’t draw attention to myself. I really am a very cooperative victim.
“But I’m staying here,” he adds. “I’m going to lie down here right by the door; I won’t leave you by yourself. If you need anything…”
I don’t answer him. It was obvious, after all, that he would block any escape route available to me.
I take a few clean tea towels from the pile I keep here on the shelves, arrange them under my head and close my eyes. The door is locked from the inside, so Erik can’t get in here. I could even risk falling asleep, but I can’t get my thoughts to settle. I run through the events of this awful evening in my mind again and again, moment by moment. I can’t push them away …
And then, after at least two hours must have passed, everything falls into place all at once, forming a picture as clear as glass and logical down to the very last detail.
What Erik wants, above everything, is for me to believe him. For me to think that something is wrong with me. That’s why he had a friend of his turn up here, acting like Erik’s presence in the house was entirely natural. I could probably bet on a few more encounters like these taking place over the next few days.
And then the doctor’s visit. The next act, surely, in which I find out from an experienced professional that I have a screw loose. I’d bet anything on it.
At least there’s one thing I don’t need to waste any more time tearing my hair out over: the motive of my caring fiancé there on the other side of the door. Once someone knows my name, it doesn’t take a genius to find out who I am. And, most important, who my father is. Then it’s highly possible that someone could come up with the creative idea of wanting to convince me I’m engaged to them. Maybe one day I’d even believe it, and boom—they would have just married into the third-richest family in Australia.
Well. Unfortunately Erik has picked the wrong victim.
I curl up into a ball, try to find a tolerable sleeping position, and close my eyes. At least I don’t have to worry about him cutting my throat in my sleep. After all, a billionaire’s daughter isn’t much use to a con artist once she’s dead.
* * *
“Jo?” A knock on the door. “It’s almost eight, we’ve got an appointment with Dr. Dussmann in an hour. I just called him, he’s fitting us in as an emergency.”