Familiar Stranger
1048 Words
THE GARCIA MANSION
Victor is in his study at 6 a.m. He hasn't slept.
Mark enters with a tablet.
"Sir. We found something."
Victor takes the tablet.
It's footage. From a traffic camera three blocks from the ivory gate.
A black Audi. Driving away from the estate. 1:17 a.m.
Victor zooms in on the image. The rain makes it hard to see anything clearly, but he can see the shape. The make.
His face becomes dark.
"Can you enhance this?"
"Working on it. But sir—" Mark pulls up another image. "This is from a gas station camera. Same night. Twenty minutes later. Same car."
The image is clearer. Still difficult to see anything clearly, but manageable.
Victor can see the driver. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. But the face isn't visible.
Yet something about him makes Victor's heartbeat go faster.
"Freeze it."
Mark taps at the screen.
Victor stares at the image in silence for long minutes.
For some reason, the man looks strangely familiar.
"I don't know from where," Victor says slowly.
Mark's eyes widen. "Sir?"
"I don't know from where. But I know him."
He stares at the image.
This man might have taken his daughter.
Victor has seen him somewhere, and he has to remember where.
Even if he has to burn down the city, he will make him pay. Make him beg for his life. Make him wish he was dead.
Mark doesn't say anything else.
At least they seem to be making progress.
...........................................................................
ARABELLA
The water is the only good thing in this room.
It's hot and calms my soul. It somehow manages to wash away the feeling of fear and anxiety, every time.
I stand under the spray until my fingers start to wrinkle, until I can almost pretend I'm anywhere else.
I step out and grab the towel. It's white. A little too thin. But I think it's expensive. I wrap it around myself, tucking it tight between my breasts, reaching for the fresh clothes Sofia brought in earlier.
The door opens.
No knock. No warning. Just the click of the lock and then him.
Maximillian.
I freeze. Water dripping from my hair onto the floor.
He doesn't even look at me. He just walks to the chair in the corner and sits. Like I'm not standing here half-naked and dripping.
"What the hell?" My voice comes out sharp. "You should knock. It's simple courtesy."
He ignores me. Pulls something from his pocket. A piece of folded paper.
"You're being rude," I snap. "Get out. I'm not dressed."
He doesn't move. He unfolds the paper and studies it.
I want to throw something at his head.
Instead, I grip my towel tighter and just watch him. Because clearly, he's not leaving until he's said whatever he came to say.
He holds up the paper.
It's a flyer. I can see it from here. It has one of my photos on it—the one from my father's charity gala last year. Black dress. Smile I don't know if I can still pull off.
Below it, in bold letters:
MISSING
ARABELLA GARCIA
$500,000 REWARD
My heartbeat triples.
"It seems your parents will turn the city upside down to find you," he says. His voice is calm. Almost amused. "Which is very good for me."
I can't stop myself.
I lunge at him. He is driving me crazy.
And it seems my parents are going crazy too.
$500,000?
How perfect.
I try to take the paper.
He pulls it back.
I lose my balance.
I'm falling—forward, toward him. My hands grab for anything. They find his shoulders.
And then I'm on him.
Half in his lap. My towel slipping. My bare skin against his black sweater. My breasts pressed against his chest through the towel.
For one horrible, electric second, neither of us moves.
I can feel the hard muscle under his clothes. The heat of his body. The way his hands haven't touched me—haven't pushed me away. He just stays still, watching me.
I should move. I should pull back. I should—
He rolls his eyes.
"Do you want me to touch you that badly?"
The words hit me like ice water.
I scramble off him. My towel barely stays in place. My face goes hot—humiliation and anger mixing together in my chest.
"Sicko."
He stands. Smooths his sweater like nothing happened.
The flyer is still in his hand. It's crinkled now from our… collision.
I want to grab it again. But I won't. It's no use. I have embarrassed myself enough.
"I just want you to know," he says, "neither your parents nor your little boyfriend will ever find you."
For some reason, I know he is not joking.
He is hell-bent on keeping me locked up.
And I still don't understand why.
"I don't understand why you're keeping me here."
I mean it to come out strong. Defiant. Instead, it sounds quiet. Lost. A mix of anger and embarrassment moving through my chest, but there is something even worse underneath it.
Fear.
He moves toward the door. Deliberately moving slowly.
"Why?" he says. "Because your parents will run crazy if they're never able to find you."
My hands curl into fists. The towel shifts. I don't care.
"Is this how you get revenge?"
He stops.
Walks back.
Stops an inch from me.
I can feel his breath. Can see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes. Can smell that clean, expensive thing he always smells like.
"You don't know anything," he says quietly.
I don't step back. I stare directly into his eyes. Something in me refuses to back down.
"Then explain it to me."
His eyes—those ocean-blue eyes—go dark. Something moves in them.
For a second, I think he might actually tell me something.
Then he steps back.
"No."
He turns.
Walks to the door.
Slams it behind him.
The lock clicks.
And I'm alone again. Standing in a towel. Holding onto anger because it's the only thing keeping the tears from falling.
I stare at the closed door as his words ring in my head.
You don't know anything.
But I don't know how I'm supposed to know if he won't tell me anything.
- Writer
