After My Husband Hit Me at Our Son’s Funeral

The phone is slick in my hand. Blood from my wrists. The man holding it steps back after he dials.

"Two hundred thousand," he says. "Cash. Six hours. You tell him that."

It rings.

Once.

Twice.

"Ada?" Creed's voice. Bright. Easy. Restaurant noise behind him.

"Creed." My voice cracks. I don't mean for it to. "I've been—"

"Babe, hold on." Muffled. His palm over the speaker. Voices in the background. Laughter. Then he's back. "Sorry, what's up?"

"I've been kidnapped," I say. "They want two hundred thousand dollars. Cash. I have six hours."

Silence.

Then: "What?"

"Creed, please. I don't know where I am. Some warehouse. They grabbed me outside the restaurant. You have to—"

"Creed!" Demi's voice. High. Panicked. Close to the phone. "Creed, something's wrong!"

"What?" Creed says. Not to me. To her.

"It's Mochi," Demi says. She's crying. "He just collapsed. He's not breathing right. Creed, I think he's dying."

"Shit," Creed says. "Okay. Okay. We need to go. Now."

"Creed," I say.

Nothing.

"Creed," I say again.

"Ada, I'm in a meeting," he says. Fast. Distracted. "I'll call you back. Just—stay calm. I'll handle it."

The line goes dead.

I stare at the phone.

The man takes it from my hand. He looks at the screen. Then at me.

"Huh," he says.

I don't answer.

I look at the concrete floor. There's a crack shaped like a river. I follow it with my eyes until it disappears under a crate.

My husband just hung up on my kidnapping.

To take a dog to the vet.

---

They leave me tied to the chair. One of them goes outside to smoke. I can see the glow through the gap under the door. The other one walks to the van and opens the rear doors. Checking something. His phone is on the crate. Screen dark.

I count to ten.

Then I twist my wrists.

The zip ties are tight. But the chair arm has a nail head sticking out. Rusted. Sharp.

I press the plastic against it. I drag. My skin tears before the tie does. Blood makes everything slippery.

I keep dragging.

The tie snaps.

I freeze. The man at the van doesn't turn.

I work the other wrist. Faster now. The nail cuts deeper. I bite my tongue to stay quiet.

The second tie breaks.

I stand. My legs shake. I take one step. Two.

The phone is three feet away.

I lunge.

I grab it. I dial 911. I drop it behind the crate.

Then I run.

The door. The alley. The street.

Footsteps behind me. Shouting.

I don't look back.

I run barefoot on cracked asphalt. My feet are bleeding. My wrists are bleeding. My lungs are burning.

Four blocks.

A patrol car turns the corner. Lights off. Routine patrol.

I wave my arms. I scream.

The car stops.

---

The urgent care clinic smells like antiseptic and burnt coffee. A nurse cleans my wrists. Another wraps my left hand. Hairline fracture. They give me a brace and a prescription I won't fill.

The officer who drove me takes my statement. I give him everything. The van. The warehouse. The men's voices. The phone call.

He writes it down. He says they'll investigate. He asks if I want them to contact my husband.

"No," I say. "I'll call him."

He nods. He leaves his card.

I take a cab home. The driver doesn't ask about the blood.

---

The apartment is dark except for the glow of the TV. Creed is asleep on the couch. His shirt is still buttoned. His tie is loose. Mochi is curled on his chest, breathing slow and even.

Creed's phone is on the coffee table. Screen facing up.

I walk closer.

There's a document open. Veterinary clinic after-visit summary. *Patient: Mochi Gonzales. Diagnosis: Acute gastrointestinal distress. Prognosis: Full recovery expected.*

Beside it, a notification. Red badge. Unread.

I tap the screen.

Building security app. *Unusual activity detected — rear entrance. 10:47 PM.*

I check the timestamp on the vet document. 10:52 PM.

He got the alert five minutes before he left for the clinic.

He knew.

I stand there for a long time. The TV flickers. Mochi's ear twitches. Creed's breathing is deep and even.

I walk to the bathroom. I close the door. I turn on the water so he won't hear.

I clean my wrists with soap and gauze. I wrap them myself. I do it slowly. Carefully.

When I'm done, I turn off the water.

I look at my face in the mirror. Split lip. Bruise forming under my right eye.

I press my thumbnail into my palm.

Eleven days.

I can do eleven days.

I turn off the light and go to bed.