Page 99 of Requiem

Julia 38

Jeremy is true to his word. When the phone call is done, he pulls a pocketknife out of his pants, squats down, and cuts the ties on my ankles. He looks up at me. “I’m going to cut your hands loose, but don’t do anything that you’ll regret, Jules. Because, believe me, you’ll regret it.”

I nod my understanding and he stands up, walks around behind me and liberates my sore and swollen wrists. I rub them, and my arms from shoulders to fingertips. He’s watching, waiting for me to finish.

“Are you hungry?” I ask him.

“No knives, no boiling water, no stove.”

“Okay. How about sandwiches? I have ham and cheese. There’s some leftover potato salad in there, too. If you’d prefer, I can sit here while you pull it out. I don’t need to go into the kitchen,” I volunteer helpfully.

He nods and I direct him to all the ingredients. Once he’s laid them out on the counter, I start to assemble his sandwich just the way I know he likes it. Heavy on the cheese, light on the mayo. I spoon a heap of the chilled salad onto the plate and push it towards him.

“There’s beer in the refrigerator,” I remind him. He nods and pulls one out for himself. “May I have a bottle of water while you’re in there?” He grabs that as well, without comment.

“Thank you,” I say as he sets it down in front of me and twists the cap off his Michelob.

He takes a long swig from the bottle and a big bite from the sandwich, grunting his approval of both.

“When was the last time you ate?” I prod, concentrating on my own sandwich.

“Breakfast,” he mumbles through a mouthful of potato salad.

“You must be starving,” I observe, looking up at him. “Do you want another one? There’s plenty here.”

He’s looking at me suspiciously.

“Jeremy, I’m not an idiot either, okay? You don’t think I know it’s in my best interest to keep you in a good mood? Jesus! It’s just a fucking sandwich,” I huff with some irritation of my own.

“Yes, I’d like another fucking sandwich, please,” he parrots me with an amused smile.

Amused is good. I’ll take amused at the moment.

I nod, take a bite out of my own sandwich, and start making his second. The kitchen is quiet, save for the whir of the appliances and the occasional gust of wind through the trees in the backyard. If Jeremy was concerned about the sound of the foghorn earlier, he hasn’t mentioned it. Maybe that’s because he hasn’t made the connection. It hasn’t occurred to him that Matthew will recognize the sound and know exactly where I am. That’s what I’m counting on. Even so, it’ll take time for Matthew to get here.

As I chew my sandwich, I’m making a mental inventory of the living room, dining room, music room and den. All of them are on this floor and all of them can be reached from one of two directions, giving me some options. But is there anything in any of those rooms that I can use as a weapon? There’s a letter opener on my desk; a pair of scissors, too. In the den is a trophy with a heavy marble base. Matthew’s office, the living room …

“May I use the bathroom, please?” I ask in my most non-threatening voice. “There’s a powder room in the hallway. I don’t need to go upstairs or anything.”

“We’ll see.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Really? You’re not even going to let me pee? Stand in there with me if you want. I’m sure you made use of the facilities while I was out cold.”

“Jesus, just shut the fuck up already!” he grumbles between bites of sandwich.

I continue to glare at him until he rolls his eyes.

“Fine, go. You have one minute. If you lock yourself in, you’re going to be so sorry,” he warns. “And don’t even think about the front door …”

I cut him off before he can continue his laundry lists of threats.

“I won’t. I’ll keep the bathroom door open, if it’ll make you feel better. And, I know – you’re faster than me. You’re stronger. I get it. I was a fool, certainly. But I’m not stupid.”

“You’ve just wasted fifteen seconds of your minute with that little speech,” he informs me, making a point of looking at his watch.

I nod and turn to leave the kitchen slowly, carefully. I go into the bathroom and turn on the faucet so the sound of the water will buy me a little time. I reach behind the mirror and feel for the small key taped to its back. Then, once I’ve stuck my head out into the hallway to be sure I’m still on my own, I move quickly and silently to the room directly across from me, Matthew’s office. I steal over to the closet, noiselessly sliding the door open on its track.

Inside, I stand on my tiptoes and grab the lockbox from the high shelf where it sits. I bring it quickly back to the desk and, with shaking hands, I unlock it, thanking God that I knew where everything was. But, as it turns out, my thanks are a bit premature. The box is empty.