The Assistant: A gripping psychological thriller with a nerve-shredding ending Read online

  She was safe. She took a deep breath.

  Every single bottle was a badge of honor, telling her how skilled she was at taking things. She’d collected them for years. She was a little surprised he’d never noticed, that he never looked in the bathroom cabinets and drawers.

  “I’ll try to stop buying so much.” It was a lie. She couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop.

  “Too late. You never need to buy another bottle.”

  She laughed. “It dries out.”

  “It’s not only the nail polish.”

  She moved toward the kitchen.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To open a bottle of wine.”

  The leather creaked as he got out of the chair. A moment later, he stood in the doorway, watching her. Metal squeaked against cork as she twisted the corkscrew into place. The lever to extract it clinked on the glass. The cork slid out with a satisfying pop.

  “Do you have some kind of hoarding addiction?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “The bathroom drawers are full of unopened makeup. And the back of your closet. A lot of tops and stuff I don’t remember seeing.”

  “You’re familiar with every piece of clothing I own?” He shouldn’t have gone in there. She liked looking at the things she’d taken, liked knowing she owned lots of delicate tops, lacy bras, and thongs in every color of the rainbow.

  “I have a pretty good idea. There’s stuff in there that still has the tags. Summer shirts. And some of it’s the same as stuff you already have. What’s going on?”

  “Women like more variety than men. Choices.”

  “It doesn’t seem right.”

  “It’s no big deal.”

  “How did I not know about this?” he said.

  She drank her wine. She flicked the cork with her index finger. It rolled across the counter and bumped against the bowl holding the last apple. She needed to get to the grocery store.

  “I should start dinner,” she said.

  “What is it with you and your nails anyway? Does Hank have some kind of nail fetish that you have to change them every night?”

  “No. He has nothing to do with it.”

  “Well, it sure isn’t for me. I don’t care what color your nails are.”

  “It’s for me.” Her nails glowed under the kitchen light, shimmering like stones decorating the sides of the wineglass.

  She took another sip of wine. It calmed her, blotting out the fear that Matt was about to figure out her secret. What if he asked to see her credit card bills? They each took care of their own accounts. Maybe when they were married they’d put all their cash together, but for now, it seemed easier this way. He’d never looked at hers, never asked what she spent on anything unless it was for the house.

  Even if he didn’t, he might start looking at everything in a different light, wondering why their grocery bills were lower than those of other couples, asking about how she managed so many clothes on her income. It was easy when you never had to pay for cosmetics or lingerie. Men had no idea how much it all cost. “Aren’t you hungry?” she asked.

  He finished his drink and poured a glass of wine for himself. “No other woman I know changes her nail polish every night.”

  “Well, I like to. What’s the problem? You never said anything about it before.”

  “I always thought it was a little crazy. And now that I saw all those bottles, it got me thinking. And what you said—the gossip about you and Hank.”

  She put her glass on the counter. She picked up the cork and tossed it into the recycling. She pulled out a pot to boil the macaroni. The pot clanked against the sink and the rush of water spraying against the bottom would drown out anything else he planned to say.

  She liked her job and she liked Hank. He was a good-looking man, and yes, she liked being around him, liked flirting a little, liked looking good and knowing he noticed. It was fun. She liked that her co-workers wondered about the two of them, but she didn’t want to upset Matt, start him worrying. Although maybe a little competition was good.

  Matt stepped out of the doorway and returned to the living room. Over the sound of rushing water, she heard the TV, the volume too loud.

  Right that minute, she couldn’t remember why it had seemed so important to tell Matt about the rumor. Possibly, she wanted him to be more taken with her. He underestimated the impact she had on people, on men. She didn’t want him worried, suspicious, just…something…more appreciative. Thrilled that she was with him.

  It wasn’t as if their relationship was one of complete transparency. At least it wasn’t on her side. Matt certainly didn’t know every single thing about her, despite the fact they’d moved in together when she was twenty. He didn’t seem to have any secrets, but how did she know that for sure?

  And, he didn’t know everything about her and Hank, what Hank had done.

  It was nothing really. Not an affair. Just this…this thing. A desire to linger in his office for as long as possible at the end of the day. The warmth of his eyes on her, even if his expression remained bland. She knew. She’d known for a long time, and she enjoyed it.

  Was there something wrong with her? Was it a sickness, like the shoplifting? It was certainly something normal people didn’t do. Maybe she was some sort of virtual exhibitionist. Wanting Hank to look at her with longing, but not actually wanting to have sex with him. And that’s what it would be, because she certainly didn’t love him. She wanted his attention. That was it. Being around him felt good. He made her feel important, made her feel she was better than the others. More valuable.

  Five months. It was hard to believe it had been that long. They’d been at a trade show in New Orleans. No one could imagine a worse place to host thousands of people at the start of hurricane season, the air so full of water, it dripped. Air that kept you from ever being dry—giving up trying to keep your skin smooth and your hair silky. Except when you went inside, and then it was so cold from the air conditioning your skin turned hard and flaky.

  The employee appreciation event had been held at a quaint hotel. Hank was different before they’d even arrived at the party and started drinking. More relaxed, having shed his corporate skin. The humidity certainly contributed. It was impossible to remain pressed and polished and aloof when your face was smeared with oily perspiration and your clothes stuck to your body like gummy wetsuits.

  They walked down Bourbon Street in the dark, laughing at the people tripping on their own feet, women with the straps of their dresses falling off their shoulders, revealing the paler flesh at the top their breasts, their damp feet sliding off high-heeled sandals, clutching shocking orange and gold hurricane drinks and other cocktails in large plastic cups. The men were equally foolish, leering at every woman they passed, splashing beer on their clothes.

  Hank took her elbow and steered her into the hotel lobby. He picked up a glass of white wine for her and a whiskey and soda for himself and they walked to the room where the others were already dancing. The noise was as heavy as the humid air outside—people shouting with laughter over the predictions of a fortune teller hired as entertainment for the event, or simply trying to make their voices heard above the music.

  For a while, they separated. Vanessa sipped her wine and let the laughing, drinking employees spill around her. She leaned against an adobe column, the surface cool on the skin of her upper back. It felt good to have something solid and hard holding her up after an entire day on her feet, smiling at customers, repeating the same simple phrases over and over.

  Cheryl Adler sauntered toward her. She grinned and sipped her slushy drink. “Can I share that post with you? I could use someone to hold me up right about now.”

  Vanessa moved to her left, making room for Cheryl.

  “Nothing like free booze,” Cheryl said. She giggled. She stirred her drink and worked some of the thick icy stuff into her mouth. “Mm. So nice to have something cold after all that sweat!”

  “I know.” Vanessa sip
ped her wine. It was no longer chilled; she needed a refill.

  “Did you see Hank? He is wasted!” Cheryl giggled. “I’ve never seen him like that.”

  “He’s not wasted.”

  “Have you seen him? He can hardly talk.”

  “You shouldn’t say that. Even if it’s a party, he’s still the boss.”

  “A boss who’s drunk off his ass!” Cheryl raised her glass as if she were making a toast. She tripped away, wobbling on her three-inch heels.

  Vanessa wanted to grab the strap of Cheryl’s dress and reprimand her. Even if it was true, it was disrespectful. Hank worked hard, and he struggled at home, she was sure of it. He deserved to party a little. Everyone did. Cheryl acted as if he had no right, but he was human. And it wasn’t as if he was compromising the company. There weren’t any customers or industry press at the party.

  When she saw Hank again, he’d clearly had a few more glasses of whiskey. “Ever’ one wants a piece of me.” He swallowed his drink. “Roll out a new product line on time and you’re the star.” He laughed. They talked about how the customer reception had gone.

  His gaze drifted toward the group of people dancing to classic rock. A Stones song came on. Hank took the cup of wine out of her hand and set their drinks on a chair. “Dance with me.”

  He could have said Let’s dance, or Do you want to dance? The phrase he’d chosen surprised and thrilled her. It was commanding and seemed to come from a need that went beyond the music and the drinks and the atmosphere. It came from something that had been dormant between them for a long time. She picked up her wine, took a quick sip, and hurried after him. The music vibrated in her bones and her body felt loose and comfortable in the cool indoor air. Her dress was short and the hem swirled like a dancer’s silky skirt when she moved her hips. It felt good to let go. His slim hips moved with the music, so close to hers. He kept his gaze fixed on hers, the pupils so large in the dark room they were almost solid black.

  They danced until her heart rate was thumping as rapidly as it did during sixty minutes of jazz class. Despite the air conditioning, she was sweaty again. They each ordered another drink. Hank picked up a small plate containing two egg rolls from the buffet table. They chose two chairs in the corner farthest from the DJ and watched the dancers. The group was larger now, pressed more tightly together, intensifying the energy radiating from their bodies.

  Hank balanced the plate on his leg where she could reach it easily. He swallowed half of his drink, picked up an egg roll, and bit off the end. She would have liked dipping sauce, but they’d forgotten to fill a cup with some of the sweet, golden sauce.

  She took the second egg roll. The empty plate wavered slightly but remained in place. She took a small bite. It was warm, but not too hot. She took a second bite. It was tasty, perfectly moist with seasoned vegetables and delicate, crispy wrapping so that she didn’t miss the dipping sauce. They munched their egg rolls, sipped their drinks, and watched the dancers.

  After two more glasses of wine, Vanessa could hear the words coming out of her mouth—slow and lazy, her tongue thick so that nothing sounded precise. Hank’s eyelids looked heavy, and the darkness of his pupils seemed to have seeped into the whites of his eyes. He looked as if he’d forgotten where he was.

  When she told him she was heading up to her room, he insisted on escorting her. At the door, she inserted the key card and pulled it out too quickly. The light remained red. It took three more tries before she managed to open it. He stepped into the room behind her.

  As the door closed, he moved closer, his breath warm on her forehead. He was so close she couldn’t see his face. He put his hand on her shoulder and slid his finger under the strap of her dress, moving it along her collarbone. Warm blood surged through her veins.

  “I feel like you belong to me,” he said. He put his mouth close to her ear. “Mine.” He held on to the word and released it with an extended breath, letting it turn into a soft moan in the back of his throat.

  “Hank, I…”

  He put his other hand on her opposite shoulder and turned her toward him. Their mouths came together and the taste of whiskey soaked through her lips and tongue. His hand moved along the top of her breast. His fingertips danced across her skin until she shuddered.

  After a moment, he pulled back. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

  Her voice was rough, barely a whisper. “No.”

  He lifted the strap of her dress and slid it off her shoulder. It tickled the side of her arm and the smallest slip of the fabric covered the tip of her breast. He kissed her neck and folded his hand over her breast. She moaned. “I don’t know. I don’t think—”

  “Shh.” He dragged his palm across her nipple.

  She wanted to cry, the ache was so deep. Her body was melting. But he was drunk. Drunk off his ass, according to Cheryl. The words raced around inside her mind. Was this him? Or was he even certain where he was, what woman’s body he was stroking?

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. She moved back toward the wall.

  He let his hands fall away from her. “You always keep me on track. You’re right. Not now.”

  She didn’t hear him move in the darkness. A moment later, the door closed behind him.

  For a long time she’d stood there, trying to think.

  When she’d woken the next morning, she wondered how it would be from there on out. But it turned out nothing had changed. A small part of her wished she’d let it go on longer, waited to see what happened. Instead, things were uncertain. His memory of the evening was unclear to her. If a memory existed at all.

  Thinking about it now made her want more wine. She added some to her glass even though it wasn’t empty. She should offer a refill to Matt, but he hadn’t said anything, mesmerized by a basketball moving up and down the court. Besides, he’d already had a whiskey.

  Mac and cheese no longer sounded like a satisfying meal. She dumped the water down the drain. She pulled a steak out of the freezer, unwrapped the paper, and placed the open package in the microwave. She hit defrost and returned to the fridge. There was enough romaine and half a bottle of Caesar dressing; all she needed were some croutons. The box in the cabinet beside the fridge had been there a while, but Matt had carefully folded the interior plastic and clipped it shut. She popped one in her mouth. Nice and crunchy. The salty, cheesy flavor made her want more wine. She took a sip and checked on the steak. She mixed dry mustard, a few small pinches of cayenne pepper, onion powder and a few other spices.

  When the steak was done defrosting, the paper was filled with a puddle of watery juice. She lifted out the meat and patted it clean. She rubbed the cayenne and mustard mix into both sides and put it on the grill portion of the stove. She turned on the gas. Within a few minutes, the aroma of beef brought Matt to the doorway. She handed him the bowl of salad.

  “No mac and cheese?” he said.

  “I changed my mind.”

  “Good idea,” he said. “I’m starving.”

  She put the steak on plates and carried the salad bowl to the dining room table. She lit the candles in the center. In silence, they dragged the serrated knives through the meat, red and tender. She was impressed with how it had turned out. Cooking up frozen meat didn’t always work well.

  Matt put down his fork and picked up the last crouton soaked in dressing. He put it in his mouth. He pushed his chair away from the table. “You aren’t cheating on me, are you?”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “I don’t know. Something doesn’t feel right.”

  She got up and went to his chair. She swung her leg over his and straddled his lap. “You’re all I want.”

  “Even in your head? You wouldn’t cheat in your head?”

  She laughed. The sound was almost hysterical, but he didn’t seem to notice. “How does that work?”

  “Thinking about him. Flirting with him. I don’t know, stuff like that.”

  “What brought this up?”

&nbs
p; “All that nail polish freaked me out.”

  “It’s just nail polish.”

  “It’s not normal.”

  “What’s normal?” She leaned into him. She put her lips on the side of his face and rubbed them gently across his stubble. She gently bit his ear. He let out his breath slowly.

  12

  Laura

  SHE WANTED TO cry the moment she became conscious. The streets outside were so deserted she heard the sound of the pump in the fish tank on the floor below her bedroom. The red lines of the numbers displayed on her clock stood like bloody gashes in the darkness—1:11. She dreaded the seconds advancing, racing toward morning. She forced her mind to change direction.

  Running was as essential as food and water. If she refused to let the monster rattle her, he’d give up. He had to. She rolled onto her back. A few minutes later, she thrust herself onto her side again. It was twenty past one. She closed her eyes and turned her back to the clock.

  It was 4:50 when she woke again. She dressed and did four sets of bicep curls. She did twenty-five pushups and fifty-five crunches and went downstairs. While she drank a glass of water, she watched the fish. She took slow breaths, adjusting the rhythm of her breath to align with theirs, and then went out into the damp air.

  The jog to the high school was slower than usual. A slick tarp of wet leaves covered the sidewalk, dotted with worms glistening under the streetlights, forcing her to move carefully.

  Once she was circling the track, her shoulders relaxed and a smile tugged softly at her lips. She’d beat him!

  She ran fast, her feet pounding ground. After two laps, she pulled her hands out of her pockets and pushed off her hood. As she rounded the curve near the snack stand, she saw him. Even in the darkness, there was no mistaking him.

  His erratic movements were like a man flinging himself up and down the halls of a mental hospital, no awareness of where his body was going, trapped by whatever story was playing out inside his skull, certain there were insects swarming beneath his skin, voices shouting, torment that existed only in brainwaves, distorted images and sounds, acting themselves out in his muscles and bones.