Page 53 of Requiem & Reverie

Jolting upright, I open my eyes and scream into the darkness.

“No!”

My breaths arrive on shallow pants, as I search the unfamiliar space, trying to make sense of my surroundings. My throat is bone dry, my body shaking and cold. Confusion begins to fade when realization sinks in, and I draw in a long, deep breath, flicking on the nearby light.

On the nightstand sits a note, signed by Voss: Will be back soon.

“At least he has the courtesy to leave a note,” I mutter.

A tray of food stands off in the corner, with a silver cover to keep it warm. Scrambling from the bed, I hurry toward it, my stomach growling with two days’ worth of hunger, and I nab one of the freshly-baked rolls from inside a linen-wrapped basket . The bread helps fill the empty void in my gut, soaking up the acids and queasiness from before, and I lift the silver cover, find a platterful of prime rib, and potatoes with steamed vegetables, and a small cup of au jus on the side. Nabbing a thin slice of the meat, I dip it in the juice and shove it into my mouth, closing my eyes with the savory flavor that dances on my tongue. And it’s right then that a thought pops into my head.

Has my son even eaten? Has he had one single meal in the last week?

I lower the meat from my mouth and swallow what I’ve already chewed, setting the uneaten bit back onto the plate.

Why should I eat and rest, when he likely hasn’t?

Ashamed with myself, I cover the food and push the tray out of the room, into the hallway.

Noticing inside the room has grown darker, I crack the heavy drapes to see night has fallen on the city below. “Where are you, Oliver?” I whisper, refusing to let tears surface.

Aside from what little I cried for Beth and Harv, I’ve managed to keep my emotions in check, and that’s what I plan to do until I find my son. But I have these moments, these niggling moments of fear that tickle my thoughts, taunting me into the darkness of my imaginations. I have to stay away from them, or risk doing something stupid and reckless.

A light flashes in the window’s reflection, drawing my attention to where my phone lies on the nightstand, and I rush to see what it is. The number in my texts is unrecognizable to me, and I immediately click on it.

Thanks.

A text from Simon, in response to the one I sent him earlier when I first arrived at Voss’s hotel. I’ve never been good with that, and in all honesty, Simon’s worry was the last thing on my mind when I arrived here. But I don’t need him showing up at my doorstep again, to check on me.

With a huff, I toss the phone on the bed, and it lights up again. A different number this time. One I recognize.

Dale’s number.

Let’s try again, Nola. I’ve left the address where you’ll find your son tucked inside your pillowcase.

You’ve slept every night with his whereabouts for about a week.

My stomach sinks, pulses of shock beating through my muscles, as I stare down at it. Dale? All this time? A bitter hatred fills my mouth like a potent liquor I refuse to swallow back.

No.

I shake my head, but there’s no other explanation. It’s his number. And who else would be privy to this little game, but the very person who’s orchestrating it?

I have to will myself to move, my body still locked in a state of confusion and disgust.

Yet, at the same time, a thrill winds in my chest at the prospect that Oliver is alive. A second chance! I take a moment to read each line again, absorbing every word.

A week. A week, I’ve had Oliver’s location hidden inside my fucking pillowcase? And Dale was the one who put it there? Why? Why would a man I trusted have anything to do with this? Because he’s a rotten bastard, that’s why. I want to throw up at the thought of that, but I’ve puked enough, as it is, and my ass is already halfway to the door.

It doesn’t matter who took him. I’m getting my son back.

Shoving my feet into my boots, laces untied, I swipe my keys from the nightstand and tuck the phone into my back pocket. Once out the door, I throw on my coat and head toward the staircase, instead of the elevator. My head is spinning as I round each level, my heart slamming into my ribs.

I’m not calling Jonah this time. I can’t trust him. And Voss would talk me out of going.

As I continue my descent, I click off the GPS on my phone to be sure he isn’t following after me.

What happens tonight is fate. My fate. My penance for lying to my parents. For being a shitty wife. A shitty mom. Even if I end up lying on the ground somewhere, holding one of those white flowers with my eyeballs removed, as long as Oliver is safe, I’m okay with that.