Page 1 of His Captive

Prologue

LYSETTA

I don’t cry watching them lower his casket into the ground. Instead, I try to expel any thoughts of not ever seeing him again.

I hear the priest talking, but I don’t listen, they are just words. No doubt the same words he uses regardless of who he’s laying to rest. But today the words he speaks aren’t just for anyone. They are for Bryan Carson.

My father.

My rock.

And the only person I’d had left in this wicked, unforgiving world.

Old Mrs. Rodgers from next door is the only person who bothers to turn out on this bitter cold February afternoon to mourn a man who had once been so generous. A man who had been so intent on helping others. Looking around now I guess all those he’d helped during the fifty-five years of his life must have forgotten about him today.

The past few years changed my father, leaving him a recluse. When the cancer came, it hadn’t just stolen Mom from us, it had taken our family business, our home and the man my father was too.

Carson’s Kitchen had once been renowned for its lively, friendly atmosphere. Based right in the center of Cooper’s Ridge, it was a popular meeting place for locals. Mom's dream as a girl was to own her own diner, my dad worked hard alongside her and together they turned her dream into a success. Until Mom got sick and her medical bills stacked up so high Dad was forced to sell the diner they’d owned since they were first married.

Losing Mom, closely followed by the diner, destroyed my father. Forcing me to watch him transform into a shell of the happy man I’d grown up knowing.

He took a factory job that I knew he hated. Worked double shifts so I could go to college, and refused to discuss the option of me dropping out to save on college fees. He wouldn’t even let me get a weekend job to help him pay the bills. He was too damn proud.

And in the end, it was his pride that killed him.

A stress-induced heart attack is what the coroner had called it. Stress that I was undoubtedly to blame for causing.

I resist screaming for him to come back, to not leave me.

And even with my heart feeling too heavy for my body to carry I still don’t shed a tear, I’ve trained myself too well over the years not to.

I force myself to look down at his coffin. He seems so far away from me now, compacted between narrow walls of infinite darkness. So lonely and cold. The thought stings my eyes, but it still doesn't cause any tears to break the surface.

It cross’s my mind to throw myself in too, being buried with him doesn’t seem such a bad thing right now. Then I feel guilty. Dad would hate me thinking that way. The least I owe him is to not give up, to take what I have and to make the best of it. And I will, just as soon as I figure out how.

“Would you like a lift, dear?” Mrs. Rodgers offers, stepping forward and resting an age-worn hand on my shoulder. The offer is more than likely out of obligation, but I’m grateful for her kindness nonetheless.

“It’s only a short walk home, I think I’d prefer to get some air, thank you though.” I force a smile especially for her.

“Ok, you remember I’m just across the hall if you need anything,” she reminds me with a look full of pity before she hobbles toward her battered VW Beetle.

Gathering myself back together, I thank the Priest for his ‘words,’ then start my journey home. As I cross the cemetery, I glance back over to the black limousine I’d noticed arrive just before the service started. I’d assumed the person was here for Dad, but no one had shown their face. The cemetery is empty now, all but the limousine, and a van with two older men who are respectfully waiting for me to leave before they fill in my father's grave.

I move on, leaving through the cemetery gates. The limousine creeps steadily behind me. It unnerves me enough to make me quicken my pace. I try to keep focusing forward, but the curiosity to look over my shoulder is far too tempting. I sneak a peek, then sigh with relief when the limo speeds up and drives on past me.

My relief is short lived when, just a little ahead of me the limo slows to a complete stop.

When the driver’s door opens, I notice a tall greying man step out onto the sidewalk. He lowers his head toward me before opening the back-passenger door.

“Good afternoon, Miss Carlson.” His hand gestures for me to get inside, and I raise my eyebrow in response. Does he really think I’m stupid enough to voluntarily get inside a stranger’s car?

“Miss Carlson, I promise you no harm. My boss was a good friend of your father’s, he just wishes to assure you a safe journey home after what must have been a very difficult day,” the driver says politely, and there’s something trusting about his sympathetic smile.

Stepping closer to the car, I still have my suspicions, I can’t recall my father mentioning a friend, especially one who owned a limousine. In fact, my father hadn’t mentioned any ‘friends’ at all in the past few years.

“Please, Miss. Mr. Sorrento just requires a few moments of your time to offer his condolences,” he adds.

Sorrento. I recognize the name, perhaps Dad had mentioned something about him after all.

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