Losing Control (32 page)

And the Millers don't go outside unless they can't help it. I know that when I was eight, he witnessed my mother's murder while shopping. I was too young to remember much about her, just a smiling, happy face with warm brown hair and even warmer eyes that disappeared one day. And I know that my father reported her murder to the police but that the killer was underage. A fluke, a random shooting at a grocery store, and my mother had been the victim. Two years later, the murderer was back out on the streets, and he'd commented in court that he was coming after my father for locking him away.

I think it was bravado, nothing but the bragging of a young boy full of rage. My father took it to heart. He refuses to go outside, believing himself safe and protected in his home.

I can't hate him for it. I want to, but I can't. I know what it's like to live every day in fear.

I head down the road, practically running to the bus stop so I'll have time to do everything. The bus arrives a few minutes later, and I go to the local grocery store. I get my cart as if it's just another day. I shop for the items on the list, taking great care with my selections. When I get to the checkout, they frown at me. They recognize my face. They hate me at this grocery store, but I don't care.

As soon as I have my purchases bagged, I immediately head to the customer service counter. I place two of the items I've bought—vitamins and ibuprofen—on the counter. "I need to exchange these."

The clerk there knows my routine. I'm sure she thinks I'm crazy, but she simply waves a hand. "Get what you need and bring it back."

I do, and five minutes later I have exchanged the expensive, pricey brands for two cheap generics. After years of receipt scanning, I know which ones don't print brand names on the receipt and I always, always switch them out and pocket the change. It's the only way I can save money and not have Father notice it missing.

Now I have seven hundred and fifteen dollars.

I take the groceries with me to the post office, get the stamps, and then head to the library. I should have gone to the library first so the groceries would stay colder, but today, I don't care.

I head to the romance shelf, looking for the book I was reading. It's there, tucked safely behind other books so no one will borrow it until I'm done reading it. I fish it out and read chapter seven while standing up. I wish I could take the book home with me, but Father would never let me keep it. I'm only allowed to read classics. So I come to the library as often as I can and read a chapter at a time.

I close my book with a dreamy sigh a few minutes later. The hero has just kissed the heroine and is sliding his hand into her panties. I want to read on, but I mustn't. There's still so much to do. I will dream about how he touches her, I'm sure. I want to be touched, too.

I want a hero. A big strong, handsome prince to come rescue me from my miserable life. But since one has not arrived, I must rescue myself.

I soar through the non-fiction and grab a book on astronomy. Then I pause, and I put the book back. I don't know why I'm keeping up the pretense. I'm not going home to Father. Not today. I head back to the romance section and grab my novel.

Then, I move to the computers and pull up the Gmail address I have created for myself. If Father only knew that the library had computers to use that could access the Internet, he'd never let me come here.

There's a response in my email. I dance in my chair, so excited I can barely stand it.

Daisy,

I'm so glad you found my ad! You sure you don't want to see the place before you come here? It's not the greatest, but it's a roof over the head, and the rent is cheap enough. Come by and say hello before you decide anything. We'll have lunch.

XOXO

Regan

There's a phone number at the bottom of the email. I print it out, along with the original Craigslist listing for the apartment in Minneapolis. Will she get upset if I meet her for lunch and then just never leave? I hope not.

There is a second email as well. This one is a confirmation of an appointment. Today, at ten thirty. The timing is perfect.

I also print out the bus schedule. I check out my book and head home. The bus drops me off on the road fifteen minutes before the person I've scheduled will arrive. Nerves begin to gnaw at me. I walk exceedingly slowly, watching for a car to pull up in front of my father's boarded-up farmhouse.

It shows up right on time, and I rush to meet the man that emerges from the car. He's big, middle-aged, balding. No-nonsense looking. He wears dark scrubs and frowns when I come running out of the bushes, grocery bags in hand.

"I'm Daisy Miller," I say breathlessly and extend my hand to him.

"John Eton," he says, and glances at our house, taking in the boarded up windows, the overgrown lawn. "Someone lives here?"

"My father." At his skeptical look, I say, "He's agoraphobic. He won't leave the house. That's why the windows are boarded up." I want to tell him so much more about my father's craziness and his controlling nature, which has gotten worse over the years, but I can't. I need to leave.

A look of sympathy crosses the man's face. "I see."

"He's going to need an assistant twice a week," I tell him. "That's why I've hired the service—you." I sound so calm, even though I'm dancing inside. "I need you to come by and see what errands he needs to be completed. Check in on him when he needs it. He doesn't use email and won't answer his phone unless you ring once, hang up, and then ring again. That's how he knows who is calling."

John Eton stares at me like I'm the crazy one. "I see."

"When you knock at the door, you have to knock four times," I tell him. "Same reason."

"All right," he says. "Shall we go in and say hello?"

I hold the two grocery bags out to him. "I'm not going in."

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm leaving," I say, and I offer him the grocery bags again. To my relief, he takes them. "Father…wants me to stay. And I can't. I can't stay any longer." Tears well up in my eyes, but I blink them away. I love my father, I do. I just can't live with him for one more moment. The entire world is out here, waiting. "I hired you to take care of him. His disability check is direct deposited on the first. I've set up the service to be auto-debited on the fifth of every month. I just need someone to come out and take care of him, since he won't leave the house."

"I see." John doesn't look happy, but he glances at the house and then back to me. "Are you running away?"

I'm twenty-one. Can adults truly run away? But I nod. "I can't take it any longer."

Sympathy crosses his face again. "I understand. Is there a number I can reach you at in case there are any questions? Or if something goes wrong?"

I'm startled at his words, guilt coursing through me. Something…goes wrong? I'm leaving my father in the care of this man. A stranger. A service I've hired that won't care that he has a panic attack if he hears a car backfire, who won't care that my father weeps when he goes to bed every night, who won't care that even a hint of sunlight in the living room will send him into hysterics.

But I can't think about that, because if I do, I'll end up staying. I give him the number of my disposable phone, knowing I won't answer it. There's too much guilt involved. My father will be heartbroken and angry that I have left without so much as a goodbye. But I know my father. I know that if I go in and confront him, he'll overpower me. Not physically, but with guilt.

And I have to leave. I just have to.

So when John steps toward the house, I clutch my wallet close and then run. Tears stream down my face as I go, but they're not tears of sadness.

They're joy.

The sun is bearing down on me, the birds are singing in the trees, and for the first time, the world is wide open.

I'm free.

C
LUTCHING
THE
PRINT
-
OUT
CLOSE
,
I head up the dirty stairs to the fifth floor of the apartment building.

I have just gotten off of a six-hour bus ride to Minneapolis, and it feels good to stretch my legs. I should be tired, but I feel invigorated instead. I'm free. I'm free. I'm free.

Earlier, I texted Regan to let her know I was on my way. We set up a meet up at the apartment and then we're going to go to dinner afterward to hang out and get to know each other and see if we mesh and I want to move in. I don't care if she's the most obnoxious person in the world. I've lived with a difficult, demanding person for twenty-one years. Nothing she says or does can be that bad. I will still want to move in.

The building is dirty, but it's buzzing with life. There are people hanging out in the hallways, chatting, and people out on the streets. I smile at everyone. I can't stop smiling. I'm so excited to be out living a real life. A normal life, like everyone else my age.

I find Regan's apartment—224. It's at the end of the hall. I knock, and a moment later it's answered.

A cheerful blonde opens the door. She's tall, statuesque, and gorgeous. She's wearing tight-fitting clothing and her hair is curled into loose waves. Regan is beautiful. She lights up at the sight of me. "Are you Daisy Miller?"

I smooth a stray lock of brown hair into my ponytail, feeling very plain next to her. "That's me. You must be Regan Porter."

"You're so cute! Not what I imagined at all." She examines me with an excited look on her face. "But…I hate to ask. You sure you're not pulling my leg about how old you are?"

"I'm twenty-one," I say, pulling out my identification card. It's not a driver's license; that would have involved Father letting me leave the house for longer than an hour at a time. I make a mental note that I need to learn how to drive in this new life.

She takes the card from me and nods. "Sorry. I just had to ask. You have this…I don't know. You look younger than I thought." She squints at me. "Or just sweeter, I guess. Anyhow, how's it going?" Her enthusiasm is back, and she waves a hand at me. "Don't just stand there. Come on in!”

I enter the apartment, clutching my wallet to my chest, and look around. It's a tiny apartment, easily a quarter the size of my father's house. The walls are grimy and there are cracks in the corners, but the back wall has three enormous windows that give a view of the city, and I'm pleased to see that they're wide open. Sunlight pours in, shining on scuffed wooden floors. There are posters of horror movies up on the walls, and a futon for a couch. There's a folding chair off to one side and an ugly coffee table.

I love it.

"I know it's not much to look at, but I'm slowly furnishing by hitting estate sales," Regan says to me with a grin. "It'll get there."

"It's just fine," I say enthusiastically. "I love it."

She laughs. "Well, you're not hard to convince. So Pollyanna of you. I like that. Come on. I'll show you the rest of the place."

The bathroom is little more than a closet with an ancient tub and a toilet. My room isn't much bigger, but there is a bed, an old dresser—courtesy of Regan's last roomie who'd moved out—and a nightstand with a lamp on it. There is also a window. I move to the window and glance out. It faces the street and a building across the way. I don't care what the view is as long as it has one.

"So, what do you think? Like I said, your share of the rent is four hundred, due on the first, and that includes all utilities paid. It's not a great place, but it's pretty central to everything, which is good if you don't have a car. Do you?"

I shake my head. "I don't."

"Like I said in the ad, my boyfriend stays here a lot. If that bothers you, this might not be the apartment for you. My last roomie couldn't handle it, so she left." She shrugs her shoulders, unapologetic. "Just putting that out there up front so there's no misunderstandings."

"I don't mind." I don't care if she has three boyfriends.

"There's a laundry room down in the basement if you want to wash clothes." She eyes me curiously. "If you don't mind me asking, where
are
your clothes?"

I don't have any bags with me. "I…left them at the farm." I know I must seem weird to her.

"Fresh start, huh?" She pats me on the shoulder and then rubs my arm. "I know how that goes."

I nod, feeling a lump in my throat. Fresh start, indeed.

Other titles by Jen Frederick

Woodlands Series

Undeclared

Undressed in the anthology
Snow Kissed

Unspoken

Unraveled

with Jessica Clare

Hitman Series

Last Hit

Last Breath

After finishing up with
Last Breath
, I sat down to write a completely different book than Losing Control but when I typed, Ian Kerr and Tiny Corielli were what appeared on the page rather than the other characters I had planned. But even as I wrote out the first chapter, it was more just for fun than anything. It wasn't ever going to be a book.

Instead, I emailed the story, chapter by chapter, to a couple of friends. Three to be exact. And after every chapter each one of those people--Daphne, Michelle, and Katy--kept emailing me back wanting more. And if I missed a day without emailing an update about what was happening with Ian and Tiny, I would get impatient responses.

So I kept writing it until there was a somewhat complete story. But then it had to be put together into a book and I suffered some anxiety over whether it was good enough. During that period of indecision and uncertainty, there were two people who kept me sane and read the story in several incarnations, multiple times.

Cece Carroll and Michelle Kannan, your endless patience with me can never be thanked enough.

Then there are my writer friends Meljean Brook, Jessica Clare, Katy Evans, and Elyssa Patrick. They deserve a special thank you because they listen to me moan on a near daily basis about how I'm not going to finish my project or how I'm going to meet my writing goal only to end the day with an email about how I spent the entire day online looking at cat gifs.