Found (Captive Heart #2) (3 page)

T
he pains start
as I’m lying in bed, crying over the fact that I can’t spend my first night as a married woman with my husband.

A ripping, tearing cramp seizes me low in the belly, and I double over as the agony suffuses my entire body.

“What the …” I reach down under the covers, under my nightgown, and down to where I feel wetness coating my thighs. My fingers come away with something sticky, and I’m too dense right now to think that it’s blood.

Tumbling out of bed, half-delirious with pain and nausea, I run to the bathroom in the hall. When I flick on the light I almost pass out.

The upper part of my legs are soaked in blood, and little rivulets of red are running down my legs, dripping onto the white tile floor.

This is more than period blood. This has never happened to me before …

Another punch of pain has me grabbing the edge of the sink and sucking in air. I have to get myself cleaned up, or maybe call a doctor. Another rip of agony and I’m hobbling back to the bedroom, throwing open my drawers and pulling on the first pair of baggy pants I grab.

Ten minutes later I’m driving myself to the hospital, my grip on the wheel white-knuckled as I suffer through waves of nausea and distress.

Am I dying?

I walk into the emergency room and almost collapse when a nurse comes over to assist me. She gets me to a bed and begins examining me.

“Are you allergic to any medication? What have you eaten in the past twenty-four hours? Are you sexually active?”

Question after question comes flying at me as another nurse or doctor swabs at the blood on my legs and in my pants. They get me cleaned up and into an adult diaper and hospital gown.

It’s another hour before they come back, and I’m so hazy I’m almost asleep.

“Miss Morsey?” The nurse gently shakes me.

“It’s Mrs. Lynch,” I respond groggily.

And I can see in her eyes she knows who I am. Please God, let her be good at her job. Let her keep her mouth shut. There has already been so much about Tucker and I in the press. They’re calling me Stockholm Charlotte in all of the newspapers, convinced that Tucker seduced me and violated me after he kidnapped me. It’s all such bullshit.

An older male doctor comes in, a pristine white lab coat hanging on his frame.

“Ms. Morsey, I’m Dr. Butrick, the attending OB/GYN on staff here at the hospital. Ms. Morsey, I’m sorry to tell you … but you’ve had a miscarriage.”

He delivers the news to me in such a sterile, matter of fact manner that it’s almost like he’s reading his dinner order off a menu. It takes me a couple of seconds to compute what he’s said.

“A miscarriage?” It’s a miracle I even find my voice.

He glances down at his sheet. “Yes, I’m afraid so. You were about four months along, correct?”

I stare at my stomach. “I didn’t even know …”

He and the nurse exchange a glance. “I … I’m very sorry. But yes. Had you been feeling any nausea or tiredness?

I think on it. “Well yes, but I’d been in an accident, been recovering from an injury.”

The nurse looks at me with a knowing glance. The doctor shuffles his feet, and I know he wants to get out of here. See his other patients. There is nothing else he can do for me now.

Except. “What was it … I mean, the baby? What was it?”

The doctor clears his throat. “A little boy.”

Tears involuntarily start falling from my eyes. “And when was he…what was his birthday going to be?”

Dr. Butrick glances down at the paper in his hand again. “August 11.”

* * *

I
drive
myself home a couple of hours later with a mild pain prescription and a box of adult diapers. There is nothing to do now but wait until I stop bleeding. The pain has dulled a bit, but it’s my heart and my conscience that are in agony now.

A baby. Tucker and I made a baby.

I mean, what the hell did we think was going to happen? I was off birth control for months and we used no condoms. He came inside of me, such an intimate act with such a binding result. Except not now.

He’s gone. Our baby boy died. Because of me.

Oh, the nurse who was taking care of me told me it was probably the rabies vaccinations, that I shouldn’t have been given them if I was pregnant. But I hadn’t known. And they were only trying to save my life.

Miscarriage. I think it might be the most devastating word in the human language. Not only is it death, but it’s the loss of a little, precious, innocent life.

I hate myself. I hate my body. What have I done?

I curl up in bed, a tiny, sobbing mess under my duvet. There is no one I can call. Not now at least. Tucker doesn’t get phone privileges until noon each day. Meaning I have to shoulder this alone for the next twenty-four hours. I’m conflicted on whether I want to cry myself to sleep or go downstairs and throw all of my dishes at the wall.

This isn’t fair. None of this is fair. My husband is in prison. My baby is dead.

When did I become this person? I’d gone through life carefully and quietly, always so intent on not stirring the pot or rattling the foundation.

But when I’d decided to stay with Tucker, I’d asked for this. Welcomed the chaos so that I could finally
live
.

And now life was punishing me.

T
he day
that Char finally came back after the miscarriage was a relieving one. But it was also horrible.

I remember her walking into the visitation room and
other
people staring at her. And these were people who minded their own business to a fault. But that’s how haunted my wife looked.

She was gaunt, so pale and skinny. She looked like she hadn’t eaten the entire three weeks that she’d refused to come see me. Not that it had kept me from being in touch. No, I sat on the phone with her for as long as my minutes would allow. Just to hear her cry and sob and wail for forgiveness. For hours.

The day she called to tell me about our son, I couldn’t comprehend what she was saying for a full ten minutes because she was so hysterical. When I finally calmed her down enough, Char told me in a frozen voice that she’d miscarried our child. That the rabies vaccinations had killed him.

That day, we sat on the phone in silence while I grieved, trying not to throttle the closest thing or person to me. I’m still grieving to this day. Of course I blame myself for his death.

That first day that Char finally agreed to come back for visitation was unbearable. All I wanted to do was take her in my arms and lift all of her pain off of her shoulders and onto mine. But I couldn’t touch her. All we did was weep and silently wish we could touch fingers.

It started getting easier as the months passed. She came in each weekend looking better and better, and we stopped talking about him quite so much. We found our groove again; we were still Tucker and Char.

But it was never the same after that. We had to handle our grief without each other. We had no one to lean on. Seeing each other for two hours a week, it wasn’t enough. She learned to cope alone, and so did I. It wasn’t a normal marriage. I couldn’t confide in her like I once used to. And she became colder. I saw her beginning to revert back to the old Char, the one I knew in childhood.

I know she’s trying to hide that side of her now with this Little Miss Perfect Housewife act. But I’m getting fucking sick of her tiptoeing around. And I know at some point, she’s going to break down in epic fashion.

“We can watch a movie, go for a walk, sit outside on the deck. Whatever you want to do!”

She waves her arm around, and I still can’t tear my eyes away from the tattoo she has on the inside of her wrist. It’s the first time I’ve seen her in a dress since our wedding, but she’s chosen a flirty red sundress after her shower. The weather for April is extremely mild, and she’s opened some of the windows in the condo to let in the warm, fresh breeze.

I swear I’ve seen a couple people lurk outside the windows since she’s done it.

“They always do that?” I point to a younger couple who has stopped their afternoon walk and decided to be Peeping Tom’s.

Char bangs a pot and they startle and scurry away. “Not recently. But I think there might have been something in the paper about your release this week.”

Fucking figures. The media became obsessed with us, the Kidnapper Husband and Captive Wife, after I went to prison. And especially after the trial, where Char refused to testify against me.

“I don’t know. I don’t really feel like going anywhere.” I stare at my toes as they cut through her plush carpet.

I feel cleaner, that’s for sure, after a nice, long hot shower. But I should want to rip that sweet dress off of my gorgeous wife, and fuck her seven ways to Sunday. But I can’t. There is some barrier that I can’t cross and I know there is a stopwatch on how long she’ll go before she asks me why.

“That’s okay! I think the Phillies are on TV. Let’s watch!”

She plops down next to me and flicks on the television, which lights up in full color and sound on some reality TV show.

“Sorry!” She immediately flicks the volume down. “I’ve been into this show on Bravo about these horribly bored housewives … I don’t know. It passes the time.”

The red dress is riding up on her thighs as she tucks her legs under her, and she’s much too close to me on the couch cushions.

“It’s fine.” I mutter.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. There are too many choices, too many things I can do or eat or say or watch. Prison is easy. You have a set schedule, a set of limited choices or options. You don’t have to pretend with the other inmates, because no one bullshits.

After three years, I have no idea how to act in this world. In her world.

Char finds the baseball game and asks if I want a beer.

“I told you before, I’m not supposed to drink.” It comes out harsher than I mean it.

“Okay. That’s okay.” She nods to herself, almost a self-soothing gesture.

“You should go to work tomorrow. There is no sense sitting at home with me and doing nothing.”

Char’s face crumples. “But I want to see you, to spend time with you …”

“Jesus, Char, we will!” Rage creeps into my pores. “We have all the time in the goddamn world now! But I won’t have you put your life on hold for me again just to sit around and be a loser like me! You have a job and a life and friends! And I just want to be alone right now! Don’t you get it?”

I can’t be around to watch her as her tears start to fall, so instead I make for the backdoor, slamming it as I walk out.

I
give
Tucker what he wants.

I leave him alone.

I go to work the next day, and then out for the day with Jackie on Saturday and to get my nails done on Sunday.

I tell myself it’s for his benefit. But really …

I’m hurt. This is hard. Way harder than I imagined it would be. When I married Tucker, I vowed to honor him, to cherish him, to take care of him. All of those things in good times and in bad. But it’s awfully hard to stay true to those promises when the other person won’t budge. When you feel like you’re hitting your bloody, smashed-in skull against the wall.

And now it’s been a week since he’s been home and we’ve barely talked. He might as well be back in jail for all we’re communicating. Though I hate myself for putting that notion out there in the world because, Jesus, that’s so messed up.

I walk downstairs, my heels echoing on the hardwood stairs, just as he’s lacing up a boot on the couch.

The couch that he’s taken to sleeping on.

“You all ready for your meeting?” I glance over at him while I pour coffee into my travel mug.

He’s got on a plain black T-shirt with black jeans and black boots. He looks sexy and rugged, and for the millionth time since he’s been home I can feel my nipples tighten in my bra and my core flush with lust. He’s done nothing to relieve this ache inside of me, and I’m trying so hard not to jump his bones and just take it from him.

“I guess so. As ready as anyone can be for their first meeting with their parole officer.”

Biting sarcasm. The other little trick he’s picked up since being home.

“Well, I hope it goes well. Maybe he can find you a job in construction … since I know you liked that when we were at the camp. Or maybe as an EMT. You were so good with me when I got sick.”

Tucker’s chuckle is self-deprecating. “Yeah, and then maybe I can afford to buy you a dime-store ring. Or maybe I can take you out to a real nice movie.”

My heart sinks in my chest, but I ignore the need to scream at him. “Have you talked to Mr. Marsh at all since being home?”

After the kidnapping, the arrest and the trial, Mr. Marsh was one of the only people besides me that Tucker would talk to. He and his wife held no grudge, and actually were pleased with the repairs that Tucker made on the campgrounds. They’ve grown closer in the past three years. I consider Mr. Marsh to be the father Tucker never had.

“He’s busy getting ready for the season. He doesn’t have time for me.”

I try to put on my best smile. “Well, you never know until you reach out!”

Tucker glares at me and then walks out the door without so much as a goodbye.

I try not to bury my head in my hands and cry on my brand new gray blouse that he didn’t even notice.

* * *

S
aying
I went into the wrong field would be the understatement of my life. All my life, my mother tried to convince me that I was not a people person. That I was socially awkward, too smart for most folks and worked better alone.

When I finally, finally broke those bonds after she had Tucker arrested … I found out that nothing could be further from the truth.

It took me a little time after the trial, but one day I woke up and wanted a purpose again. I was not going to sit around and mope for two more years while Tucker was away, and so I needed a job.

I went on endless interviews for endless positions. The question most frequently asked was if I was “
the
Charlotte Morsey?” I’d correct them by answering that “Why yes, I am Charlotte Lynch.” I was turned down for so many jobs at so many companies, based solely on the fact of what happened to me. And that my husband was a convicted felon.

But then I’d come across HL Marketing. Hunter Landon started his marketing firm at the ripe old age of twenty-five, and everyone had thought he was insane. Twenty years later and he was one of the most sought after marketing gurus on the East Coast. And he’d brought me in to interview for a junior account executive position.

I still remember the first thing he said to me when I came in for the interview.

At first I’d been shocked and wanted to burst into tears. But a split-second later, he’d made my year just a little brighter.

And he’d been right. I freaking loved my job.

“The Curio Color mockups just came in and there is a message from Hunter on your desk. He’ll be in around eleven.”

My assistant Stacy hands me a folder of graphics to approve, and I nod my hello and thank you. I have too many things in my hands to stay and chat.

I walk into my office, a pretty glass box filled with things that keep me happy and motivated all day, and flick on the lights. I earned this office just three months ago, when Hunter promoted me to an account executive after more than a year and a half of working my ass off. Stacy comes with the office, and although I have to get on her sometimes about keeping up, she’s pretty good at her job.

“So do you love them?”

I look up to see Jackie at my door, her navy wrap dress hugging her curvy body perfectly. Jackie is everything bombshell to my quiet attractiveness. She’s got the blond hair, the big boobs, the killer smile and the fire-engine red lips. She’s bold and brilliant … and a fantastic graphic designer.

I point to the unopened folder. “Well … I haven’t had a chance to look them over seeing as I haven’t even taken off my coat yet.”

“Ohhhh! Are we late due to some hanky panky with your hot felon husband?”

She gives me a smirk and I notice that her cat-eye is extra catty today. But even Jackie can’t pull me out of my Tucker-funk.

“No, just … running late.” I hang my blazer on the back of my door.

“Still? Oh, sweetie …” Her face falls and she plops down in one of the beige chairs on the other side of my desk. “And he hasn’t said anything to you?”

I hate to bitch about my personal life to Jackie, and especially at work. But she’s been here through a lot of it, and she’s like the sister I never had. She gets it, she helps. And right now, I could really use someone to talk to.

“It’s like he would rather be back in prison. Like he doesn’t even want to be living with me. He’s still sleeping on the couch, and when I tried to get excited about him job searching today, he almost bit my head off with sarcasm.”

She shrugs, her blond curls fluttering. “Char, you knew he was going to need some time. You can’t possibly understand what he’s going through. You just have to be there for him until he wants to talk.”

For someone who eschews relationships like they’re virus-covered STDs or something, Jackie knows an awful lot about them. But I know why she’s pledging the “single for life” thing. Four years ago, her boyfriend died in an Air Force accident overseas. She’s never been the same, or so she’s said one night when we had one too many tequila shots.

“I know I do.” I sigh, giving myself one more second of moping. “Okay, let’s get into these Curio mockups.”

My day goes by like a blur, one client call or crisis after another. I had no idea, for almost my entire life, that I liked and communicated so well with people. But I am
really
good at my job, which is dealing with different people all day.

But no matter how much I buried myself in my work and my clients, all I could think about was how Tucker’s meeting was going.