After My Husband Hit Me at Our Son’s Funeral

Creed suggests dinner on a Tuesday. He's standing in the kitchen doorway, loosening his tie. "Let's go out," he says. "You, me, and Demi. That new place in SoHo everyone's talking about. I think you need to get out of the apartment."

I'm folding dish towels. I smooth the edges. "That sounds nice."

"Yeah?" He smiles. "I'll make a reservation."

"Perfect," I say.

He crosses the room and kisses the top of my head. His hand rests on my shoulder for three seconds. Then he's gone, back to his laptop in the living room.

I finish folding. I count the towels. Four. I put them in the drawer.

Three weeks down. Two to go.

---

The restaurant is all exposed brick and Edison bulbs. The hostess leads us to a corner table. Creed pulls out my chair. Demi is already seated, scrolling her phone. She looks up and beams.

"Ada! You look amazing."

I'm wearing the navy dress Creed bought me for our anniversary. "Thanks. So do you."

She's in something black and backless. Her hair is down. There's a thin gold bracelet on her wrist that catches the light.

Creed orders wine. The waiter brings bread. Demi tears off a piece and talks about a gallery opening she went to in Chelsea. Some artist she knows. Some installation involving mirrors and sound.

I nod. I smile. I butter my bread.

Creed's hand finds mine on the table. He squeezes. I squeeze back.

Demi laughs at something he says. I laugh too. The wine arrives. We toast. To friendship. To getting through hard times. To being there for each other.

I sip. The wine is dry and cold.

Creed's phone is face-up beside his plate. The screen lights up twice. He glances at it. Demi glances at it. Neither of them moves to flip it over.

I ask Demi about Mochi. She lights up. The dog is perfect. Learning new tricks. She shows me a video. I watch the tiny creature spin in circles. I say it's adorable.

The waiter takes our order. I get the salmon. Creed gets steak. Demi gets the risotto.

The conversation flows. Easy. Warm. The kind of dinner we've had a dozen times before.

I touch Creed's arm when he refills my wine. I lean in when Demi tells a story about her neighbor's terrible parking job. I am present. I am engaged. I am exactly the wife and friend they expect.

My thumbnail presses into my palm beneath the table.

Twenty minutes in, I excuse myself. "Restroom," I say.

Creed half-stands. Always the gentleman. Demi smiles.

I walk toward the back hallway. There's a glass partition separating the dining room from the corridor. I stop. I turn.

From here, I can see our table.

Creed's phone is propped between the wine glasses now. Screen angled outward. Demi has shifted her chair closer. She's leaning forward. Her hand is on his knee beneath the table.

The screen glows.

I watch for five seconds.

Then I keep walking.

Past the restrooms. Past the kitchen entrance. To the back exit with the metal bar across the door.

I push it open.

The alley is narrow and dim. Dumpsters on one side. A parked van on the other. The air smells like rotting produce and exhaust.

I lean against the brick wall. I close my eyes. I count to ten.

I just need thirty seconds. Thirty seconds of not performing.

Footsteps.

I open my eyes.

Two men. Dark jackets. Moving fast.

I step back. "I'm just—"

The first one grabs my arm. The second one has something in his hand. A cloth. It's over my mouth before I can scream.

Chemical smell. Sharp. Bitter.

I thrash. My heel connects with someone's shin. Someone swears.

Hands on my waist. My shoulders. Lifting.

The van door is open. I'm thrown inside. My head hits metal. The world tilts.

The door slams.

Engine starts.

I'm on the floor. Hands zip-tied behind my back. Tape over my mouth.

My jacket is still on. My phone is in the pocket. I feel it press against my ribs as the van turns.

One of the men leans over me. His face is covered. Ski mask. "Don't move," he says.

I don't.

The van drives. I count the turns. Left. Right. Straight for a long time. Another right.

My phone buzzes.

Once. Twice.

No one reacts.

I close my eyes.

I think about Creed's phone propped between the wine glasses.

I think about Demi's hand on his knee.

I think about the salmon getting cold on my plate.

The van stops.

Someone opens the door.

I am dragged out into a warehouse. Concrete floors. High ceilings. A single chair in the center.

They sit me down. They cut the zip ties. They retie my wrists to the chair arms.

One of them pulls my phone from my pocket. He holds it up. "Passcode."

I shake my head.

He backhands me. My lip splits. I taste copper.

"Passcode," he says again.

I give it to him.

He unlocks the screen. He scrolls. He stops. "Call your husband. Tell him we want two hundred thousand. Cash. You have six hours."

He rips the tape off my mouth.

I breathe. I lick my split lip. "Okay."

He dials. Puts the phone on speaker.

It rings.

Once. Twice. Three times.

"Ada?" Creed's voice. Distant. Distracted.

There's music in the background. Voices. He's still at the restaurant.

"Creed," I say. My voice shakes. I don't have to fake it. "I've been—"

"Hold on, babe." Muffled sound. He's covering the phone. I hear Demi laugh. Then he's back. "Sorry, what?"

"I've been kidnapped," I say. "They want two hundred thousand dollars. Cash. Six hours."

Silence.

Then: "Is this a joke?"

"No," I say. "Creed, please—"

"Where are you?"

"I don't know. A warehouse. They grabbed me outside the restaurant. Please, you have to—"

Another voice in the background. High. Panicked. Demi.

"What's wrong?" she's saying. "Creed, what happened?"

"It's Ada," Creed says. Not to me. To her. "She says she's been kidnapped."

"Oh my God," Demi says. Louder now. Closer to the phone. "Is she okay?"

"I don't know," Creed says. Then, to me: "Ada, are you hurt?"

"My lip is bleeding," I say. "But I'm okay. Please just—"

"Okay. Okay." He's breathing hard. "I'll call the police. I'll—"

Demi's voice cuts in. Sharp. Scared. "Creed, Mochi's not moving."

Silence.

"What?" Creed says.

"Mochi," Demi says. She's crying now. "He just collapsed. He's not breathing right. Creed, I think something's wrong."

"Shit," Creed says. "Okay. Okay. We need to get him to the vet. Now."

"Creed," I say.

Nothing.

"Creed," I say again. Louder.

"Ada, I have to go," he says. "I'll call you back. Just—stay calm. I'll handle this."

The line goes dead.

The man with the phone looks at it. Then at me.

"Huh," he says.

I stare at the concrete floor.

My husband just hung up on my kidnapping to take a dog to the vet.

I press my tongue against my split lip.

I taste blood.

I start counting ceiling beams.