Just a few words and he hit all my weak spots.
That was Bobby's confidence, his reason to trample on me however he pleased.
Bitterness filled my chest and for the first time I understood the consequences of the so-called 'broken windows effect.'
"Bobby, if I kneel, will you sign the papers?" Before he could respond, I had already knelt down.
After doing so many things without dignity over the years, what was one more? But that one action thoroughly enraged Bobby.
He yanked me up and dragged me into the study on the first floor. He pressed me down, tore off his tie and tied me to the leg of the desk.
***
Anita's clothes hit the floor in a second.
Bobby's rough panting echoed between pauses and papers flew through the air.
I watched the two entangled bodies and shut my eyes in pain, tears finally sliding down my face. How many times had this happened?
I couldn't even count anymore. Almost every girl he brought home ended in this same scene. And I still had to clean up after them.
I didn't know how much time had passed. My whole body was numb, gradually losing all feeling.
Until my phone kept ringing and I realized the wrecked study was empty again, "Kirsten Watson? Your dad's in our hands. If you don't bring the money by six, he won't live to see the morning sun."
My numb heart barely stirred, "How much this time?"
The man said, "Three million."
That number made me tremble. I checked the time, it was three in the morning. The darkness outside the window was thick as ink that refused to fade.
The door opened. Bobby stood there naked, a cigarette glowing red at his fingertips.
"Bobby, I need three million," I said.
He laughed, stubbed out the cigarette, locked the door and ignored me completely. That night, no matter how much I shouted or struggled, no one came to open the door. Not until six in the morning, when the sun finally rose.
Three days later, I received a call from the police, "Miss Watson, we found a male body in the southern suburbs. It's your father …"
I stared at the photo the kidnappers had sent three days earlier … The man who had raised me for over twenty years was missing all four limbs, the scene drenched in blood.
And looking at it, I laughed. Maybe it was better this way. We were all free now.
I sneaked out of the house, only to run into a car at the corner.
The window rolled down and a familiar face appeared, "I'll take you."
It was Andrew Jackson, my childhood neighbor. He didn't speak and neither did I during our ride.
He asked suddenly, "Kirsten, do you regret choosing Bobby? As long as you answer, the seat next to me is always open for you."
***
The man in that photo taken five years ago was Andrew.
Bobby had questioned me again and again, "Why does it have to be Andrew!"
That sentence was strange, like he would've accepted it if it were someone else.
I ignored Andrew and got out of the car.
After that incident, Andrew had gone abroad. I couldn't contact him no matter what.
Countless unread emails gradually destroyed my marriage and my life.
If my dad and brother were burdens, then Andrew was the final spark that burned it all down. I didn't want any of them.
The police station was crowded. Everyone moved fast, their expressions grim as if the sky had fallen.
"Has the deceased's family arrived yet?"
"Incredible. The body's been dead three days and no one reported it?"
A few officers were chatting nearby. I walked over and quietly reported my father's name.
