Cold as Ice
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© Copyright 2019 - All rights reserved.
It is not legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental.
Chapter One: Chapter 1 Title
Chapter Two: Chapter 2 Title
Chapter Three: Chapter 3 Title
Chapter Four: Chapter 4 Title
Chapter Five: Chapter 5 Title
Chapter Six: Chapter 6 Title
Chapter Seven: Chapter 7 Title
Chapter Eight: Chapter 8 Title
Chapter Nine: Chapter 9 Title
Chapter Ten: Chapter 10 Title
Chapter Eleven: Chapter 11 Title
Chapter Twelve: Chapter 12 Title
Chapter Thirteen: Chapter 13 Title
Chapter Fourteen: Chapter 14 Title
Epilogue
About the Author
Other Titles
Free Gifts /Email List
Dedication
Acknowledgment
Chapter One: Chapter 1 Title
Spending part of my Christmas vacation at a frat party was not my idea of fun. It was loud, messy, and full of men that thought a slap on the ass was the same thing as a handshake. I wasn’t even sure why I’d come in the first place—I guess it was so I didn’t feel lonely. All my friends had gone home for the holidays, and my dad wasn’t coming to get me until Christmas Eve; there was only so much reading ahead I could do before I got bored out of my mind.
The frat house itself was a gorgeous, historic townhouse that seemed almost depressed at what it had become. Inside, the embellishments were exactly what you’d expect from a group of young college students. There was even a mounting collection of safety cones on one side of the hallway, stolen on drunken trips around campus. Somewhere in the back of the house, a DJ called out that it was about to get “fucking mental” and a thumping base started up that rattled the entire house. I sighed and snagged a can of something fruity from the nearest cooler before venturing further inside.
Michael was the only good thing to come out of that night. He’d swooped in at the last minute, just as I’d been contemplating wandering back to my dorm to down a bottle of vodka I had hidden under my bed and praying for the morning to come. He had pulled me out of the way of a fight that had broken out, and I’d ended up clinging to him so I wouldn’t fall over—like some romantic comedy meet-cute.
I thought I’d met Prince Charming. We spent the rest of the night together, wandering through the hallways of the house, just talking. He was funny, not like those guys that make joke after joke, but actually funny. Everything he said was clever, words twisting until I was soon laughing at everything he said. I got the feeling he was adventurous. There was this glint in his eyes that I loved—like he was hiding something he couldn’t wait to show me. He made me want to try new things, to strive to be the interesting person he deserved.
What followed were three months of bliss. I went home that Christmas and gushed to my dad about this boy I’d met with dark, sweeping hair and a glint in his eyes, and my dad had smiled down at me, happy just because I was.
We traveled up and down the length of America, sleeping in motels and with friends we made along the way. Michael always said, “Leave it to me baby; I’ll take care of everything”, and I let him. I spent my twenty-fourth birthday getting fucked into the sands of Miami Beach with fireworks framing Michael’s shoulders like an angel’s wings.
Things went downhill from there.
After I graduated, I wanted to work in New York. Michael was used to controlling everything. I was young and inexperienced, and he had offered to do everything for me. That had been wonderful, but I needed to have some independence. We started fighting more, but I loved him, so I never stayed angry for long. Eventually, we moved in together.
It started with little things—he said he’d rather I didn’t visit Charlie for the weekend but refused to give me a reason. It went on like that, a comment on what I should wear here and there, taking over all the meal preparations in the house so I was only eating what he wanted me to. We got into argument after argument—great screaming altercations that had the neighbors calling the police on more than one occasion. I was scared, terrified that I would do something wrong or something he didn’t like. I was afraid that he would do something worse than shouting. No matter how brave I was, he was bigger than me; he was also stronger. That glint in his eye that I used to love now showed something unhinged.
I left him.
I packed my bags one day when he was out, and I turned up on my dad’s doorstep. I convinced him the tears were just because we’d broken up. I prayed he wouldn’t push the topic, and, like the saint he was, he dropped it, pulling me into his arms and letting me soak the fabric of his shirt in tears.
I thought things would get better after that, but they didn’t. He called me every day, leaving countless messages begging me to hear him out. “I’ll take care of it baby; leave everything to me!” I changed my number.
I was scared of going to work, worried he would figure out where I was and turn up there. I couldn’t focus on tasks—my mind was going in circles, examining every face I saw, every unknown number that flashed up on my phone. Eventually, they fired me, unable to keep making excuses to customers.
I didn’t want to tell anyone, and I told myself it was because I knew I could deal with it; I was an adult woman, and I'd gotten myself into this mess—it was up to me to get myself out of it. But I knew that was bullshit. I was scared. Scared that no one would take me seriously, afraid of what Michael might do if anyone tried to stop him on my behalf. I trusted my dad more than anything in the world, but if he went up against Michael in a fight...? There’s no way he wouldn’t get hurt.
The police didn’t believe me. I must have filed for a restraining order dozens of times, but all they ever said was that there wasn’t enough proof. So, I stopped trying. After my dad, I moved in with Charlie as quickly as I could, and I prayed he wouldn’t follow me. Then the invitation to the cruise came through. God, I was so happy and relieved. Finally, I thought, finally I can put this behind me. He’d never follow me to another country.
The door to the hotel room opened, light spilling in from the hallway to fall across the bed. I blinked rapidly in the harsh blaze, too used to being left in the dark. Michael took off his coat, dropping it carelessly over the end of the bed and settled beside me. I strained, trying to move away, but the cuffs bit painfully into my wrists. He smiled down at me, reaching to smooth the hair out of my face, and my whole body seized up at the contact. Michael laughed.
“I went to the police station today,” he said casually, hand still at my temple, “had a look at the missing person’s board. You’re not on it, love.”
My stomach sank—no one was looking for me. Had they even realized I’d gone? I could feel the panic settling in, sitting on my chest like a brick. Michael patted my cheek and climbed to his feet.
“I think we got away with it, Josie—didn’t I tell you?” He pulled a wad of Swiss Francs from his coat pocket, “I’ll take care of it baby, just leave it all to me.”
Chapter Two: Chapter 2 Title
“What do you mean there’s nothing you can do?” I could feel my panic giving way to rage. Josie had been missing for seven hours, and I’d wasted three of them waiting for the local police to turn up.
The police officer’s already pinched expression became even more frustrated.
“Until she has been missing for longer than twenty-four hours, I cannot file an official missing person’s report. If you had enough information for me and my men to go off now, then of course I would begin searching immediately. But the fact is, Mr. Wright, you don’t know anything about what happened.”
“That’s why I called you!” I fumed, knuckles turning white where they were clenched at my sides. “What is the point of the police service if you’re not willing to look for a missing woman?”
“Sir, we’re doing everything we can to—”
“Bullshit!”
“Andrew.” Christine touched my shoulder, squeezing lightly, and I clamped my mouth shut. “You won’t do her any good running around like a lunatic and yelling at police officers.” She said quietly. “Go lie down; I’ll deal with this and come find you, okay?” I wanted to snap back at her, tell her I didn’t need a time out like a fucking child, but her tone left no room for argument. I found myself climbing the stairs on stiff legs—anger still running through me.
I paused at the door to my cabin, looking across at Josie’s door. The thought of lying in my room, trying to relax, made my stomach flip, and I quickly opened the door to her cabin instead. It was exactly how she’d left it, bed made neatly, and the faint smell of citrus drifting from the bathroom.
I burrowed under her covers, inhaling her scent, not caring how ridiculous it might have looked.
I didn’t know what to do. I’d spent hours searching the ship from top to bottom, asking everyone if they’d seen anything. No one had a clue. Whomever, it was had snuck past them all. After an hour, Chrissie had cornered me and forced me to lie down—“You’ll need rest if you want to be able to think and find her; I’ll phone the police.”
I fished my phone out of my pocket and laid it down on the bedside table, making sure the volume was turned all the way up in case she phoned. The man’s voice echoed through my head: “Rest assured, she’s in good hands”. Who knew if Josie even had access to a phone now? His voice was twisted and bitter. My stomach dropped, thinking about what could be happening to her.
There was a knock on the door. It cracked open, and MaryAnn’s face appeared around the doorframe.
“Hey, I thought I’d find you here.” Something had shifted between us. With all the animosity of forced engagement gone, MaryAnn was quite a nice person, if a little naive. The conference had gone well, really well, which was surprising, to say the least. Once the press realized there was nothing to add to the rumors, the questions had fizzled out. We’d been out of the hall in just over an hour.
Whoever took Josie must have been waiting for us to leave.
I didn’t bother responding, and I heard MaryAnn sigh. The door opened further so she could slip inside. “The police are going. Christine’s seeing them off the boat...” Silence settled over us like a blanket. I was still seething, unsure what to do with so much nervous energy—I was sure MaryAnn could feel it. Eventually, she dropped down onto the foot of the bed.
“She’s going to be fine you know,” she murmured.
“You don’t know that,” I snapped, immediately wincing at my tone. “I’m sorry.”
MaryAnn waved her hand in a “don’t worry about it” gesture.
“He can’t have gotten her far Andrew; you know that.” She was right. Logically, in a few hours, there was very little chance this bastard could have taken Josie against her will and gotten out of Switzerland.
But thinking logically was becoming more and more difficult the longer she was gone. Throughout my whole life, no one had impacted me the way Josie had. She made me want to be a better man, someone she can be proud to be around. She was the first person to see me as more than just someone with money. I didn’t care what it would cost me; I would get her back.
“I’ve got Whiskey in my cabin,” MaryAnn said suddenly like she only remembered for herself. “Shall I get you a glass?”
Whiskey, god, yes.
“Please.”
MaryAnn grinned and darted out of the room.
I stared up at the ceiling as I waited. Once we reached the twenty-four-hour mark, the police would finally be out searching for her. But what if that's too long? He couldn’t have anything to do with me. There’d be a ransom note by now, something to let me know what he wanted. So, this guy was only after Josie. But why?
I groaned, frustrated. The police needed more information than that.
"Andrew!" Chrissie's voice called from outside.
"In here," I called absently. The door slammed open, and Chrissie walked in, waving a document in her hand.
"Andrew, I..." MaryAnn was a moment behind her, two large glasses of whiskey in her hands. I reached out, taking the glass and downing half its contents immediately.
“Okay,” I said breathlessly to Chrissie, “go ahead.”
“I remember the policeman said we need more evidence—more information on what might have happened to Josephine for them to have any hope in finding her, and I remembered that Josephine’s file lists a housemate of almost three years. She’s her emergency contact.” My eyes widened. Charlie, I thought.
Charlie was Josie’s best friend; if anyone were going to have information on who might want to hurt Josie, it would be Charlie. “I’ve got her number,” Chrissie finished. Chrissie took the glass from my slackened hand and drank the remaining liquid. With the other hand, she gestured to the bottom of the page where a number was written in Josie’s looped handwriting under “Emergency Contact”.
Chapter Three: Chapter 3 Title
My time passed, almost like a dream. I never knew what time it was; the curtains remained closed, the barest hint of sunlight the only thing that marked the passing of day into night. A few hours after he’d first left me there, the door opened again, and Michael walked through. He once again dropped his coat at the foot of the bed and slunk into the chair beside me with a too-wide grin and a plastic bag that smelled like Chinese food.
He’d freed one of my hands after a few hours “for good behavior” he’d said with a wink. There was an underlying threat behind his words, but I was so grateful to be able to feed myself. I’d kept quiet—playing the part of the thankful captive. My free hand itched to claw at him, wipe that grin off his face, watch it twist in pain. But I couldn’t reach the chair; I’d tried.
“Why don’t you just let me go?” I asked, straining my shackled arm for emphasis. He’d never done anything to physically hurt me, not before and not since he’d locked me up. I figured I probably had some wiggle room.
“Josie, baby," Michael sang, and I had to fight not to snarl back at him, hearing that nickname from him now; after hearing the way Andrew used it, it sounded wrong. "I can't let you out until I can be sure you won’t try and leave me again." He paused, giving me a knowing look before picking up the Chinese food and spreading it out across his lap. My stomach growled at the sight.
Michael laughed, lifting the first steaming mouthful on his chopsticks.
“You want some, baby?” I nodded, reaching out my hand, but he batted it away, presenting his own with a raised eyebrow. A test then—he wants to see how cooperative I am. I lowered my hand and opened my mouth. Michael cooed, as the first delicious mouthful of noodles was placed in my mouth.
"I was thinking, we shouldn't go back to New York," he mused, stirring the chopsticks around the Tupperware, "it doesn't hold many good memories for me anymore." Another mouthful of noodles passed through my lips, and I struggled to taste anything at all. Was he planning on taking me somewhere far away? Everything I'd done was so I could go back home, back to that big old house that I loved so much. Falling in love with Andrew may have changed the way I see people, but nothing would ever make that house any less important to me.
And now I might never see it again.
"I like New York," I croaked out. Keep him talking but don't antagonize; that's what I'm supposed to
do, right? "I'd miss it too much."
Michael seemed not to hear me, chopsticks lifting rhythmically shoveling food into his mouth and mine.
"Don’t be stupid! Think of all the places we could go—we always wanted to go to South Africa, remember?" Spittle mixed with chili sauce landed on my shirt, and he reached forward to wipe it away as he spoke clumsily. "It'll be just like the old days, baby, and then, when we’re older, we can have some kids—take ‘em round the world. It’ll be amazing—you, me, and a couple of kids? Just leave everything to me sweetheart.”
Back when we’d dated, I would have loved nothing more than that—traveling the world with the love of my life, bringing up kids together…but now?
I thought about Andrew and how I didn’t know him all too well yet, but how sure I was that I wanted to know him. I wanted to know him completely: his childhood, likes, and dislikes. Thinking about how much I had to learn about him made me feel excited about the future. I don’t remember mentioning my mom to Michael once. I couldn’t recall his favorite place we visited or what food he’d liked the most. I was always worried about what he would think of me; he scared me. After all this time, I couldn’t remember a single reason why I had loved him.
"It was your fault things went wrong!" I said, voice rising even as I tried to keep calm. He had made me miserable, not the other way around. "You scared me, Michael; you didn’t want me seeing my friends. I couldn’t make a single decision for myself around you. You didn’t let me go see my dad when he was dying!”
“Well, why should I!” He jumped to his feet, takeout spilling across the floor. His eyes were wide, almost manic, and I flinched back as he kicked at the bedpost. “You were nothing until I found you, a scared little college student alone at a party. I took you from that. I showed you the world and what did you do? You gave it up to move back in with your dad!” He turned, marching back over to the bed and leaning down until I could see the whites of his eyes. “I’m glad the bastard’s dead. He deserved it for taking you from me!” I spat in his face, rage bubbling up inside me like a volcano, and he reeled back, hitting the chair and almost tripping over it.