Read Online Learning to Swim by Sara J Henry - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sara J Henry
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trickier—he would give off guilty vibrations, be evasive or insincere, or not admit his son had been kidnapped. Then I’d say I must be mistaken, show a photo of boy-who-is-not-Paul, offer apologies and leave, giving the fake business card if pressed. And make sure no one followed me to my car.
All too soon the elevator doors opened. And I was facing the glass doors of the office, with their heavy black raised lettering.
I learned a long time ago that if you can’t be confident, pretend that you are. I whisked in to greet the woman at the receptionist’s desk, and went into my spiel, sliding into the Canadian accent I automatically use when I’m up there. I’m no Meryl Streep, but Canadian English is easy. You enunciate a little more clearly, flatten your
a
’s, pronounce your
o
’s a bit differently. And say things like
zed
instead of z,
runners
instead of
sneakers, laneway
instead of
driveway
.
We’d gotten this FedEx envelope delivered to our office, I explained, where we had a Phyllis Dumond, and she’d accidentally signed for it and even opened it before seeing that it wasn’t hers. My boss was worried that we’d accepted someone else’s delivery, so she’d sent me over with it, and could she possibly check with Mr. Dumond to see if it was his?
“Of course.” She smiled in sympathy at my rolled eyes about my demanding and completely imaginary boss. “I’ll take it in toMr. Dumond right away.” She disappeared with the envelope, returned, and within a ten-count—
look up, accept envelope, open envelope, read note
—there he was.
Even I could tell he was wearing Armani, which on some people looks like a baggy suit, but on him looked like, well, Armani. He was tall and lean, his face sharply angled and his hair thick and dark, worn longer than most businessmen—a perfect match for the elegant woman I’d seen in the photo. Only a slightly crooked nose kept him from being impossibly handsome. He spoke to the receptionist, and his gaze locked on me as she motioned toward me. A nearly imperceptible hesitation, a moment of indecision so slight I nearly didn’t see it, and so brief I didn’t have time to think what it could mean. Then he was the consummate businessman, moving smoothly toward me.
“You brought this envelope for me?” he asked pleasantly, in smooth, cultured tones, without a trace of French accent. “May I ask when it was delivered?”
I cleared my throat. “Actually, it’s from me. It’s not from FedEx.”
For a fraction of a second the scene seemed to freeze, him with half smile and envelope in hand.
“Then I’d like to speak to you,” he said, eyebrows slightly raised. “In my office?”
I nodded dumbly. My heart was thumping so fast he had to be able to hear it. Where was the intuition I’d been so sure would tell me if he was guilty? Surely an innocent man would be more emotional, not cool and collected, as dispassionate as if inquiring about a dry cleaner’s bill.
I followed him into his office, passing offices where I could see people working, and registering the thick carpet underfoot. His office was exactly as I would have imagined it: rich cherry furniture, champagne-colored carpet, shelves heavy with books, brown leather armchairs.
I never saw him move. I heard the door close and suddenly I was flattened with my back against the wall, almost lifted off the ground,his hand hard up against my throat, gripping firmly, his hip pressing lightly against mine. His face was so close I could smell the crispness of his aftershave, see the small pores on his face, feel the palpable fury that shimmered between us. His words were slow and harsh, almost whispered into my ear: “Tell me where my son is.”
F OR A HORRIBLE MOMENT I THOUGHT I WAS GOING TO PASS out or, worse, die here in this man’s impeccable office. It seemed as if I couldn’t get in enough air to make a sound, but I must have managed enough of a squeak that he realized he was slowly choking the life
All too soon the elevator doors opened. And I was facing the glass doors of the office, with their heavy black raised lettering.
I learned a long time ago that if you can’t be confident, pretend that you are. I whisked in to greet the woman at the receptionist’s desk, and went into my spiel, sliding into the Canadian accent I automatically use when I’m up there. I’m no Meryl Streep, but Canadian English is easy. You enunciate a little more clearly, flatten your
a
’s, pronounce your
o
’s a bit differently. And say things like
zed
instead of z,
runners
instead of
sneakers, laneway
instead of
driveway
.
We’d gotten this FedEx envelope delivered to our office, I explained, where we had a Phyllis Dumond, and she’d accidentally signed for it and even opened it before seeing that it wasn’t hers. My boss was worried that we’d accepted someone else’s delivery, so she’d sent me over with it, and could she possibly check with Mr. Dumond to see if it was his?
“Of course.” She smiled in sympathy at my rolled eyes about my demanding and completely imaginary boss. “I’ll take it in toMr. Dumond right away.” She disappeared with the envelope, returned, and within a ten-count—
look up, accept envelope, open envelope, read note
—there he was.
Even I could tell he was wearing Armani, which on some people looks like a baggy suit, but on him looked like, well, Armani. He was tall and lean, his face sharply angled and his hair thick and dark, worn longer than most businessmen—a perfect match for the elegant woman I’d seen in the photo. Only a slightly crooked nose kept him from being impossibly handsome. He spoke to the receptionist, and his gaze locked on me as she motioned toward me. A nearly imperceptible hesitation, a moment of indecision so slight I nearly didn’t see it, and so brief I didn’t have time to think what it could mean. Then he was the consummate businessman, moving smoothly toward me.
“You brought this envelope for me?” he asked pleasantly, in smooth, cultured tones, without a trace of French accent. “May I ask when it was delivered?”
I cleared my throat. “Actually, it’s from me. It’s not from FedEx.”
For a fraction of a second the scene seemed to freeze, him with half smile and envelope in hand.
“Then I’d like to speak to you,” he said, eyebrows slightly raised. “In my office?”
I nodded dumbly. My heart was thumping so fast he had to be able to hear it. Where was the intuition I’d been so sure would tell me if he was guilty? Surely an innocent man would be more emotional, not cool and collected, as dispassionate as if inquiring about a dry cleaner’s bill.
I followed him into his office, passing offices where I could see people working, and registering the thick carpet underfoot. His office was exactly as I would have imagined it: rich cherry furniture, champagne-colored carpet, shelves heavy with books, brown leather armchairs.
I never saw him move. I heard the door close and suddenly I was flattened with my back against the wall, almost lifted off the ground,his hand hard up against my throat, gripping firmly, his hip pressing lightly against mine. His face was so close I could smell the crispness of his aftershave, see the small pores on his face, feel the palpable fury that shimmered between us. His words were slow and harsh, almost whispered into my ear: “Tell me where my son is.”
F OR A HORRIBLE MOMENT I THOUGHT I WAS GOING TO PASS out or, worse, die here in this man’s impeccable office. It seemed as if I couldn’t get in enough air to make a sound, but I must have managed enough of a squeak that he realized he was slowly choking the life
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