Chapter 3 - the guest house)
The Ferguson estate sat on seventeen acres behind stone walls and iron gates.
I had been there many times.
Christmas dinners.
Charity receptions.
Abigail's twenty-seventh birthday.
I knew the main house had six bedrooms, a library, wine cellar, gym, theater, and a pool large enough for a small hotel.
I had also seen the guest house.
A beautiful two-story brick building at the far end of the property.
Patricia called it the cottage.
I had slept there once after Abigail's wedding.
I never imagined my daughter would later describe it as a prison.
Detective Morales took notes while Abigail talked.
"The first time Nicholas locked me there, it was after I found messages from another woman."
"When?"
"About eighteen months ago."
"What happened?"
"I confronted him."
Abigail's fingers tightened around mine.
"He screamed. I tried to leave. Gregory was at the house. They took my keys."
"Who is they?"
"Nicholas and Gregory."
"And Patricia?"
"She came later."
Abigail took a shaky breath.
"She told me I was embarrassing the family."
Morales's voice remained calm.
"How long were you kept in the guest house?"
"That time? Two days."
My head turned sharply.
"Two days?"
Abigail could not look at me.
"I told you I had the flu."
I remembered.
I had called.
Nicholas answered her phone and said she was sleeping.
I had believed him.
Morales continued.
"Could you leave?"
"No."
"Was the door locked?"
"From outside."
"Windows?"
"Limited. The downstairs windows didn't open. There was one upstairs window, but it was high."
"Did they bring you food?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"Usually the housekeeper."
"Name?"
"Maria Alvarez."
Morales wrote it down.
"Did Maria know you were being held?"
"I don't know. She never said anything. She always looked scared."
"What about cameras?"
Abigail nodded.
"There were at least three."
"Where?"
"One in the living room, one facing the stairs, one outside."
"Did Nicholas tell you they were recording?"
"He said they were for security."
"Did you ever see the recordings?"
"No."
Morales looked up.
"Where are the cameras now?"
"I don't know."
Abigail's face tightened.
"When I escaped yesterday, Gregory said Mother had handled them."
That sentence returned to me later.
Mother had handled them.
Patricia's hospital claim that Abigail fell had not merely been a spontaneous lie.
They had prepared an explanation before she reached the hospital.
Morales asked how Abigail escaped.
My daughter looked toward the door as if even talking about it might summon them.
"The housekeeper left the kitchen door unlocked."
"Maria?"
"Yes."
"Accidentally?"
"I don't think so."
Abigail swallowed.
"She left a screwdriver on the bathroom counter."
Morales stopped writing.
"A screwdriver?"
"There was a window latch upstairs. I had tried to open it before but couldn't. The screwdriver fit."
"What did you do?"
"I waited until dark."
Abigail's voice became softer.
"I opened the latch and climbed out."
The upstairs window was almost twelve feet above the ground.
"How did you get down?" I asked.
"There was a trellis."
Her arms were bruised.
Her ankle was swollen.
Suddenly I understood some of the marks.
"I fell the last few feet."
Nicholas would later use that fall to explain almost every injury.
But Abigail kept talking.
"I ran to the service road."
"Did anyone follow?"
"Gregory."
"On foot?"
"In an SUV."
She squeezed her eyes shut.
"I hid in a drainage ditch."
Morales looked up.
"For how long?"
"I don't know. Maybe twenty minutes."
"Then what?"
"A delivery van came down the road. I ran in front of it."
The driver had taken her to a gas station.
From there, a stranger called emergency services.
By the time she reached the hospital, Nicholas had already reported her missing.
Morales's phone rang.
She stepped outside.
Abigail stared at the blanket.
I asked, "Why didn't you tell me?"
"You were overseas for six months."
"Before that."
"I thought I could fix it."
"After they locked you up?"
Tears filled her eyes.
"I was ashamed."
I leaned closer.
"You have nothing to be ashamed of."
She looked at me.
"I kept going back."
"You survived."
"I lied to you."
"You survived."
"I defended him."
"You survived."
Her mouth trembled.
"I thought if I was calmer, nicer, less embarrassing, he would stop."
I squeezed her hand.
"Abigail, people like Nicholas do not hurt someone because the victim failed to behave correctly."
She cried then.
Really cried.
The kind of crying she had been holding back for months.
I held her.
Later that night, Detective Morales returned.
Her expression had changed.
She shut the door before speaking.
"We have a problem."
"What?"
"Mr. Ferguson's attorney has already contacted the department."
Abigail went pale.
Morales continued.
"They're claiming you entered the guest house voluntarily because you were experiencing a mental health crisis."
"That's a lie."
"I know what you're saying."
"They locked me there."
"Then we need evidence."
"There are cameras."
"Maybe."
Abigail looked confused.
"What do you mean?"
Morales sat down.
"Our patrol unit made a preservation request regarding the estate security system."
"And?"
"The family's attorney responded."
She placed a paper on the tray beside the bed.
"They're claiming the guest house cameras have been offline for three months."
Abigail stared at the document.
"That's impossible."
"Why?"
"Because Nicholas showed me a live feed two weeks ago."
Morales looked at me.
I looked at Abigail.
"Where?"
"On his phone."
"Could you prove it?"
Abigail shook her head.
Then she stopped.
Her expression changed.
"Wait."
"What?"
"His tablet."
"Whose?"
"Nicholas's."
She leaned forward despite the pain.
"He leaves an old tablet in his home office. It mirrors some of his security apps."
Morales's eyes sharpened.
"Do you know the passcode?"
"No."
Abigail stared at me.
"But I know someone who might."
"Who?"
May you like
She whispered one name.
"Maria."
