Control

“Yeah,” I responded, making sure to keep my voice cheery.

It wasn’t the first time Robert had called ahead to pay my dinner bill, even if I was just out for the evening with friends. The first time he’d done it, I’d considered the gesture chivalrous.

Not today. Today, it seemed like control.

Chapter Seven

Despite my lack of appetite for dessert, Sharon and I sat on the sofa munching on popcorn and watching a teen slasher flick that we’d picked up from a variety store—a movie that neither of us had heard of, starring no-name actors. The special effects were so pathetic and the story line so incredible that the movie wasn’t scary in the least. In fact, it was laughable.

We were watching a shower scene now, with a big-busted woman who seemed more interested in touching herself than getting clean, lathering soap over her breasts and ass in what was meant to be an erotic display.

“All right, all right, we get it,” Sharon mumbled. “Can we move on with the plot, please?”

“What plot?” I asked, laughing.

“Why are there never any naked guys in these movies?” she asked.

“Because the writers and producers are men. And they obviously don’t think that women enjoy seeing a nice male ass, too.”

Sensing a noise, the actress paused with her hands on her nipples, which she had caressed to an erect state. The music’s tempo had picked up, indicating that danger was imminent. The blonde-haired beauty asked, “Who’s there?” and then playfully, “Donnie, is that you?”

Though Sharon and I had to know what was coming, that when the woman pulled back the shower curtain she would face the masked killer, we screamed when it happened. The woman’s eyes went wide with terror, and the killer raised a large butcher knife. She started to scream, but it was too late, and a moment later blood sprayed all over the bathroom.

Or tomato juice.

The gruesome murder completed, the killer muttered, “Nice tits.”

“Right,” Sharon said in an exaggerated tone. “That’s realistic.”

I started to laugh. So did she. The movie might have been stupid, but it was just what we needed—something so far from reality that it wouldn’t remind Sharon of the loss of her husband.

The scene went from the gruesome one in the bathroom to a college campus. I picked up a handful of popcorn—extra butter as Sharon had requested—and had just begun to munch on a mouthful when the room phone rang.

“I know it’s not for me,” she said.

“I guess Robert’s calling to say good-night.”

I got up from the sofa and hurried to the phone. Sharon paused the DVD.

“Hello?” I said.

“Oh, darling.” He seemed a little breathless. “I’m glad I reached you.”

Instantly, I was alarmed. “Robert, what’s the matter?”

“I don’t know…but I haven’t been feeling well for the last couple of hours.” He sounded as if it hurt to talk. “I…”

“What hurts? Your head? Is it stomach pains again?”

“My…chest.”

“Oh, my God.”

Sharon flashed me a look of concern.

“All the stress of this week…I think it’s gotten to me.”

“Oh, Robert.”

“I need you, Elsie.”

“Of course.” My heart pounded against my rib cage. “Oh, my God.” I spoke hurriedly, my own breathing ragged. “You have to hang up and call 911. Get to a hospital, Robert.”

“All…right…I will.”

Sharon got up and moved to stand beside me. “You’ll be fine, sweetheart,” I told him. He had to be. “You’ll be fine.”

“I need you, Elsie.”

“I’ll leave right now. Have the hospital call me when you get there, so I know which one you’ve gone to.”

“Elsie…If anything happens, I love you. I want you to know that.”

“Don’t talk like that! You’re going to be fine. But please call for an ambulance. Now.”

My hands were shaking as I replaced the receiver. I met my friend’s concerned gaze. “We have to go. Right now.” My hands began to shake. “Oh, Sharon.”

“What?” she asked. “What’s going on?”

“I think Robert might be having a heart attack!”

Fear unlike any I’d ever experienced before gripped me for the entire drive home. Even if I’d taken my car to Charleston, Sharon would have had to drive back. I was far too shaky to control the wheel.

With each passing second, I grew more and more terrified. I’d called every hospital in the Cornelius area, and even within Charlotte proper, but couldn’t confirm that a Robert Kolstad had been admitted to any of them. If he wasn’t in the hospital, did that mean he was dead on the floor of our house?

“Why does no hospital have any record of him being admitted?” I asked. My voice was shrill, laced with panic.

And I was also feeling guilty. Guilty that I’d entertained, even for a minute, the idea of leaving Robert.

“Maybe it’s too soon,” Sharon said. “Or maybe there was an error when they put him in the system.”

“Or maybe he’s dead on the floor!”

“He’s not dead.” Sharon reached for my hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. “I know he’s not. Don’t start thinking the worst.”

“I should call Olga!” I exclaimed, remembering our housekeeper. “She’s not normally in on the weekends, but—”

“Olga’s out of town for her daughter’s wedding this weekend, remember?”