QUEEN OF LIES
VOLUME 2
WHITNEY G.
CONTENTS
—
Queen Of Lies
Also By Whitney G.
About Queen Of Lies
Preface
Prologue
Michael
Michael
Meredith
Michael
Michael
Meredith
Meredith
Meredith
Michael
Michael
Michael
Meredith
Meredith
Michael
Michael
—
QUEEN OF LIES
WHITNEY G.
Queen Of Lies
Book 2 in the Empire of Lies Series
Whitney G.
Copyright © 2020 by Whitney G.
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Najla Qamber of Najla Qamber
Designs.
Editing by Evelyn Guy of Indie Edit Guy.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any
means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording
or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.
Visit my website at
Also By Whitney G.
THE FIRM
Filthy Lawyer
(April 2020)
Sinful Witness
Dirty Judge
Empire of Lies Series
King of Lies
Queen of Lies
Legacy of Lies
Empire of Lies: Full Series
Steamy Coffee Reads Collection (Volume 1)
Naughty Boss
Dirty Doctor
Cocky Client
Steamy Coffee Reads Collection (Volume 2)
Selfish Suit
Wolfish Player
Devilish Stranger
Reasonable Doubt Series
Reasonable Doubt #1
Reasonable Doubt #2
Reasonable Doubt #3
Falling for Mr. Statham Series
Resisting the Boss
Loving the Boss
The One Week Series
On a Tuesday
On a Wednesday
On a Thursday
On a Friday
On a Saturday
On a Sunday
On a Monday
Sincerely, Carter
Forget You, Ethan
Turbulence
Over Us, Over You
Two Weeks’ Notice
The Fine Print
The Layover
About Queen Of Lies
From the New York Times bestselling author of
Reasonable Doubt & Turbulence, comes part two
of a sexy and thrilling serial.
The woman I fell in love with is a
walking contradiction...
She's sexy as hell, yet infuriating. Hopelessly in
love with me, but carefully plotting to get the hell
away.
She honestly thinks that I'm the 'king of lies'?
Well, she’s f-cking fooled you...
She's the queen.
Queen of Lies is the second book in the Empire of
Lies Series.
Book 1, King of Lies, can be downloaded for
FREE by tapping here.
For me.
I wrote this story just for me.
Preface
Dear Awesome Reader,
Thank you for downloading the second
installment in the Empire of Lies trilogy.
If you missed book 1, King of Lies, you can
.
This book does end on a cliffhanger like the
first installment (King of Lies), but this story will
conclude with Legacy of Lies.
Also, please be forewarned, this is still a
departure from my typical books. (Trigger
Warning: There are certain scenes in this novel
that may trigger some readers)
If you’re waiting for a steamy, contemporary
romance, stay tuned for the upcoming releases of
On a Wednesday & The Fine Print.
I truly enjoyed writing something a bit different
for this trilogy, and I hope you enjoy all the twists
and turns in this detour.
F.L.Y.
(Effin Love You)
Whitney G.
P.S.—If you’re interested in reading my first serial
trilogy, Reasonable Doubt, you can binge read it in
Prologue
Michael
Since you’re still reading this story, I’ll have to
assume that you’re a masochist. That, or a
hopeless, starry-eyed reader who keeps a horde of
romance novels with alpha male heroes at your
fingertips.
I’m willing to bet that you open every book you
buy with the same set of expectations and desires—
yearning to dive deep into the mind of a ‘bad boy’
hero, waiting patiently for him to rip your heart to
bleeding pieces for the sake of angst. All so you can
watch him grovel his way back to the heroine, for
him to stitch every shred of your feelings back
together by the time you reach the last page.
You repeat this obsessive pattern over and over
again. No matter the author, no matter the book.
You’ve done it so many times, that you
probably have no idea what it’s like when that
doesn’t happen, and that’s okay.
I’m more than willing to be your first…
Michael
Before We “Met”
I stare ahead at the passing traffic, not wanting to
believe the words that are falling from Trevor’s
mouth. There’s no logical reason why a father
would ever want to kill his own daughter. And as
many times as I rack my brain for a plausible
answer, I can’t think of anything that would make a
billionaire like Leonardo Thatchwood even think of
taking that risk.
He’s the type of man who plays it safe
whenever he bets. A man who will walk away from
the table with all of his chips in tow, if he even
senses that the game won’t end in his favor. From
what I’ve witnessed by following him here or there
these past several weeks, he’s the very definition of
the word ‘cautious.’ He also has far too much to
lose, if one blemish ever lands on his carefully
curated record.
I could’ve sworn he was attempting to run for
public office…
“How sure are you that it’s her father who
wants her gone?” I look over at Trevor, still stunned
at the news.
He shrugs, puffing another “O” of smoke.
“Pretty sure.”
“Pretty sure or one-hundred-fucking-percent
sure?”
“Both.” He rolls his eyes. “When’s the last time
I did something half-assed?”
“You don’t want me to answer that.”
“I can show you the video, if you’d like,” he
says, reaching over and rummaging through the
burner phones in his glove compartment. “Is that
what you need to see to believe me?”
“No.” I shake my head. He’s made stupid
mistakes before, but he’s never been wrong or
misfired. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Good.” He sits up and lights a new cigar.
“Don’t hurt her too badly when the time comes,
okay? I mean, make sure she doesn’t suffer more
than necessary. His words, not mine.”
I give him a blank stare.
“Oh, and uh—” He paused. “I know you don’t
typically do this, but he wants to make sure that the
police don’t find her body for at least five years.”
“I don’t take requests for how the fuck I do my
job.”
“Hence the words, I know you don’t do this
typically…” he says. “You don’t typically go on
five-hour dates with the targets either, so it looks
like this is opening an entirely new era for you, isn’t
it?”
Fuck off, Trevor.
Him wanting Meredith dead doesn’t add up in
the slightest, but I can’t spend too much time
questioning it right now. There are far more
important things on my mind, and I can get to the
bottom of this Thatchwood mess later. Maybe.
Sure, I can’t seem to think about anything
except getting another taste of her lips or diving
deep into her pussy again, but she doesn’t mean
anything to me. She’s just the first memorable
woman I’ve ever met, the first person who’s ever
intrigued me this much in over a decade.
She’s just a job. Just a job.
“What other business do you need to talk to me
about, Trevor?” I ask. “I need to go home and get
some sleep.”
“Please don’t insult my intelligence.” He hands
me a folder.
I open his folder, and inside are two lists. The
first one consists of the businessmen and companies
who are late making their deposits into our account
—an offense that will prove very costly if they
don’t rectify it by the end of the week.
The second list is a personal one, the names we
hardly ever say aloud. These are the people who
ruined us long ago, the people who’d turned us into
the half-hearted monsters we’ve become. The
people who still, to this day, steal our sleep by
haunting us in our nightmares.
We don’t make any money “handling” them,
but I’m willing to fit them into my schedule for
free.
The list started with twenty-eight, but now it’s
down to ten. A far cry from the zero we’ve been
wanting to reach for years.
All or nothing.
I stare at the name Dr. Holden McAllister and
feel my blood beginning to boil. “I’ll pay our old
therapist a visit in a few months. I need to do some
research on his new life.” I glance at the other list
and blink a few times to make sure what I’m
looking at is real.
“Why is Rio Warren on the debt list?” I ask. “I
just saw him a few hours ago at Fahrenheit 900. He
didn’t seem off or anything.”
“I’m sure that’s because he dropped tons of
money into your club and wanted you to see that,”
he says. “Unfortunately, he’s months late paying us,
so hopefully, he didn’t spend it all on liquor and
bottle service.”
“We don’t fuck with the mafia, Trevor. Ever.”
“We do when they owe us over a quarter-
million-dollars.”
I raise my eyebrow, stunned that anyone would
ever be more than a second late after owing that
much. Still, a man like Rio isn’t a suit. There has to
be an explanation.
“Someone is probably late paying him,” I said.
“Give him a few more weeks. He’s never been late
before, and he’s always good for it.”
“Fine.” He motions for me to get out of the car.
“I need to get back to New Jersey to finish off an
IKEA manager, and you need to turn back into the
Michael I know by the time I get back. I expect to
hear fucking research and planned times of
executions. Literally.”
I roll my eyes and step out of his car.
He speeds off the moment I shut the door, and I
return to the Four Seasons. I know better than to
revisit Meredith in the penthouse suite again—even
though I’m tempted, so I request a different room. I
also request that they extend her stay by a few days
and set two aspirin, a tray of bagels, and a note
from me on her nightstand in the morning. (It’s
common fucking decency. It doesn’t mean
anything.)
When I make it to my room, I turn the air
conditioning on to the coldest setting. I open all the
windows—letting in as much of the freezing night
air as possible, and then I set the ceiling fan on
high.
Taking off my clothes, I lay at the center of the
mattress and shut my eyes for as long as I can bear
it—hoping that for once, just once, sleep will come
and stay for more than five hours.
Just once.
I drift off into a dream that feels like it’ll finally
last a long time, but by the time my eyes flutter
open, I look at my watch and realize that it’s been
exactly five hours.
Fuck.
The flames of my past are still burning hot and
bright, and I know they won’t stop until I finish that
damn list. Until I can completely focus on putting it
behind me.
I dress again and prepare to check out. As I’m
walking to the elevator, my second cell phone
buzzes in my pocket.
No one has this number yet, and I’ve installed
software that prevents robo-calls.
Confused, I hold it up to my ear. “Yes?”
“Um, hi.” Meredith’s soft and raspy voice
comes over the line. “It’s me, Meredith.”
What the fuck? “How the hell did you get this
number, Meredith?”
“You opened your phone and texted the
concierge at some point last night.” She sounds like
she’s still in bed. “I have a photographic memory.”
I smile, impressed and completely caught off-
guard. I never picked up on that while following
her, so I mentally add that to my list of “Interesting
observations about the Thatchwood Girl.” It can go
right under “Sexy as hell without even trying,”
“Unafraid of a little darkness,” and “Enjoys talking
about books and authors for hours at a time.”
I rush her off the phone—shutting down any
idea of meeting up with her again, and make sure
my gun is loaded and concealed before stepping
onto the elevator.
I’m supposed to spend today following a man
who has an unfortunate criminal addiction, since
I’m due to kill him in a matter of weeks, but I don’t
drive to his job to stalk his routine. I don’t show up
to the ice cream parlor where his family meets him
in the afternoons, and I don’t hack into his personal
computer when he “accidentally” leaves it in a
locker at his gym.
Instead, I think about Meredith. How much I
want her, how much I need to have her, at least one
more time.
I try to let the thoughts remain thoughts, but
before I know it, I’m using my own photographic
memory and sending her an email.
Subject: One more date…
Michael
Now
Top Ten Reasons Why Meredith Thatchwood is
Probably Still Alive (& Tips on How to Get Her
Smoky Eye Wedding Picture Look)
If Meredith Thatchwood was a Regular, Ugly
Missing Person and Not a Beautiful, Billionaire
Heiress, No One Would Care
Fans Launch Petition for Gillian Weston,
Author and Best Friend of Missing Thatchwood
Heiress, to Release Her New Book; “Meredith was
a FAN, too!”
Police Question Heiress’s Newlywed Husband
Again; Officially Clear Him as a Suspect
‘Hopeful, yet very concerned’ in the search for
Missing Billion-Dollar Heiress, Father Says
Officials Find Abandoned Car with Blood
Stains, Meredith Thatchwood’s Locket Necklace,
and Hair Strands in Trunk; Police to Test DNA
The mainstream media is far too fucking
predictable. They run every major story with the
exact same cycle: Breaking news and an outrage
story, tons of hour to hour coverage, new angle of
the story, even more hour to hour coverage. They
run with this big story for as long as they can—a
couple weeks at most, and right when it begins to
lose steam, they pick up the next breaking news
story.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
It’s been two months since Meredith went
missing, and her disappearance is slowly falling out
of this vicious cycle—only mentioned by news
stations when they’re desperate for clicks and want
to examine “new angles” for the story.
Occasionally, her name will resurface in the papers
whenever her lying ass father wants to make a tear-
filled appearance about how the cops aren’t doing
enough to find her.
Honestly, if I didn’t know what I know, I’d feel
the same. They’re completely incompetent and
twenty steps behind what’s really happening, but
that’s exactly where I need them to be.
Meredith
Now
1 out of 5 stars
Dear fellow Goodreads.com reviewers,
This is not a book review. I’m writing this here,
on this book’s page, in hopes that someone will see
this before I’ll be forced to delete it.
My name is Meredith Alexis Thatchwood, and
my husband—Michael Anderson—has kidnapped
me. He is currently holding me against my will in a
mansion, in the middle of nowhere. (From what I
remember from the last time I managed to escape,
the place is five miles away from the Genessee
River, past a drive of overgrown maple trees. Some
street names nearby are Ardmore Lane, Pine
Avenue, and Trellis Cove.)
If you help me, I promise that my father—
Leonardo Thatchwood—will reward you for
alerting the police to my whereabouts.
PLEASE call 1-888-MER-TIPS and show them
this review. Please tell them I’m still alive…and
please contact Gillian Weston and show this review
to her, too.
Please help me,
Meredith
Comment from InLovewithBooks: Ugh. These
indie authors are getting on my damn nerves. Stop
promoting your book blurbs on other author’s book
pages! (And why would you post this as a 1-star?)
Comment from TheDNF-Queen: She left out,
“Help me, I’m poor! Please BUY MY BOOK!” I’m
sure that’s what she was going for with this
pandering-ass review/blurb. SMH. (She probably
posted it as a 1-star since those are the ones we all
read first BAHAHA!)
Comment from RomanceHeart: I hope you’re
not going to buy her book, TheDNFQueen! And
I’m with InLovewithBooks. What is it with these
newer indie authors? #theaudacity
Comment from TheDNF-Queen: I just
googled the woman who she’s claiming to be and
this Thatchwood woman has been missing FOR
REAL for eight weeks. Like, she’s using a real-life
tragedy to sell her book. SAD. I’m blocking this
author.
I stop reading the comment thread and scream
as loudly as I can into a pillow. I’m tempted to
throw the cell phone against the wall, but I’ll only
be hurting myself.
The phone is a “gift” that Michael left on the
table for me last week, but there’s nothing to thank
him for. It can’t make calls or send text messages, it
has no email or web search functions, and there is
no way for me to turn off the restricted controls,
snap pictures, or even check the damn time. What I
have left is the super basic version of Netflix,
access to a curated YouTube, and the ability to post
reviews (but not comment or message) via
Goodreads.
I also have access to seeing a delayed version
of Gillian’s Instagram, but it brings me to tears each
time I load the page.
Every other day, she posts a different picture of
us when we lived together—along with a long and
beautifully worded caption, and I know that she’s
still crying herself to sleep.
She’s had to turn off all the comments, since
her fans only want to know about her next book.
I’m pretty sure the comment that sealed the deal
was from mmrr025 two days ago: Can you give us
an idea of when you THINK you’ll be normal
again? With all due respect, I think Meredith
would want you to publish that new book! She was
your FAN, too!
Even with these new glimpses that I’m allowed
to take of the outside world, most of my free time is
spent wandering through this gilded prison—
looking for new ways to get the hell out of it.
I may cry myself to sleep here or there, spend a
few hours longing for the days when my husband
would fuck me with his mouth during the
afternoons with an unparalleled passion, instead of
staring at me blankly from across a chessboard, but
I refuse to feel sorry for myself.
I’m going to get away from him within the next
couple of weeks. Come hell or high water.
Grabbing my watch and my journal, I walk over
to my bedroom’s locked balcony and look up at the
cameras that guard the terrace.
9:05…9:06…9:07…Left balcony camera shuts
off and restarts. Right balcony camera doesn’t pick
up the slack for twenty-one seconds…
I move to the hallway and wait for fifteen
minutes, writing down those camera patterns. The
cameras above the winding staircase are too high
for me to see, but I’m willing to bet that they’re on
the same schedule as the ones in the main living
room.
When I make it into the kitchen to check the
cameras above the cabinets, I stop at the sight of
Michael standing in front of the stove. Dressed in
all-black, with the sleeves of his button-down shirt
pushed up to the elbows, he’s staring intently into
the skillet—looking sexy as fuck.
His shirt is clinging to his muscles in all the right
places, his perfect, chiseled jawline is freshly
shaved, and from here, I can smell a hint of his
intoxicating cologne.
I notice that he has a new tattoo on his left hand
—a grey spotted spider that’s far smaller than any
of his other ones. He’s also wearing a new watch, a
Patek Phillippe that costs what my entire
inheritance is worth. It’s almost as if he’s making a
statement.
Noticing me, he turns around and smiles,
sending unwanted butterflies fluttering against my
stomach. He stares at me for several seconds,
looking me up and down—fucking me with his
gorgeous green eyes.
Suddenly, images of late-night sex in my condo,
kissing him in the back of a cab, and his daily
flower delivery from before invade my mind. My
heart swells at the memories, but the frames
quickly dissolve and give way to the darker pictures
of our story: Him stuffing me into a van after our
honeymoon, him lying about loving me, and his
insistence on keeping me here.
I hate to admit it to myself, but this man can
still turn me on and wet my panties within seconds.
Criminal kidnapper or not, he’s still the sexiest man
on the planet, and he knows exactly how to look
and what to say to get under my skin.
“Good morning, Meredith,” he says. “Did you
sleep well last night? Have you completed the daily
swimming laps that I now require you to do?”
I don’t answer. I head toward the breakfast bar
and lean against the counter, looking at my phone.
With any luck, the breakfast box that drops via
drone every morning will be here soon, and I can
return to my room.
“Anything interesting happening in the news
lately?” he asks. “Oh, that’s right. You can’t access
those things. If you’d like, I can update you on
where the police are on your case.”
Don’t react to him, Meredith. Don’t react. I
suck in a breath and open my Goodreads review to
read more upset comments about my post.
“It’s such a shame,” he says. “Some of the
people on social media are starting to think that
your husband has something to do with your
disappearance. They don’t seem to care that the
cops have cleared me, and there’s evidence to the
contrary.”
I grit my teeth and keep my eyes glued to the
screen, as he steps closer to me. He gently grabs the
phone from my hands, forcing me to look up at
him, to stand up a bit straighter.
“I’m not sure I’m a fan of this extended silent
treatment, Meredith,” he says, looking into my
eyes. “It’s not really fair, given the circumstances
and all I’ve done for you.”
I bite my tongue to prevent myself from saying,
“You haven’t done shit for me,” but I can feel the
words begging to be freed.
“We have to leave here in a few weeks,” he
says, his voice low. “So, it’s in your best interest to
—”
“Talk to you?” I cut him off, unable to hold in
my emotions anymore. “You honestly expect me to
talk to you and act like this shit is normal? Like I’m
actually happy to be your wife?”
“You should be, but I’d probably use the word
‘lucky’ over ‘happy’, if I were you.”
“Bullshit, Michael.” I try to push him away, but
he grabs my hands, holding me still. “You are a
fucking criminal, and I don’t care how big of a
‘monster’ you think you can be, or how well you
think you can torture me by holding me here in pain
anymore.”
“You have no idea what real pain is, Meredith,”
he says as a vein begins to swell in his neck.
“You’ve lived a life where your biggest issue is
overcoming your own fucking emotions.”
“I beg to differ.”
“You have no fucking idea what true captivity
is.” He prevents me from pushing him away again.
“You can roam freely in this house. You can eat
whatever you want, do whatever you want—
whenever you fucking want.”
“I can do everything except leave,” I hiss,
feeling my chest heave up and down. “Oh, and let’s
not forget the fact that you’ve now started forcing
me to swim one hundred laps every evening, for no
goddamn reason.”
“How terrible of an existence.” His voice is flat.
“When this is all said and done, I can guarantee
that you’re going to see how much I’ve helped
you.”
“I’d rather see it now,” I say. “If that’s so true,
I’d rather see it now.”
“I’ve told you…” His voice trails off for a few
seconds. “Once you beat me at a chess game or
two, I’ll consider answering whatever questions
you have. You’re getting quite good at it.”
“I’d rather play twenty-one questions instead.”
I swallow, stepping back against the granite
countertop. “I feel like that’s only fair, since it’s not
an automatic win for you.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“Is that okay with you? Can you attempt to tell
me some of the truth by playing twenty-one
questions on my terms, instead of yours?”
“You’re already down to nineteen.”
“Are you aware that you’re going to prison for
this? That I will testify at your trial, regardless of
the fact that I once loved you?”
“You still do.” He smirks. “Eighteen.”
“That’s not how this game works,” I say. “I ask
a question and you answer. Then you ask a
question, and I answer.”
“I don’t have anything to ask you.” He runs his
fingers through my hair, igniting every nerve in my
body, making me react against my will. “I know all
the answers already…”
Silence.
“Don’t touch me.” I push his hand away. “Since
I’ve decided that I can’t trust a single word or fact
you’ve ever told me, what’s your real name?”
His lips turn up into a small smile, but he
doesn’t let it stay. “Michael.”
“Are you really an only child? Do you have any
other family members?”
“No one that you’ll ever get to meet…”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” I glare at him. “Why
would you ever lie to me about something as simple
as that?”
“I wouldn’t waste the remainder of your
fourteen questions on silly things like this, if you
want to get anywhere.”
“I know how to keep count,” I said. “At what
point did you decide to become a fucking liar
instead of the man I fell in love with? Was this all
part of some twisted plan from the beginning?”
He doesn’t answer either of those questions. He
just narrows his eyes at me. We’re still standing toe
to toe, the tension between us as thick as ever.
“For the record…” I say, debating whether now
is the right time to say this. “I fell out of love with
you the moment you brought me here and threw
away the keys.”
“I never threw away the keys,” he said, his
voice menacing, yet soft. “I’m just keeping them
from you, for a reason you can’t yet see.”
“I was trying to pick a metaphor.”
“Then try to pick a better one.”
“I fucking hate you. How about that one?” I
pushed a fist against his chest. “I hate everything
about you. I’m no longer attracted to you, I no
longer want you, and it’s in your best interest to
just let me go.”
“That’s not a real question.” He ignored my fist
hitting him again. “I think we should just pause this
game at eleven.”
“So, you can regroup and get more of your
fucking lies together?” I shake my head, decide to
ask the only question that actually matters. “Are
you ever going to let me go?”
“You know what?” He clenches his jaw and
presses his forehead against mine. “I don’t
appreciate being called a fucking liar, Meredith.”
“That’s not the answer I’m looking for.”
“I don’t think you know what you’re looking
for,” he says, his lips nearly brushing against mine.
“That’s your main problem. You have no idea
what’s going on around you.”
Before I can fire back, his lips latch onto mine
and his hands grip my waist. My arms instinctively
wrap around his neck, and I can feel his cock
hardening against my thigh.
I shut my eyes as his tongue darts against the
crease of my mouth, demanding immediate entry.
Giving in without thinking, I arch my back
against the counter—moaning as he kisses me so
deeply and roughly, that I completely forget what
the hell we were arguing about. Then I suddenly
remember what it’s like to be touched by this man,
completely owned and pushed near the edge by a
single kiss.
Fuck…
Whispering my name, he slides a hand under
my shorts—slipping two of his fingers against my
soaking wet slit.
“Your pussy is pretty fucking wet for someone
who’s no longer attracted to me,” he says, biting
down hard on my bottom lip. He teases my clit with
the pad of his thumb before jerking his hand away.
“Who’s the fucking liar now?” He steps back,
leaving me breathless and wanting. He looks me up
and down with a scowl—as if he’s the damn
captive. Then he grabs his coffee cup off the
counter. “I’ll be back soon.”
“I can guarantee that I won’t be here waiting.”
“You’re plotting to get away again?”
“If at first you don’t succeed—”
“You’ll fail and fail again,” he says, walking
toward the eight-car garage. He looks over his
shoulder. “If it’s any consolation for your wasted
time, I’ll always find you, Meredith. Always.”
Michael
Now
One day later
This woman is out of her goddamn mind…
I stare at the live security camera footage of the
living room, watching as Meredith attacks the floor
to ceiling windows with a fire poker. She runs back
several feet, takes a few deep breaths, and then
charges forward with the poker aimed at the perfect
angle for damage.
Sweating and screaming in utter frustration, she
falls backward onto the rug once the poker fails to
pierce the glass, but she doesn’t stay down for long.
She charges at it again and again, repeating the
exact same thing she’s tried with the crowbar, the
metal base of a lamp, and a wooden table leg.
Today’s escape attempt is by far the most
entertaining—especially since I’ve had every
window reinforced with steel. Last week, she
attempted to get away by starting a fire in the
indoor pool area. (It took her five hours to realize
that the room—just like every other room in the
house, is practically fire-proof. The sprinkler
system is wired to turn on if it senses the slightest
temperature change.) And yesterday, she attempted
to rile up a group of readers on Goodreads.com for
escape. The thread so far has over two thousand
comments and not a single person believes her.
(They’ve turned her plea for help into a
controversy with its own dedicated hashtag:
#FakeAuthorGate)
She’s a fucking fighter. I have to give her that,
and a part of me wishes that we had met under
different circumstances.
Then again, I would’ve never reached out to
her again, if she’d been a mere one-night stand. She
would’ve been a distant memory the moment we
reached our climaxes and said our goodbyes.
“Mr. Anderson?” A female voice interrupts my
thoughts. “Mr. Anderson?”
I turn off my cell phone and roll down my car’s
window. “Yes?”
“Um, are you planning on coming inside the
station to talk with the sergeant, or do you want
him to bring everyone out here?”
“I’ll be in a few minutes.” I roll up the window,
expecting the young redheaded officer to walk
away, but she simply stands there. Blushing and
staring at me like a high school crush.
Sighing, I lean over and lock my phone in the
glove compartment. I pull down the visor and take
a quick glance at my reflection. The red eye drops
are definitely in effect, and I look like I’ve been
crying all night.
Stepping out of the car, I follow the redhead’s
lead into the station. I expect her to lead me to the
interrogation room, but she shows me over to a
desk.
“I know that since your wife is gone, that you
probably haven’t had any real intimacy in
weeks…” She picks up a foil covered pan and
holds it out to me. “So, I took it upon myself to
make you the most intimate treat of all: a cherry
chocolate pie. I’m also including my phone number,
just in case you need someone to cry to late at
night. I’m also willing to come over, if a phone call
won’t do.”
I blinked. “Is the sergeant coming now or
later?”
“A man who looks like you should never sleep
alone.”
“I’m insanely devoted to my wife.” I actually
mean those words. “I would never cheat on her.”
“If she’s dead, it’s not cheating.” She lowers
her voice, and slowly bites her lip. “You can’t make
love to a cold corpse.”
“No, but I’m tempted to turn you into one, if
you don’t stop flirting with me…”
“Huh?” Her eyes widened. “What did you just
say?”
“Over here, Mr. Anderson.” Sergeant Ware
finally shows up and saves me from saying
something much worse, and the redheaded officer
storms away with her unwanted pie.
“Officer Sheffield takes it upon herself to bake
pies for most of the men who are in your
unfortunate position,” he says, sighing. “She thinks
a home-cooked treat will somehow make you
forget about things for a few minutes. Don’t take it
personally. Between you and me, you’re not
missing much of anything.”
“I already assumed that.”
“Right. Well, I’ll take you to the room for now,
and leave you there for a bit before presenting a
few things to you.”
He leads me down a long hallway and into a
small grey room, where Meredith’s father and aunt
are sitting at a square metal table.
I stop at the sight of her aunt pressing a
handkerchief against his eyes.
“It’s okay, Leo,” she says, her voice cracking.
“She’ll turn up soon. I’m sure of it. Don’t cry.”
I clench my jaw and resist the urge to strangle
him on the spot.
“Good to know I won’t be alone to hear
whatever news they have,” I say, forcing them both
to look up at me.
“Hey there, Mike.” Her aunt says, giving me a
weak smile. “You did say that I can call you, Mike,
right?”
“Michael will suffice.”
“Sorry.” She presses the handkerchief to her
own eyes. “Mr. Thatchwood and I were just talking
about you.”
“I bet.” I look at her father. “I noticed a
commercial
from
your
campaign
on
TV
yesterday…I could’ve sworn Meredith said that
you’d dropped out of the race.”
“Well, that was before all of this,” he says. “I
decided to stay in to give me something to keep me
going, you know?” He lowers his voice. “I’m up in
the polls due to people giving me the sympathy
vote, so it’s nice that something good will come
from this tragedy, right?”
I don’t answer that.
“If you’re ever in need of any investors for
your little nightclub, I’d be happy to reach out to
some of my top donors and let them know,” he
says. “Family has to stick together in these tough
times.”
My “little nightclub” brings in millions of
dollars every weekend. I resist the urge to roll my
eyes. “I’d like you to stop listing her last name as
Thatchwood when it’s Anderson. That’s what you
can do for me.”
“The press responds better when it’s a known
name.” He looks genuine. “I mean, everyone in
New York has run across something I own or
branded at some point in their lifetime. You only
own one club, you know?”
I almost tell him that half of the businesses that
he thinks he owns are indirectly tied to me and my
brother, but I hold back and say nothing.
Sergeant Ware returns to the room seconds
later, armed with a thin manila folder. Avoiding eye
contact with us, he takes a seat.
“Last night, my team followed up on a certain
bit of evidence,” he says, pulling out pictures of an
open trunk. “As you know, strands of hair and
blood were found in the back of an abandoned
Honda eighty miles outside of the city.”
I still can’t believe it took them this long to find
this shit. I parked that car there a month ago.
“We rushed everything to the lab to test it and
um…” He swallowed. “It’s a definite match for
Meredith’s DNA.”
Her father sucks in a few breaths as if he’s
about to have a panic attack, and her aunt starts to
cry like the world is ending.
There are no tears falling from her eyes.
“We’re having our crime scene unit run tests on
the entire vehicle to see if we can find some
fingerprints to run through the system, and the
blood we found isn’t enough for alarm yet. There’s
still hope we’ll find her alive. We also know that
whoever has done this, isn’t as smart as we are, and
they probably left something behind.”
I didn’t. I’ve never left anything behind at a
staged scene, and at the rate that their investigation
is going, I’m twenty years ahead, and I won’t be
able to take Meredith to stage two of my plan for
another two months.
“Do any of you know if she had any friends in
Connecticut?” he asks. “The backseat was littered
with Burger King receipts from there.”
I mentally vanish from this conversation and
put on my best “utterly devastated and at a loss for
words” face. Me coming here is officially a waste
of my time, and I decide to call in another tip to
The New York Times tonight to accelerate this
sloppy, half-assed investigation.
When the sergeant’s lips finally stop moving, he
stands up from his seat. “I’ll leave you three alone.
If you have any concerns or other questions, I’ll be
right across from you in my office.”
For several seconds, neither of us says a word. I
look at my watch and try to think of an excuse to
leave, but her father beats me to it.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Michael,” he says,
reaching over and grabbing my hand. “So very
sorry.”
What the fuck? “Meredith hasn’t been
confirmed dead. She’s still missing.”
“Yes, well…” He shakes his head. “I’m holding
out as much hope as I can, but I’ve always been a
bit of a pessimist, I’m afraid.”
“It’s true,” her aunt chimes in. “I’m the one
who is trying to keep the hope alive.”
“She really loved you, you know?” He smiled.
“Even though we were just now getting closer, you
were the first thing she brought up every day we
met. With any luck, they’ll find her—dead or alive,
I just want closure.”
“I’m sure you do…” I can’t hold a straight face
anymore, so I stand to my feet. “Can you two
excuse me? I have somewhere I need to be.”
“Absolutely,” they say in unison, and I get the
hell out of there.
The moment I make it to the parking lot, I pull
out my phone and check on Meredith. She’s no
longer in the living room, and all of the other
cameras are showing an empty house.
Confused, I rewind the video until I can see her
writing a note at the dining room table. She leaves
the sheet in perfect view for the cameras to see it,
and then she ventures upstairs and into the one
place where I don’t have any cameras. Her
bedroom.
I zoom in on the note to catch a better view.
I’m running the cameras on a loop. Get ready
to find me.
I smile. There are secondary cameras in the
ceiling. She isn’t going anywhere.
Putting on my black leather gloves, I speed onto
the road and command my car to text Trevor.
Me: Off to handle the therapist. I’ll call when
I’m done.
His response is immediate.
Trevor: Thank you. (9 more to go.)
Michael
Now
Every child therapy office that I’ve ever visited is
designed in the exact same way. There are open
windows in the lobby, bright and cheery colors on
the walls, and toys that clutter every corner in the
waiting room. There’s also a Mickey Mouse printed
on at least half of the tables, as if a fucking Disney
character is capable of helping to soothe someone’s
pain.
Dr. Holden McAllister’s office, the top child
therapy center in New York City, is the complete
opposite of those places. Situated on the top floor
of a gleaming grey building on Billionaire’s Row,
the rooms are all painted in dreary shades of pale
beige. There are no bright and cheery colors on the
wall, no toys to keep patients calm while they wait,
and the only Disney Characters in sight are the
ones that you may catch a glimpse of on a Times
Square billboard.
Every time that I’ve managed to step inside this
building to handle him, I’ve turned away at the last
minute. I’ve always pushed his name further down
my personal list since I don’t want to relive any of
the things I used to tell him. The things he refused
to believe, but knew damn well were the truth.
Today won’t be a turnaround day.
I’ve let him live enough of his life.
I slide a pair of black shades over my face and
make sure my leather gloves are secure before
taking the elevator up to the fifty-first floor.
“I’m sorry, sir, our office is closed,” the
receptionist says as I step off the car. “You’ll have
to come back tomorrow. If you’d like, I can take
down your name and email address.’
I stand still and make out what type of person
she is in five seconds.
Too eager to communicate. Wired on something
other than coffee. Stupid.
She’ll definitely remember my face when the
police find Dr. McAllister dead and ask for
potential suspects, so the front entrance is out of
the question.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Looks like I’m on the
wrong floor. Where’s the gym?”
“Ah, I figured. This happens all the time.” She
smiles. “Right below on the fiftieth floor.”
I give her a fake smile in return and take the
elevator a few floors down. I find my way to the
emergency stairwell and wait for half an hour
before heading back up to Dr. McAllister’s office.
I move from room to room and disable every
camera and security feature. I double-check to
make sure that no other employees are here, and
then I stop dead in my tracks when I reach the
patients’ waiting room.
Everything in his office is exactly how I
remember it in my nightmares. The hard-plastic
chairs that surround a shaky metal table, the rug
that serves as an inkblot test, and the “Wall of
Forgiveness” where each patient gets the “honor”
of letting go of people who’ve hurt them in the
past.
Walking over to the small bookshelf near the
window, I push up the bottom panel to see if my
message has survived the test of time. Right
underneath the crackling paint, are the words I
wrote at my last session here.
Fuck forgiveness. You will burn for this, and
I’m going to watch you die.
Old and ugly memories begin to play in my
head, and I shake them away before I can succumb
to their twisted horrors. I set a timer on my watch
—twenty-six minutes, and vow to get this done in
half that time.
Making my way to the white French doors that
lead to Dr. McAllister’s office, I knock as hard as I
can.
“My business hours don’t start until nine
o’clock tomorrow!” he calls out. “Go home, Taylor.
Whatever it is, you can wait to tell me about it in
the morning.”
“I’m not Taylor.” I step inside the room,
shutting the door behind me. “I’m—”
“Trespassing,” he says, looking up from a book.
“You can come back at nine o’clock just like
everyone else. However, please know that I’m not
open to taking clients like you.”
“What do you mean, clients like me?”
“Adults,” he says. “Surely you see the words,
World Renowned Child Specialist etched on all of
my doors. It’s not there for decoration.”
“I must have missed that.” I walk over to his
desk and pick up one of the rare cigars from his
Tinder box. “You still collect these?”
I don’t wait for him to answer. Instead, I pull a
lighter out of my pocket and place the cigar into my
mouth. I take a long drag and debate whether I
want to take a few of his cigars with me on the way
out.
You have very good taste, Dr. McAllister.
“Did you not hear me say that you need to
leave my office, sir?” He walks over to me and
crosses his arms. “I believe I asked you very
nicely.”
“It’s amazing how easily you’ve been able to
take your business to the next level after all these
years.” I walk over to the far wall, pretend to
admire all of his framed certificates and medals. “I
bet you’re very proud of yourself.”
“I am…” He stares at me, looking completely
confused.
“I bet you’d be even prouder of yourself if you
didn’t wake up every morning with the guilt of
what kept you in this business,” I say, putting out
the cigar and tucking it into my jacket. “I bet your
clients would scatter like roaches, if they knew who
you really were and what you were doing twenty-
five years ago.”
“I have no idea what the hell you’re talking
about.”
“Denial isn’t helpful, Doctor. You used to tell
me that all the time…” I walk over to a huge black
case on the wall, where he keeps a custom diamond
beretta pistol.
“Please don’t touch that.” He holds up his
hand. “It’s a classic beretta. It was handcrafted just
for me.”
“Is it loaded?”
“Of course, it’s loaded.” He rolls his eyes.
“Please, don’t—” He lets out a sigh as I take it out
of the case, as I run my finger over its beautiful,
diamond-studded trigger. “Look, whoever you are,
I really don’t have time to play these games. I’ve
honestly never seen you a day in my life, and I’d
like to continue doing so.”
“You were never a frequent visitor at 347
Holden Lane Avenue twenty-five years ago?” I say,
and his face immediately pales. “Never spent
significant time with two identical twin brothers
named Michael and Trevor?”
He gasps and takes a step back.
“This is the part when you admit that you do
know me,” I say. “That you knew me long before I
ever became an unfortunate client of yours. You
can also admit that you spent most of our sessions
trying to convince me into believing what did and
didn’t happen.”
“I was a bad social service director then.” He
swallows. “I would never treat you the same way
now as I did then.”
“Because you moved on to others.” I look
around the room, making sure this scene will look
exactly how I want. A random murder in the middle
of the day. “You thought that if you just stopped
and tried to become a World Renowned Child
Specialist, that it would erase all of the things you
did before. It fucking doesn’t.”
He’s peeing his pants, shaking and attempting to
grab his cell phone from his pocket.
“I’m usually civil about these types of things,” I
say, moving his picture frame a little to the left.
“But for you, and because of all the damage you’ve
gifted me, I’m going to make one hell of an
exception.”
“I’ve asked you to leave my office three times
now,” he says, his voice wavering. “Don’t make me
call the police.”
“You know what?” I pull my burner phone out
of my pocket. “I think that’s a great idea.” I dialed
9-1-1 and made sure to hit the speaker button so he
could hear.
“9-1-1, emergency response,” the operator’s
soft voice fills the room. “What’s your
emergency?”
“I just heard a lot of gunshots in a building on
Billionaire’s Row,” I say. “I think it came from one
of those fancy therapy offices, so some officers
may want to check that out.”
“Can you tell me exactly where you—”
I end the call and Dr. McAllister’s face is now
ghost-white. He holds up his hands, looking like
he’s about to beg for forgiveness.
I don’t give him a chance to say another word. I
aim the beretta at his chest and unload the clip
faster than I’ve ever unloaded on anyone before.
Eleven rounds. Eleven bullets.
His body hits his desk, and then the floor with a
sickening thud. Blood splatters all over the plain
walls, coating pieces of the hardwood floor in a
bright red.
Walking over to him, I set the gun down on top
of his chest. “You deserved more bullets than that,”
I whisper. “I let you off far easier than you let me
and Trevor…”
Taking his cigar collection, I move through the
back halls of the office and take a freight elevator
down to the lobby. The guests are running and
panicking at the sound of sirens, and the security
guards are blocking the elevators.
Dropping the burner phone down one of the
city’s drains, I feel somewhat relieved that this
chapter of my life is almost over, but I know there’s
no way I can go “home” to the mansion right now. I
know I’m bound to have one of those nights where
I’m unable to escape the final nightmares that
come, and I’ve never slept around Meredith for
that reason.
I’ll go home tomorrow.
Or maybe the next day.
Meredith
Now
My limbs burn as I slowly drag my body out of the
heated pool. I’ve completed more than my required
laps for the night, and I can’t take anymore.
Dripping onto the tile with every step I take, I
throw up my middle finger to the camera that’s
tucked away in the corner, just in case he ever
watches me when he’s away.
Wrapping myself in a towel, I slide my feet into
my flip flops and brace myself before heading
upstairs to the kitchen. He’s been gone three whole
days, so I know it’s only a matter of time before he
walks through the door and resets the board for a
new game of chess. Before he baits me with fake
news about my own case.
I look around and notice that the last chess
game we played is still on display. The lights in the
kitchen are still set how I like them, and there’s no
new novel waiting for me on the counter. No phone
charger with a “You can use this for one hour. PS—
I’m still waiting on you to say thank you,” note.
Confused, I grab my watch from a drawer and
see that it’s nine thirty.
He never comes home that late…
I tap my fingers against the countertop, thinking
this could finally be my chance. The perfect time
for me to start getting to the bottom of who the hell
I really married.
I force myself to wait for another twenty
minutes, and then I decide to go for it.
Making my way up the grand staircase, I make
a left and head to Michael’s bedroom. The keypad
on the door handle gives me pause, but I’ve seen
him type in the code before, seen him switch up the
numbers every now and then whenever we
happened to cross paths in the hallway.
I typed in what I remember from last week, 1-
17-4-16-5, and the lights flash green.
Immediately pushing the door open, I step
inside and let it shut behind me.
He’s never let me see the inside of his bedroom
before, and I’m shocked at how bare it is compared
to the condo he showed me in New York.
There’s a king-sized bed at the center of the
room, draped in white sheets and flanked by two
nightstands. There are six fans hanging from the
ceiling, all positioned right over the mattress—all
hanging at varying heights.
Why the hell would he need more than one fan?
I walk over to the nightstands and pull every
drawer open, but there’s nothing inside. Undaunted,
I look under the bed—hoping to find something,
but there’s nothing more.
Walking over to his closet, I type the same code
into the keypad, but the lights flash red. I try it
again, and an error message appears.
Too many digits… Please enter the correct six
digits.
I try to think of what combination of numbers a
psycho would pick—666-666, 123-456, 911-911,
but none of them work. Just when I’m about to
throw in the towel and leave, I enter the digits of
the night we met—12-31-19, and the lights flicker
yellow before turning green.
The door slowly swings open, and the hairs on
the back of my neck stand at full attention.
What the hell is this?
Stumbling forward, I struggle to make sense of
what I’m seeing.
In a room that’s the size of my bedroom several
times over, is an immaculate and organized crime
warehouse. On the right side, there’s an array of
weapons locked behind a tinted wall of glass.
Handguns, pistols, automatic rifles, a fucking buffet
of artillery. On the left side, all of his trademark
black and grey clothes are hanging at the exact
same distance apart.
His collection of designer shoes—shiny black
loafers and copper-colored Oxfords, are sitting still
on glass risers. His tennis shoes are all laced for an
instant run, perfectly aligned with each other.
Near the back of the room are perfectly pressed
uniform tops for all types of businesses where he
doesn’t work. A red and gold bellman jacket for
The Four Seasons, a light brown top for the UPS
delivery service, a green and black barista shirt for
Starbucks. There are a few more that I don’t
recognize, but none of the nametags on any of the
uniform shirts sport his real name.
Austin Greenwich. Tommy Porter. Jason Dean.
Who the hell are these people?
Something tells me that I should turn around
and walk away at this very moment, but I can’t
help but stay. I move to the far-right corner, where
a beautiful white dresser stands next to a black file
cabinet.
Pulling open the top dresser drawer, I hope to
find some hint of who Michael is, but it’s empty.
I pull open the next one. Empty.
Then the next, and the next. All empty.
Moving on to the file cabinet, I tug on the top
drawer, but it’s locked. The second one doesn’t
budge a bit, but the third one slowly gives way.
Inside are a few identical leather wallets and a
ton of neatly organized manila folders and
envelopes.
Picking up the first wallet, I flip it open and see
a Pennsylvania state license is for someone named
Tyler Spears. The man in the picture is definitely
Michael, though.
The cards in the other slots aren’t credit cards.
They’re other state licenses with varying names and
fake addresses, but they all feature varying pictures
of him in black and dark grey sweaters.
As I look a little closer at the Arizona license
that’s under the name Brock Daniels, I notice that
his green eyes aren’t as dark in that picture.
They’re still as stunning as ever, but they have a
different tint to them. Not only that, but his lips
aren’t as full, and the shirt he’s wearing for the
camera exposes most of his neck.
Why doesn’t he have any tattoos in this one?
To the naked eye, this Arizona man looks
exactly like Michael but not to me. The differences
are subtle, but I know my husband. (Well, I thought
I did.) This license is either a terribly bad photo-
shop job, or this man has an identical twin brother
who doesn’t share his appreciation for tattoos.
It takes me all of five minutes to realize it’s the
latter.
One of the manila folders is full of pictures of
the two of them. They’re faded pictures from the
past—long before we’d ever met, long before he
lied and said he didn’t have any family to invite to
our wedding.
My heart aches as I stare at a picture of his
tattooed hand giving his brother a high five on what
appears to be a college campus. I make it through
about twenty of their brotherly pictures and decide
I’ve had enough.
He lied straight to my face…
I continue opening folder after folder, finding
myself face to face with even more confusion.
There are passports for damn near a hundred
countries, with the colored currency to match.
There are birth certificates for at least twenty
different people, and just as I’m committing a few
of the names to memory, a blank passport booklet
falls to the floor.
This one doesn’t belong to him or his brother,
though.
It belongs to me.
The photo has been edited to make my hair
blonde instead of dark brown, and my name isn’t
printed at all.
I tuck it into my swim shorts, making a mental
note to search for “passport fraud” on my limited
YouTube app.
My watch now reads midnight, and there’s
plenty more manila folders and envelopes to
rummage through, but I have to stop in thirty
minutes. Not because I think I shouldn’t be in here
in search of the truth, but because my heart can
only take so much in a day.
There are several sheets of paper with
handwritten notes. Random dates and times, but it’s
nothing concrete.
7:10 arrives at work
7:25 checks email; inbox empty
7:35 calls Gchats for an hourHilton rendezvous
planned for the evening
8:52 calls H; sends flowers
Sighing, I return everything to its place and
push the drawer shut.
The track rattles and the drawer refuses to go
back into place. I try again, but it’s no use.
Something is stuck at the back of the cabinet.
Stooping down, I stick my hands inside and feel
around—catching the snag of a crumpled sheet of
paper. Slowly pulling it out, I unravel it, and see the
words I heard on my wedding day. Words I’ve
replayed in my mind every damn day.
I love you, Meredith.
I vow to cherish and protect you for the rest of our
lives together—however long that may be.
The words hit differently now, though. They’re
lies. All lies.
I flip the sheet over and see that there’s an
entirely different draft of his words.
Meredith,
I wish we’d met under different circumstances.
I wish I didn’t have to do this to you, but I have to.
It’ll all make sense in the end.
—M
My mind spins and my chest aches so badly,
that I feel like I’m on the verge of having a heart
attack.
Folding his vows, I tuck them into the pages of
my fake, unfinished passport and slam the file
cabinet shut.
Taking one last look at the criminal warehouse,
I hit the lights and walk away from the closet.
When I open the door to his bedroom, I gasp at
the sight of Michael standing right in front of me.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” He
glares at me.
“I wasn’t looking for anything,” I say, “I was
just browsing around.”
“I don’t browse your room without permission.”
He steps closer, his eyes on mine. “I could’ve
sworn that we agreed that you would never go into
mine.”
“I never agreed to this.” I glare right back at
him. “And I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but we’re
not exactly on the best of terms.”
“We could start to be on better ones, if you
finally give me a thank you.”
“Thank you for kidnapping me,” I say. “I’m not
sure where in the world I would be, or the type of
amazing life I could possibly be living, if you hadn’t
done that. Thank you so much.”
He ignores my sarcasm and hands me a small
black shopping bag. “You’re fucking welcome.”
I peer inside and notice that there’s a new
journal and a new John Grisham novel. I don’t say,
‘Thank you.’
“You can get the hell out of my room now,” he
says, in a tone that’s far harsher than anything he’s
ever said to me.
I nod and move past him, heading down the
hallway to my room.
“Oh, and Meredith?” His voice makes me look
over my shoulder.
“Yes?”
“Stay the fuck out of my closet.”
Meredith
Now
Later that night
The last thing I want to do is lay in bed, thinking
about everything I found in his closet today. I need
time to process it all, time to calmly go over the
facts and see if there’s anything I’m missing.
Digging through the luggage from our
honeymoon, I pull out my vibrator, even though it’s
on its last leg. I’m not sure why I even brought it
along on our honeymoon, but given the turn of
events, I’m grateful that I tucked it into my
luggage.
It’s been my go-to whenever my own hands
won’t get the job done, whenever old memories of
Michael fucking me invade my brain, and I need to
feel something more intense.
Crawling into bed with it, I pick up my phone
and open the kindle app. I open an erotic romance
and swipe straight to the sex scenes. As I’m
approaching the best part—the moment when the
hero pounds into the heroine’s pussy relentlessly, a
loud and tortured cry breaks out from right outside
my window.
Concerned, I set down the kindle and walk over
to my bay window. I expect to see a deer caught in
a trap below, but there’s nothing. The grass is as
still as the trees, the estate’s lake waters are calm
and motionless in the moonlight.
I start to return to bed, but the tortured sound
cuts through the air once more. It’s far more pained
this time, so much so, that I can feel the hurt in my
chest. It sounds like it’s coming from the left side of
the house, where the only other bay windows are.
Michael’s room.
I know that I should ignore the sound, let him
suffer from whatever is happening, but I can’t. The
broken pieces of my heart still beat for him, and
they’re still longing for him to stitch them back
together with a thread that will sew everything into
perfect sense.
I leave my bedroom and walk down to his door,
easily entering the new code on his keypad. The
moment I step inside, I freeze at the sight of him
writhing violently on the bed.
Wearing only his briefs and a gold necklace that
bears his initials, he’s sweating under the cold air
and all the spinning ceiling fans. He’s struggling to
breathe properly, twisting and turning like he’s
having a grand mal seizure.
Finally forcing my feet to move toward him, I
move on top of him and shake his shoulders.
“Michael, wake up.” I shake him a bit harder.
“Michael, stop. Wake up.”
It’s no use. He’s writhing even harder now,
damn near bucking me off him.
“Help me …” he whispers. “Help me move
him…. Help me get them all back…”
“Michael, wake up.” I slap his cheek as hard as
I can. “Michael, you’re fucking scaring me... Wake
up.”
“You’re
going
to
burn.”
He
seethes.
“Forever…”
“Michael.” I grab his head and shake it as hard
as I can—keeping my fingers in his hair.
He finally stops.
I let out a sigh of relief and start to move off
him, but his hands suddenly grip my neck.
Still in a trance, he grips my neck like a boa
constrictor—slowly tightening the pressure and
stealing every chance I have to breathe.
I claw at his hands and try to dig my nails deep
into his knuckles to get him to let go, but I’m no
match for his strength. His hold on my neck
tightens even more, and I feel my eyes bulging from
the pressure.
Oh my god, please. Please don’t kill me.
Hot tears fall down my face, splashing onto his
inked knuckles.
I try to fight for my life as hard as I can, but it’s
no use. He’s choking the hell out of me.
My vision blurs, and I start to see my life
slipping through the grip of his fingertips.
He’s really going to kill me…
My heart begins to slow, and I lose sensation in
my fingers. I feel my leg muscles going weak, then
my arms.
Right as I’m succumbing to the end—seeing a
light haze everywhere, Michael’s eyes flutter open.
They meet mine, and his recognition of the hands
grabbing my neck is instant. He looks at me in utter
horror, immediately letting me go.
I suck in several hard-fought breaths and
stumble off him.
“Meredith…” he says, looking remorseful and
embarrassed. “Meredith, I’m—”
I don’t give him a chance to finish.
I get up and rush the hell away from him,
toward my bedroom. Right when I’m grabbing the
doorknob, I feel him gently grabbing my waist from
behind, picking me up and sweeping me off my
feet.
He carries me through his bedroom and into the
master bathroom suite. Carefully setting me onto
the edge of the tub, he looks into my eyes—his
gaze extremely apologetic.
As if he’s unsure of what to say first, he grabs
both my hands and looks into my eyes. He stares at
me for what feels like forever, looking just as hurt
as I feel.
“I would never hurt you, Meredith,” he says,
his voice low. “I had no idea what I was doing…No
idea it was you.”
Who the hell else would it be? I don’t respond
to him. I have no words to say.
“This is why I always left you in the middle of
the night,” he says, cupping my face in his hands—
using his thumbs to catch my tears as they continue
to fall. “I never wanted you to see me like that.”
I still don’t answer, but now that I think about
it, I’ve never seen this man sleep once. Even when
I fell asleep in his arms, I always felt like he was on
edge, always awake and listening to every sound.
And any time I woke up, his green eyes were
already staring into mine and waiting to start the
day.
“You have to know that I didn’t mean to do
that,” he says.
“No. I don’t.” I shake my head. “I really don’t
know who the hell you are.”
“You know me better than anyone else I’ve
ever been with…” He steps back and grabs a small
towel. Then he holds it under a running tap. “I’ve
told you a lot more than what I originally planned.”
“You didn’t tell me you had a twin brother.”
He ignores my comment and gently pushes my
head to the side—examining the pink marks that
the pressure of his fingers left in my skin. Through
the mirror, I can see the look of shame on his face
as he soothes me with the cold towel.
“I lost something years ago,” he says softly.
“It’s been affecting me ever since, and not a single
day has gone by that I’ve forgotten.”
“Is it an ex you loved? A child?”
“No,” he says, pressing the towel against me
again. “It’s not someone, just something.”
For several seconds, we don’t speak. The silent
seconds stretch into minutes, the minutes stretch
into moments. Moments of him using the towel to
try to make up for what he’s done.
When he finally sets it down, he kisses my neck
—softly darting his tongue against every soft spot
where his fingers once tightened against my skin.
“I’m sorry, Meredith,” he says.
“I don’t forgive you.”
“I don’t expect you to…” He runs his fingers
through my hair, and as much as I want to push at
him and walk away, I can’t. “I think you should let
me help you feel better, though.”
“I can do that myself.”
“Can you?”
He slides a hand between my thighs and my
skin heats. My body immediately reacts and I have
the sudden urge to taste his lips.
“Answer me…” he says, sliding his hand under
the band of my panties.
“Just because my body reacts to you, doesn’t
mean that I want you.”
“Do you honestly mean that?”
“I should.” I suck in a breath as he rubs my clit,
making it swell in anticipation against the pad of his
thumb. “I should…but…”
“But what?”
“I don’t.”
He presses his lips against my inner thigh and
begins kissing a heated trail up my skin—pushing
back the silk of my slip with every mark of his lips.
Gazing up at me with his stunning green eyes every
few seconds, he takes his time rendering me
speechless.
Gently slipping his hands under my legs, he
slides a finger under the band of my panties and
pulls them off in one smooth motion. They fall to
the floor in a pool of black silk, and he picks them
up and stuffs them into the pocket of his briefs; his
former, not-so-subtle way of telling me that my
pussy belongs to him.
“Sit up for me,” he says, his voice low.
I oblige and he clasps my ankles—carefully
lifting them up and placing my legs over his
shoulders. I grab onto the edge of the claw-footed
tub, and he slowly pulls me closer—teasing me with
long kisses against my skin. Long, sensual kisses
that move closer and closer to my slit.
He pulls away from me as I try to move his
head a bit closer, leaving me straddling between the
edge between desperate need and bubbling
obsession.
He places one final long kiss against my inner
thigh, a kiss that leaves me grabbing his hair for
balance—and then he buries his head against my
pussy.
As he devours me, my body aches in pleasure
with every skilled swipe of his tongue, every soft
squeeze of my ass.
I haven’t felt him inside of me for weeks, and
I’m regretting all of the wasted seconds. All of the
missed touches and orgasms.
Damn…
Briefly pulling his mouth away from my soaking
wet slit, he slips one of his thick fingers deep inside
of me.
My body feels immediately lost without the
warmth of his mouth, and I look into his eyes, as he
leans back—searching for a reason.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen or heard
you come for me,” he says, slipping a second finger
inside of me. “Want to make sure I take in every
fucking moment.” Without another word, he
presses his mouth against me again, punishing me
with an unrelenting rhythm that sends thousands of
tremors running up and down my spine.
I shut my eyes as my clit throbs in utter
pleasure, as he groans loudly against me. I grab
onto his hair as he changes his perfect sensual and
slow rhythm, to one that’s starving and primal.
Surrendering all control, I get lost in his
dominating ways, the way he can make my body
bend to his will, like no other man can.
I use my legs to hold onto him a little harder. I
try to hold back and enjoy his mouth on me for a
few more minutes, but his tongue sends me over the
edge and I begin to collapse.
“Michael…Michael…” I try to get him to give
me a little control, but he never stops his rhythm.
And it’s useless for me to fight his power, as
orgasmic tremors start wracking their way through
my entire body.
Screaming his name at the top of my lungs, I
come apart in his mouth for what feels like forever.
And when I start to come back down, I can still feel
him teasing me with his tongue a bit slower, still
feel him begging me to accept his apology.
Looking at the sight of him between my legs
makes me want to beg him for more, but I show
restraint.
When he finishes kissing my clit—shortly after
I’ve stopped shaking against him, he moves back
and sets my feet onto the tiled floor again. He
stares at me—his green eyed gaze heated as he
pushes my slip’s shoulder strap back into place. He
brushes loose strands of hair off my face and trails
his finger against my collarbone.
The look in his eyes tells me that he wants more
of me---right now. And if I was sane, I would
refuse. I would use what was left of my energy,
walk the hell away from him, and return to my
room.
I’ve been past insane since the day we met,
though.
I stand up and move past him, slowly walking
out of the bathroom suite. I feel his eyes watching
my every move as I step onto the floor of his
bedroom.
Stopping at the edge of his bed, I grab the hem
of my slip and slowly pull it over my head.
I look over my shoulder—daring him to follow
me, before slipping under the sheets.
Smiling, he stands to his feet and shuts the door
for a few seconds. I hear the sink water running and
adjust my head onto a pillow.
Moments later, he joins me on the bed—
attaching his mouth to mine. He grabs my hands
and slowly moves them over my head, pinning my
body down with his hips.
I can feel his rock-hard cock against my thigh,
and I beg him to give it to me. Whisper that it’s all
his, that right now nothing else matters, and I just
want to feel him deep inside of me.
He doesn’t hesitate to deliver. Still kissing me,
he slides into me all at once—filling me and making
me whole. Making me never want to experience a
day when he isn’t inside of me.
He stares into my eyes as he makes love to me,
hard and deep, more slowly and more sensually
than we used to fuck. He runs his hands up my
sides as he kisses me softly—whispering words
against my lips that I don’t quite comprehend.
All I can interpret is, “I did all this for you…”
As he continues to move in and out of me, I
moan and dig my nails into his back. I feel
something hard underneath me and start to reach
for it, but he kisses me harder and makes me forget.
“Fuck, Meredith…” He thrusts into me one last
time—his stroke hitting my spot at just the right
moment. He grips my hands as he stiffens, and I
call out his name as we reach our climax at the
same time.
Still inside of me, he bends down and kisses my
forehead. Then he kisses every inch of my neck—
still saying sorry for moments earlier.
We remain entwined for what feels like forever,
until he slowly rolls off me.
“Water?” he asks.
I nod and he leaves the room. I wait until I hear
his feet against the steps. Then I reach under me to
see what was rubbing up against me during sex.
It’s a cell phone. Swallowing, I stare at it for
several seconds, unsure of what to do. I roll over
and grab my slip from the floor, pulling it back over
my body. I tuck the phone into my bra and sit up,
hoping like hell that he won’t notice.
He steps into the room mid-thought, two glasses
of water in hand. Holding one out for me, he waits
on me to take a few sips before sitting next to me.
“You should get some rest,” he says. “I still
need you to give me a hundred laps in the pool later
this morning.”
“Are you ever going to tell me why you’re
making me do that?”
He lets out a sigh. “I will at the end.”
“By ‘the end’ do you mean, the end of my
life?”
“Only figuratively.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You’re pretty well-read,” he says, downing the
rest of his water, as I stand up from the mattress.
“I’m sure I don’t have to define what a simple
word like that means.”
“Are you implying murder?”
“It’s a little too late to kill you, Meredith,” he
says. “If that was the plan, I would’ve done it
weeks ago.” He shakes his head. “Do you have any
other questions?”
“Several.”
“Well, that’s quite unfortunate,” he says. “I’m
all out of answers.”
I turn away and walk toward the door.
“Wait,” he says, triggering my heart to race
overtime. “One second.”
“Yeah?” I turn around.
“Your ring fell off.” He holds it out to me, then
slips it onto my finger. He looks as if he wants to
say something more, but he simply sighs and
returns to his room, shutting the door behind him.
I rush to my room and immediately pull the
phone from my bra. No service bars, just roaming. I
debate risking a 9-1-1 call, if that would even work,
but I know I need to think this all the way through.
Instead, I open the recent calls list and my
stomach falls to the floor. I know the number of the
last few calls by heart.
101-088-8076…
I know it all too well, and I know now, more
than ever, that this man has something extremely
dark and ugly up his sleeve for me in the future…
Meredith
Before
“Where to Miss?” The driver smiled at me as I
slipped into his cab.
“120 Park Avenue.”
He nodded and pulled onto the street as I
buckled my seatbelt. Pulling my phone out of my
purse, I turned on the selfie camera and took one
final look at my makeup.
With my eyelids coated in shimmering pink and
my lips coated in a red that stood out against my
freckle-concealing foundation, I almost looked like
one of the girls in the magazines. At least, I was
trying to convince myself that this was the case.
As I was adding a tad bit more highlighter to my
cheeks, the phone buzzed against my fingertips
with an incoming call.
101-088-8076…. Bzzzz! 101-088-8076…
Ugh.
It was the same number that called me morning,
noon, and night for no reason at all. For several
months in a row. I’d blocked it numerous times, but
somehow, someway, it still managed to get through.
Blocking it again, I checked my email to make
sure my boss hadn’t sent me any last-minute
requests. Not that I’d be able to do anything about
them for the next two hours, though.
Tonight was my night to dance on the premiere
stage at Club Swan, and I couldn’t afford to miss it.
Literally couldn’t afford to.
No matter how badly I tried to convince myself
that I only danced for myself—to deal with the
pain, I knew that was a lie. I was dancing for far
more than that these days.
My future was on the line, and I was willing to
do whatever it took to make sure I’d have enough
to set it up exactly how I wanted.
However, I’d fallen for the worst part of the
game somewhere between my mother’s death and
my job at Vogue. I’d started using my photographic
memory to my advantage and adopted the
unfortunate habit of stealing from some of the
wealthiest clients, whenever they handed over their
credit cards.
At first, it was just a few twenties here or there,
a fifty to cover my cab fare home, a hundred to
replace the silver strap on a shoe. But over time, I
realized that fifty dollars to these men was like fifty
cents, and contrary to most people’s beliefs,
working as an editor for Vogue didn’t pay shit. (The
true value was in the “exposure,” and “lasting long
enough to get noticed and poached by a company
willing to pay more”.)
From the outside looking in, most people
assumed that my lifestyle was the stuff of dreams,
but they didn’t know the half of it.
Every piece in my “six-figure wardrobe” was
on loan from Vogue’s overstuffed back-order
closet. My million-dollar condo was a guilt gift
from my father, and by the time the lawyers sorted
out my mother’s estate and paid her taxes, all that
was left was a few small debts that fell to me.
I had nothing.
Sure, I could’ve easily accepted the inheritance
from my father’s estate, but I knew there were
strings attached to those millions. It wasn’t just,
“Here you go, claim your funds and walk away.” It
was, “Here are these drip payments and they can
stop anytime you stop playing” my father’s game.
Anytime I refused to show up to an event where he
wanted me to be, anytime I refused to hang out
with fellow socialites for a warm reception in the
press. Even if we were slowly getting on better
terms, I knew my father would never let me use his
money to live my own life; I would pay him for it,
in one way or another.
I had huge dreams outside of this city, and at
the rate I was saving (Okay, stealing), I’d be able to
start my own design house and work for myself by
the end of next year.
As I was adjusting my earrings, my phone
buzzed in my lap again. Michael.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Hello, Meredith,” he said, his voice deep. “I’m
returning your call from earlier. Was something
wrong?”
“No, I was just wondering what you were doing
tonight.”
“You.” He let out a low laugh. “But before that,
I’m going to a private production of Wicked at
Gershwin Theater around ten o’clock. You’re more
than welcome to join me, if you’d like.”
“Since when does a Broadway play offer
private productions?”
“Since one of the executive producers asked for
it.” There was a smile in his voice. “One of the
companies that I own invests a lot of money into
Broadway shows. This is just a small way that they
say thank you.”
I raised my eyebrow. This was easily the
twentieth time he’d said, “one of the companies I
own,” that had a completely different function than
any of the others he’d mentioned. It was yet
another thing he owned outside of Fahrenheit 900.
Although I knew that he was wealthy from the way
he dressed, the way he carried himself, and the way
he implied it, I honestly had no clue what he really
did for a living.
“What are you doing tonight?” he asked.
“Um…” I cleared my throat. “I’m going to
hang out at my secret job for a while.”
“You once told me that you were going to
reveal what this so-called ‘secret job’ is.” He
paused. “Is tonight a good time for you to finally do
that?”
“Another night would be better…” I said. “One
day, I’ll invite you to see me.”
“On that day, I’ll sit in the front row.”
I bit my lip at the thought of him ever coming to
Club Swan. I highly doubted that I’d be able to
focus for more than five seconds with him watching
me dance and I could easily picture me beckoning
him with my fingers, as I lay on my back just for
him. Could easily picture crawling into his lap, in
front of everyone, and letting him be the first and
only man in that club to ever touch me.
“Are you still there, Meredith?” He was
laughing. “It’s been three minutes and you haven’t
said anything.”
“Sorry.” I cleared my throat. “I think I’ll take a
raincheck on Wicked, since I’ve already seen it, but
I’ll call you later tonight.”
“Talk to you later.” He ended the call, and I let
out a breath.
When the cab pulled up to the entrance of 120
Park Avenue minutes later, I handed the driver a
fifty and stepped out. I took the elevator up to the
top floor and was immediately met by the security
guards.
“Evening,” they said in unison, motioning for
me to walk past them.
I walked straight through and my second life
unfolded in front of me with bright blue and white
flashing lights.
With seven main stages and five smaller ones,
this club was by far, one of the most sought after
places for high-profile businessmen in New York.
Their credit cards were checked at the door, all
verified by me on the nights that I worked, and the
charges always appeared as “Business Suite
Rental,” so no one who ever glanced at their bills
would know the truth.
This place was their dirty little secret. Drugs
and liquor were easily at their fingertips, and they
paid top dollar to be entertained for as long as they
wanted to stay.
I dressed in my favorite outfit—a shimmering
black bodysuit with matching feathers, and I
buckled a pair of sparkling silver stilettos around
my ankles.
I made my way to the stage opening, right at the
moment my set-list was about to play. I moved
from behind the curtains and strutted to the center
pole—looping my leg around the metal before
hoisting myself up as far as I could go.
I used my thighs to hang on and tilted my body
backwards, letting my arms and curls fall toward
the floor—hanging free until the music changed
tempos.
When my routine began, I pretended like I
couldn’t see anyone else in the club except
Michael. He was sitting in the front row, leaning
back, fat cigar between his lips.
As the smoke unfurled from the tip of his
Cuban, I slowly twirled around the pole—making
my way down to the ground. Arching my back
against the pole, I moved my hips to the beat—
teasing him with every move.
For a moment, I thought that he really was here,
that my imagination was drawing him a bit too
clearly. But when the music stopped, the lights in
the room brightened a bit and he wasn’t there. It
was the same suits as usual, the same Wall Street
men I was seconds away from stealing a few grand
from.
Sliding off the pole, I picked up the tons of bills
that landed and headed backstage.
Twenty five hundred dollars…
Thrilled, I wrapped my silk slipcover over my
outfit and walked to the dressing room. As I was
stuffing my belongings into my bag, the club owner
—Mr. Heights, stepped into the room.
“Good shit as always,” he said, crossing his
arms. “You want to make tonight the night that you
actually become a part of the team?”
“Depends,” I said. “What do you mean?”
“We’ve got a really special client coming in a
few minutes,” he said. “He just dropped one
hundred grand to buy all the tables and booths for
his friends, and he wants a private dance in the
grand VIP suite.”
“In that case, I’m sure any of the other girls
would love to get a tip from him.”
“He’s specifically requested you.” He narrowed
his eyes at me. “His exact words were, I want The
Black Swan. So, since he just paid me in fucking
cash and every bill is legit, he’s going to get to
watch you dance in private.”
I swallowed, shaking my head. “We agreed that
I would never have to do that.”
“That was the arrangement for the first few
months,” he said, glaring at me. “It’s been way
longer than that. If you don’t like it, you can quit,
and then see if any of the other clubs in this city
will let you treat their business like a goddamn
hobby. Meet him in the VIP Suite in fifteen minutes
or walk your ass out of my building and don’t come
back.”
I said nothing. I’d been lucky enough to fly
under the radar so far, and from what the other girls
had told me about the private rooms, these clients
always thought that a few extra hundreds meant
more touches. A couple thousand meant a blow job
or a hand job so good, it felt like a blow job.
I couldn’t imagine what a guy who dropped one
hundred thousand would think he was entitled to
receive. And the thought of touching any man other
than Michael was enough to make my skin crawl.
If this asshole even thinks about touching me,
I’m going to press charges.
I dropped my bag onto the bench and sighed. “I
can stay for one more hour.”
“You can stay for as long as he needs you to,”
he hissed and handed me my cut—a couple
thousand. “Some of us don’t have the luxury to
decide when we want to work or not.”
He crossed his arms and watched me freshen up
my make-up, as if he didn’t trust me. Then he
grabbed me and personally walked me to the best
VIP suite.
“You better do a damn good job,” he said,
double checking the liquor spread on the table.
I waited for him to call in a security guard, but
he didn’t.
As if he could read my mind, he looked over his
shoulder as he walked toward the door. “The
customer paid an extra fifty thousand to not have a
security guard in the room.”
I swallowed, feeling my heart crash against my
chest in fear.
“You can still hit the panic button,” he said.
“And Donovan will be outside the room, so if you
scream loud enough, if something goes wrong, he’ll
still be around.”
I bit my tongue. This man was an asshole of
epic proportions.
He shut the door and I sucked in several deep
breaths. I stepped onto the platform at the center of
the room, and hoped like hell that his mystery man
was just someone who had nothing better to do
with his millions. That he would watch me dance
and request nothing else.
The door opened minutes later, and a man in a
dark grey jacket and jeans stepped into the room.
He had tattoos inked under his eyes—teardrops,
clouds, and small cursive names. The Virgin Mary
was drawn onto his neck in impressive shades of
black and red, and as he slowly took off his jacket,
I noticed that tattoos owned every inch of his arms.
He stood still and gave me a menacing stare,
instantly scaring the living shit out of me.
Unsure of what to do, I avoided eye contact and
started to move around the pole, like an awkward
first-timer.
Grabbing the neck of a vodka bottle, he poured
himself a shot and tossed it back before slumping
down onto the plush leather couch. He watched me
dance for all of two songs, and then he held up his
hand.
“Stop,” he said, his voice terse. “Have a
goddamn seat.”
“It’s club policy that I’m not supposed to ever
—”
“Have a fucking seat, Meredith Alexis
Thatchwood. Or would you prefer if I call you The
Black Swan and pretend to buy into whatever
bullshit pity story all your coworkers believe?”
I froze at the sound of him saying my real
name, stepping down and obliging within seconds.
He poured himself another shot, and then he
extended one to me.
Too scared to reject it, I tossed it down my
throat. The small glass slipped from my fingers,
shattering on the floor.
“I’m glad I’m finally getting to meet you in
person,” he said, pulling out his phone. “Although,
I never would’ve guessed that an heiress would
work in a place like this. I mean, don’t get me
wrong, it’s one of the nicest places in the city, but
doesn’t Daddy Dearest give you enough of your
inheritance every month, so you don’t have to
come here?”
I didn’t answer. I’d never seen this man a day in
my life, and the mere sight of him was setting me
on edge and making me wonder if tonight would be
the end of my life.
“Are you deaf?” He glared at me. “I just asked
you a fucking question.”
“I’m not an heiress anymore…” was all I could
think to say.
“Well, that actually makes some sense,” he
said. “But not enough for me to forgive you for
what you’ve done to me.”
I swallowed, unsure of what the hell he was
talking about. I watched as he calmly rose to his
feet, as he poured himself a glass of whiskey and
took his time sipping it.
“I’m not a man who gets surprised too easily
these days, Miss Thatchwood,” he says. “But any
person who is willing to blatantly steal from me and
ignore all of my fucking phone calls, always gives
me quite the shock.”
“No, I…” I shook my head, now realizing that
the annoying number must’ve belonged to him.
“I’ve never stolen from you…”
“Oh, yeah?” He raised his eyebrow. “Maybe
you thought that by taking a few thousand from
these stuffy ass suits, that you were just being a
slick bitch and it would never catch up to you. That
taking money from them was just easy money that
they could work overtime and replace before their
wives found out, huh?” He walked over to me and
pulled a gun out of his pocket, placing the barrel
under my chin and gently tipping my head up to
look into his eyes. “What you should know is,
that’s my fucking money, and I owe it to the A
brothers—two people you don’t cross or dare to
pay late in this city. They’re the only two people
outside of my own group who I actually respect,
and they don’t offer payment plans or understand
the words, I can’t pay you on time this week.”
I sucked in a breath as he moved the barrel
against my neck, cocking it.
“If you’d only taken a few thousand, maybe I
could’ve lived with that. Maybe I would’ve made
you give me your night’s wages for a few months
and made sure you never stole from me again, but
—” He paused, laughing and shaking his head.
“You’ve stolen a bit too much for that to be an
option.”
“Please don’t kill me…”
“Kill you?” He laughed, even harder this time.
“I’m not going to kill you. I can’t pay anybody with
a dead body.”
“I can give you your money back.”
“I know,” he said. “You’re going to do it right
now.” He called out for someone and the door
opened, allowing another guy to walk into the
room. “Take Miss Thatchwood down to the car.
We’re going to hold her overnight and then take her
to the bank in the morning.”
“No, wait.” I felt my voice cracking. “You
don’t need to do that. I can give it all back to you
right here.”
“You’re walking around this city with two
hundred and fifty thousand dollars of my money in
cash?” He moved the gun away from me. “Please
tell me that you’re not that fucking dumb.”
“No.” I swallowed. “It’s in different bank
accounts…I stole from each client’s personal bank
account. I know all their account numbers by heart
and I can just transfer it back.”
He blinked, looked over at his guy.
His guy pulled out a phone and showed him a
screen, then he looked at me.
“Anthony Sorenson,” he said. “Thirteen
thousand eight hundred thirty-five dollars. Tell me
his bank information.”
“Bank of Hudson,” I said. “Routing number
4500017. Account number 2387907. The business
account, not the checking.”
His guy tapped the screen a few times, and then
he nodded. “It’s legit, sir.”
“Make Miss Thatchwood a drink, Kep,” he
said, taking a seat. “She’s going to give us the
account numbers for all our clients, and then she’s
going to tell us where exactly these transfers will be
coming from. We’re going to be here for at least
half an hour.”
I downed the alcohol within seconds of him
giving it to me, and rattled off the accounts as he
listed the names of all the men I’d stolen from over
the past couple of years. Every now and then, he’d
say, “You’re a goddamn waste of talent…” but
there was no other conversation between us.
When he reached the last name—a Mr. Tanner
Yardley, he sat up and lit a cigarette.
“Now, give me your account number, so I can
take it directly from there.”
“I know all the accounts,” I said. “I thought
you would trust me to do it on my own.”
“Then you thought fucking wrong. Account
number. Bank. Now.”
“There’s more than the money I owe you in this
account, though…” I looked at him. “You’re only
taking the money I stole, right? There’s sixty or so
there that’s not yours.”
“I’m taking all of it,” he said. “It’s called
interest, and if you don’t start spouting out the
fucking numbers within the next few seconds,
you’re going to lose a lot more than that.”
“Cadence River Bank.” I felt tears pricking my
eyes, but I didn’t dare let them fall. “Account
number 4123483.”
His guy nodded once he confirmed it was the
right account, and then he stood to his feet.
“There’s an underground ecosystem in this city,
Meredith.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “One that I
don’t think you’ll ever know anything about, and I
don’t think you should ever fuck with it again.”
I was too stunned to say a word. I swore on my
life that I was done coming here forever. It was
time to let this lifestyle go.
“Glad we could have this little chat tonight.”
He walked to the door. “Now, I suggest you put in a
notice of absence and take a vacation from this life.
Go find somebody to fuck over who isn’t me. In a
month, after I make sure my money is returned and
accounted for, you can come back and dance off as
many Daddy issues as you like. We clear?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” He walked over to me, placed his gun
under my chin one more time for good measure.
“I’m glad I never had to tell the A brothers about
you.” He smiled. “You’d be dead by now, and that
would be a damn shame. Between you and me, I
think you’re too pretty for a casket. Then again, so
are roses, and we throw those at caskets all the
time, huh?”
He looked me over again before leaving the
room with his guy, and all the tears I’d been holding
inside, started making their way down my face.
Rushing back to the dressing room, I grabbed
my bag and rushed out of the dressing room. I took
the stairwell, running down several flights, until I
made it to the lobby, out of the club and down the
block. I was running without a destination, and I
knew I wasn’t going to be able to stop for a while…
* * *
An hour later, my heart was still racing out of fear,
and I couldn’t help but feel like someone was
watching me.
Instead of hailing a cab, I made my way to the
closest subway station and took a seat near the
back. As the train made its way across the city, I
tried not to think about what had happened at Club
Swan. How everything I’d built over the past
couple years was a complete and utter lie, and I’d
lost it in a single night.
“Now stopping at Broadway and 7th.” The
subway’s system called out. “Broadway and 7th.”
I stood as the train slowed, and stepped off. I
made my way up the steps and walked two blocks
to Gershwin Theater.
“We’re closed, Miss,” the security guard said as
I approached. “Come back tomorrow.”
“I’m here to see Michael Anderson,” I said, and
he immediately opened the door. I stood inside the
empty lobby for several seconds—taking in all of
the beautiful green and black designs, then I took
the steps to the next level and opened the double
doors to the theater.
Onstage, Glinda the Good Witch was reciting a
monologue, while wearing a sparkling blue. gown—
addressing the villagers of the fictional town.
Squinting in the darkness, I looked around the
empty theater. In the center, on the balcony level
was Michael, staring straight ahead.
He was leaning back in his seat with the top
buttons of his shirt undone, looking sexy as fuck, as
always.
I made my way up to him and took a seat on his
right.
“Did you have a good time at your secret job
tonight?” he asked.
“No,” I said softly. “I won’t be going to my
secret job anymore.”
He turned to face me, raising his eyebrow.
“What happened?”
“Nothing…I just made a few critical mistakes
and they finally caught up to me.”
He pressed his fingers under my chin, tilted it
up a bit to where his eyes met mine. “Is there
anything I can do to help?”
“Not unless you’re a crime boss or know some
people called the A brothers…”
“What?” He looked beyond concerned now.
“Why would you ever need to know who the A
brothers are?”
“No reason, I um…” I shrugged. “I got off
pretty easy. I needed a break from this side job
anyway.”
He stayed silent, staring at me intently.
“How’s the play so far?” I asked, trying to
change the subject. “Are they convincing you that
the villain isn’t as bad as we always thought he
was?”
“No,” he said. “True villains never change.”
“They can become heroes in their backstories.”
“No,” he said, running his fingers through my
hair. “They’re just pretending. They’ll return to
their old ways.”
“I won’t return to mine.” I shook my head,
looking into his eyes. “Sometimes, I don’t think I’m
a good person.”
“That’s okay.” He smiled. “I don’t think I’m a
good person, either.”
“You can’t be as bad as me,” I said. “I stole
from people.”
“I hurt people.”
I raised my eyebrow. “Is that past tense or
present?”
He didn’t answer that. “You’re not a bad
person, Meredith. You’ve just done a few bad
things.”
“What about you?”
“I’ve done a lot of bad things…” He ran his
fingers through my hair. “You’re actually at the top
of that list.”
Before I could ask him what he meant by that,
he pulled my face close to his and kissed me.
He pulled up the armrest between us, and slid
his hand under my dress, but I grabbed it and
moved it away.
“I wish you had been there with me tonight,” I
said.
“Why’s that?”
“I have the feeling it might’ve ended very
differently…I honestly thought you were there for
a split second…”
“If I was there, how would it have ended
differently?”
“I’ll show you.” I moved down to the floor,
between his legs. I unbuckled his belt, kept my eyes
on his as I unzipped his zipper and pulled out his
cock.
I sucked it into my mouth, slowly bobbing my
head up and down his length, swirling my tongue
around his shaft each time I came up.
He groaned and ran his fingers through my hair,
as I arched my back and took him as deep as I
could. I gripped his knees and moved a bit faster.
“I need to come in your throat,” he said, turning
me on even more. “I need to mark it as mine and I
want you to swallow every drop…”
He slid his hand under my shirt and gently
squeezed my nipple.
He came in my throat at the end of the act,
against the sound of the final song, and I
swallowed. He stared at me in utter awe and pulled
me up and into his lap.
“I think we should go back to your place now.”
“There’s one more act in this play…”
“We can watch it tomorrow.”
* * *
I see the man who ruined my life of crime a few
times after that in passing. Out of fear, I always
double check to make sure his number hasn’t
crossed my screen and I’ve missed it somehow.
He smiles at me whenever we happen to be in
the coffee shop I venture into for my boss, but the
first time he saw me with Michael, his eyes
widened and he immediately backed away and kept
his distance.
It wasn’t until Michael went to the restroom
that he walked right up to me and whispered seven
final words before completely disappearing from
my life.
“That’s one hell of a fucking checkmate…”
Michael
Now
Police Publicly Confirm that DNA Found in Trunk
of Car Belongs to Meredith Thatchwood
Officials to Investigate Thatchwood Case as a
Homicide
Leonardo Thatchwood Announces Memorial
for Daughter, Starts Foundation in Her Honor
1-888-MER-TIPS line to be redirected to
private firm; Reward Money Decreased
Residents at Meredith Thatchwood’s Condo
Request Access to Her Condo; Claim She’d
Promised to Give Away Several Pieces of her
Wardrobe
Top Ten Reasons Why Meredith Thatchwood is
Probably Dead (& Tips on How to Take on Her Old
Job at Vogue)
I roll my eyes at the pure laziness in the recent
headlines, giving up on the media entirely. The only
thing they’ve done right, is make the next few
weeks far easier for me.
Setting down The Washington Post, I wait for
Meredith to join me downstairs for dinner, but she
never does. Our latest chess game remains at a
standstill, her bishop in danger of crossing the line.
It’s the third day in a row that she’s done this,
and it’s driving me more insane than usual. Not
fucking her for weeks was better than getting a
taste of it and having it taken away, without a
chance for a repeat.
The night that she was in my bed—taking me in
as deeply as I could go, I realized one taste of her
would never be enough. I was having intense
withdrawals already. I was remembering what the
hell got me into this situation in the first place, and
I was feeling an uncomfortable and rather annoying
emotion: Vulnerability.
I stood outside her door like a fucking sap last
night, asking her to let me inside, waiting for her to
come out. I was willing to open up about some of
the reasons why she was here, if she could just give
me one fucking taste of her mouth, but she never
opened her door.
I turned on our wedding video on the living
room TV during breakfast today, expecting her to
come down and watch it like she normally did. To
glare and scowl at me during all the sweet parts, but
to sit there, with me, and start to accept and believe
that there was a bit of a method to this madness.
(And maybe also, so we could fuck at the end, but
the aforementioned things would’ve been fine as
well.)
The only thing she did was tiptoe down the
steps and grab a few bagels. She poked her head
into the room when I said my vows, and she rushed
back to her room without saying a single word to
me.
What the hell am I missing?
Michael
Now
Subject: Your wife’s memorial + WTF
I wore a turtleneck and gloves, and made sure
to look very sad while playing you.
What happened to “We don’t fuck with the
mafia? Ever.” Why the hell is Rio Warren currently
in the hospital?
You’re welcome for my presence at the
memorial.
--Trevor
Subject: Re: Your wife’s memorial + WTF
I’m sure you weren’t as attractive as I would’ve
been, but I won’t hold it against you.
I have no idea what you’re talking about in
regard to Rio.
Thank you for going in my place.
--Michael
Subject: Re: Re: Your wife’s memorial + WTF
Someone in a ski mask beat the hell out of him,
out of nowhere several hours ago…The bone
breaks and the M.O. of the attack from behind all
sound like something you would do, in my
opinion…
What the fuck did he do to you to deserve that?
I’m not doing any other favors for you.
--Trevor
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Your wife’s memorial +
WTF
Did any cameras catch this “someone in a ski
mask”? I don’t think there would be any around, if
someone were bold enough to attack Mr. Warren in
broad daylight.
I don’t have any other favors to ask of you.
Michael
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your wife’s memorial +
WTF
WHAT THE FUCK DID HE DO TO YOU TO
DESERVE THAT?
Trevor
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your wife’s
memorial + WTF
I just happened to stumble across my wife’s old
diary the other day and saw something in there
about him that I didn’t like. That’s all.
Michael
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your wife’s
memorial + WTF
Meet me at The Reynolds Diner off 87. NOW.
Trevor
Michael
Now
The diner where Trevor wants to meet is not his
typical style at all. It’s simple and cheap, and I’m
sure it’ll only take thirty minutes for him to
complain about the lack of a three-course menu.
Pulling out this week’s latest list of offenders
while I wait, I run my highlighter over a few of the
names that weren’t there last week. There are a few
I’ll pay a free visit to in the coming months.
After half an hour has passed, Trevor walks into
the diner—making the waitress do an immediate
double take and drop her coffee pot to the floor.
Ever the gentleman, he helps her pick it up and
strikes up a short conversation. He offers to brew
his own coffee, and he tells her that he thinks she’s
pretty. I’m certain he’s failing to mention that her
manager is currently suffocating to death in the
back of his trunk.
When he finishes charming her, he heads my
way and pulls a newspaper from his coat.
“You hear about this?” He slams a copy of The
New York Times onto the table. “They’re building
some new luxury condos over the place where we
used to stay. They’re going to be designed by some
egotistical hotshot who wants each unit to cost a
minimum of five million.”
“I did hear.”
“The asshole is going to blow up the old
buildings and dig trenches twelve feet deep for a
moat. A goddamn moat in New York City.” He
shakes his head. “Unbelievable.”
“I think it’s quite ambitious,” I say. “Stupid, but
ambitious.”
“It’s unfortunate.” He lets out a sigh. “But
nothing I can’t look into this week.”
“I take it that you’ll have some of our guys
assess the building plans and move some things
around before they begin?”
“Already did.” He pours himself a cup of
coffee. “Now that that’s settled, how’d you get rid
of Thatchwood?”
“I’ve already told you this.”
“I want to hear it again.” He shrugs. “I’m in the
mood for a really good story today.”
I set my newspaper down and sigh, signaling the
waitress for a second fresh pot of coffee.
“I suffocated her while she slept,” I say, as the
waitress walks away. “Wrapped her in a rug and
cracked her skull with a sledgehammer. Her body is
at the bottom of a ghosted river.”
He nods, takes another sip from his cup. “You
know, that’s a really intricate and well-detailed
tale.”
“The truth usually is.”
“The lies are always better.” He glares at me. “I
had two guys trail you on the day you supposedly
got it done.”
I tap my fingers against the table; I know this
already and I’d purposely lost them after seventy
miles of driving.
“When they lost you, I made them stop and
wait at the ghosted river,” he says. “You never
showed.”
“You and I both know that it takes far more
than two people to watch an entire river.”
“Michael…” he says, looking into my eyes.
“Don’t fuck with me. Where is she?”
“Are you asking as my brother or as the
client?”
“First, I’m asking as the client.”
“She died a tragic death and she’ll never be
found.”
“Now, I’m asking as your brother.”
“She died a tragic death and she’ll never be
found.”
He lets out a sigh and leans back in his seat,
shaking his head. “Rio said that your wife had a
double life in that strip club.”
“He’s just upset that he didn’t get invited to the
wedding.”
“I don’t think that’s it.”
“How well do you really know your wife,
then?” He narrows his eye at me. “Because this is a
perfect example of why I’m not supposed to tell
you shit about who and what is behind the jobs we
do. There’s always a risk of someone getting too
close.”
“I’m not that close to her. I’m just close
enough.”
“For your sake, I’m going to hope that’s true,”
he said. “I know the past few years have held a few
detours on things for us, but now is not the time to
lose focus, Michael. We have a plan and we need to
stick to it, until it’s one hundred percent complete.”
“How much do I owe you for this lecture? Do
you accept cash or credit?”
He rolls his eyes, but he slowly backs down.
“Now that I think about it, I’m kind of upset that I
didn’t get an invitation to your wedding.”
“Would you have shown up?”
“I would’ve tasted the cake.”
I smile. “I thought it would be best if she
doesn’t know about you.”
“Doesn’t or didn’t? Is she currently in past or
present tense?”
I sigh and fold my newspaper. “Give me the
next job and go get on someone else’s nerves.”
“There aren’t any for the next few weeks, since
a certain someone completed them all early,” he
says. “You can return to doing the ones on your
personal list for a while. I’ll be doing some
accounting for a few businesses that owe us some
money.”
“Noted.”
“For what it’s worth,” he says, standing to his
feet and placing a newspaper clipping of me and
Meredith’s wedding photo onto the table. “I’ve
never seen you happier than when you were
stringing her along. By the way, there’s blood on
your hands.”
“Literally or figuratively?”
“Both.”
I look down and see a dried streak of blood on
the inner lining of my glove’s left finger. A small bit
of Rio.
“Thank you.”
He nods and starts to walk away, but then he
comes right back.
“In the off chance that you’re considering being
with your wife for the long term and telling her
everything…” he says, “Like, if you honestly think
there’s a chance that she’ll be able to accept you
for you once you bare your soul, I want to give you
some advice.”
I don’t even pretend to deny his suspicions
anymore.
“Don’t.” He glares at me. “You know it’s
pointless and it’ll never last. You have far better
things to do—An “all or nothing” promise that you
owe yourself, and me. If you ever suspected me of
doing what I’m suspecting you of doing, when it
comes to a target, I would expect you to tell me the
same goddamn thing.”
“Even if you love her?”
“Especially if you love her.” He steps back.
“You can’t have her forever, and you know it. Get
rid of her now, Michael. For real this time.”
Meredith
Now
I’m standing downstairs in the mansion’s basement.
One of two places in this house where Michael’s
cell phone gets reception. (The other is the living
room, and I won’t dare risk doing this anywhere
near Michael.)
It’s now or never. This man is going to kill me,
and he’s left me in the dark this entire journey.
Seeing that guy’s number on his phone let me know
that Michael is a part of that “underground
ecosystem” and I want to save myself from being a
part of that food chain.
My fingers tremble with every digit of Gillian’s
number I type onto the phone’s screen. I hit the
green icon and hold the phone up to my ear, hoping
like hell the call will go through.
Ring. Ring. Ring…
“Hello?” she answers, her voice soft.
“Gillian, it’s me. Meredith. Please don’t hang
up. Please!”
The line remains quiet, and for a split second, I
think that she believes me, but then she begins to
yell. “Fuck you! I don’t know who the hell you
think you are, but this shit is not funny! Stop
playing your twisted fucking games with me and
delete my number! Right now!”
“It’s really me, Gillian.” The words rush out of
my mouth. “Michael has kidnapped me. You were
right about me trusting him a little too easily, falling
in love a little too fast. I’m not missing. I’m still
alive, and I need you to call the police.”
I hear her sniffle, so I continue talking. “We
played Russian Roulette with a toy gun in our old
apartment one night when we both had horrible
days at work, remember?” I try to say as much as I
can to prove my point, to prevent her from hanging
up. “You and Jake argued almost every day when
you first started dating. You demanded more from
him than any other woman had before. Even
though I used to think that you two had the most
toxic, up and down relationship ever, I told you that
I couldn’t see you dating anyone else. It’s really
me, Gillian,” I beg. “Please don’t hang up. Please
help me…”
It’s too late.
She’s long gone.
My blood is boiling and although tears are
pricking my eyes, I refuse to let them fall.
Crying won’t make any of this make sense.
Nothing is adding up when it comes to the man
who calls himself my husband, and I doubt
anything ever will. I’ve thought my final move
through hundreds of times—weighed the pros and
cons, and it’s time to end this one-sided game once
and for all.
My husband has never been my partner. He’s
the dealer of a twisted game, and he’s finally
forcing me to play my best hand.
Slipping the phone into my pocket, I make my
way upstairs to face him.
The moment I step into the living room, I clear
my throat. “We need to talk. Now.”
“Of course,” he says. “But first, tell me
something. How is Gillian?” He smiles. “Did you
two have a nice chat?”
I freeze like a deer in headlights, my blood
running cold at the shock of his words.
“I’m assuming she didn’t believe it was you
who called…” He picks up his whiskey shot glass,
tosses it back. “I wouldn’t take that personally.
She’s been getting a lot of fake emails and spam
calls lately. It’s a shame what some people on the
internet will do for attention these days.”
“I’m calling the police now,” I say, pulling the
cell phone out of my pocket. My finger hovers
above the ‘start call’ icon. “I’m going to tell them
everything.”
“Oh?” He raises his eyebrow, not looking
rattled in the slightest. “What exactly do you plan
on telling them?”
“That my husband kidnapped me and held me
in captivity for no reason,” I say, stepping forward.
“That he’s clearly involved in some twisted
criminal activity, and I’m willing to bet that if they
look closely enough, they’ll find a few more
things.”
“They’ll find a lot more things.”
“I won’t visit you in prison,” I say, moving
toward him, stopping right in front of the chess
table. “But I will send you a wedding invitation
when I find a man who isn’t full of shit and actually
knows what the fuck it means to love someone.”
“You’ll never find another man who is willing
to do half of what I’ve done for you, Meredith.” He
looks at me. “You can bet millions on that, all
fucking day long.”
“I’d bet my life on the opposite of that.”
“If only you knew how fucking ironic those
words were….” He averts his gaze to my hand,
where I was finally hitting the call icon—daring
him to do something, but he remained still.
The phone’s line beeped a couple times,
sounded with a few seconds of static, and then it
rang.
For a moment, the two of us stare at each other
—taking in the last frames of what I’m sure will be
the end of us.
A buzzing sound cuts through the silence, and
Michael lifts a couch pillow and picks up a
different cell phone. Holding it up to his ear, he
keeps his eyes on mine as the ringing on my line
finally ends.
“9-1-1, emergency response,” he says, his lips
curve into a smirk. “How may I help you?”
I drop the phone to the floor, instantly
shattering the glass screen against the marble. I
stare at him in utter disbelief, complete and utter
horror.
“I figured I’d pretend like I didn’t notice when
one of my cell phones was missing,” he says. “Like
I didn’t know you had it and would probably call
Gillian, so…” He shrugs. “I made it so that’s the
only number you could reach, especially since I
called a few times to make sure she wouldn’t
believe it was you.”
I blink.
“You have to anticipate your opponent’s every
move, Meredith,” he says. “Be ten steps ahead of
him—or her, at all times. That’s why all of our
chess games end the same. Your pattern is too
damn predictable, and it translates into everything
you do. You’re so deeply steeped in your fucking
feelings, that you can’t consider any reasons why
someone would risk everything for you. But now
that we’re on the same page about who will always
—”
“Checkmate.” I cut him off in the middle of his
spiel, moving my bishop piece in front of his queen
—cementing the block on all sides. She has
nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.
The game is fucking over.
Michael’s gaze falls to the board and he
analyzes all the pieces, looking beyond stunned.
“I could’ve beat you the last eight times,” I say.
“But I wanted to make sure I memorized your
pattern first. It’s the same every time. Risky-ass
moves here or there for shock value—to make me
think you’re not afraid to lose, because you think
it’s beneath you. For the record, you’re one of the
most predictable fucking players I’ve ever shared
the board with.”
His lips turn up into a small smile as he looks up
at me, but he didn’t let it stay.
“Well done, Meredith.” He pushes the table to
the side and closes the gap between us. “I’m
impressed.”
“I’m a lot smarter than I look. Ten times
smarter than you.”
“A little too far-fetched with the last claim,” he
says, then he lets out a sigh. “Do you still trust
me?”
“Hell no.”
He smiles. “Well, you’re going to have to, if
you want me to tell you the truth about why you’re
here.”
“Anything short of you saying, I’m having a
psychotic break and will check into an asylum,
won’t suffice.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that,” he
says, looking deeply into my eyes—forcing my
heart to react against my will. The look in his eyes
is genuine, and for a split second, he looks like the
Michael who I fell for. The Michael who swore he
would do anything to protect me.
“You can start talking at any time,” I whisper.
“Not here,” he says, running his fingers through
my hair. “We can have this conversation on the
way there.”
“Where is there?”
“The next place we have to be,” he says. “It’s
going to be a long drive and it’s going to take a few
days. Would you like to come with me?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not if you want answers,” he says. “Pack
whatever you need by midnight.” He steps back
and walks away.
Meredith
Now
I should’ve known better…
The moment we got into Michael’s car, he
turned into a mute. He didn’t offer up any answers,
didn’t address any of my questions. Instead, he
drove me to a small airport hangar near the river,
where a salt and pepper haired pilot flew us “closer
to the west.”
He didn’t speak to me on the plane at all—save
for a “Try not to move so much,” upon landing near
an abandoned football field.
From there, he took our bags and ushered me
into where we are now—sitting side by side in
silence, in an unmarked car that’s speeding down
an empty highway.
“I really do love you,” he says, finally breaking
the ice. “I fucked up by doing so, but I want you to
know that. No matter what, that’s the truth.”
“It’s going to take me a lot more time to say
those words to you again.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because husbands who love their wives,
typically don’t treat them like pets and keep them
like protected hostages.”
“No, they just protect them from anyone who
tries to hurt them,” he says. “I’ve done that.”
“Why do you keep saying this shit?” I snap.
“The only thing you’ve done is hurt and manipulate
me time and time again. One minute you love me,
the next you leave me wondering when’s the next
time I’ll see you again—all while saying how
grateful I should be that you took me away from
my life.”
“Someone took out a hit on your fucking life,
Meredith,” he hissed, swerving and pulling the car
over on the side of the road. “Someone wanted you
murdered—dead and gone, chopped up in fucking
pieces to where you’d never be found for years. So,
that’s why I keep saying this shit. Because I
stepped in and saved you from that.”
“What?” My mind begins spinning, and I refuse
to believe that. I haven’t hurt anyone, or done
anything that heinous to deserve to be murdered.
At least, I don’t think… “There was this guy in
Club Swan. Long story short, I stole some money
from people who owed him and he made me give it
back. But maybe he decided that wasn’t enough?
Maybe he wanted to end my life?”
“Rio Warren is not the type to want anyone
dead,” he says. “He only cares about money.”
“Then, who would honestly want me gone
then?” I shrug. “That just doesn’t make any sense.
If you let me see your cell phone, I can call my dad
and see if he has any enemies. He’ll be elated to
know I’m okay, but he’ll be upset about this for
sure. I know my aunt and I don’t get along, but it’s
not on that level. I mean, at this point, I’m more
willing to believe it was you, if someone told me,
but—”
“It’s your fucking father,” he says, clearly upset
at the last line I’ve said. “You’ve been crying all
these tears about him, but he’s not interested in
seeing or hearing from you again. He couldn’t care
less about you being gone. If you call him, the last
thing he’ll be is elated. He’ll pretend to be, and
then he’ll just call someone else to finish the job.”
“No…” I feel the ground shift under my feet,
feel my entire world shift on its axis. I haven’t
heard anything past, “Your father…took out a hit
on your fucking life.” “You’re lying,” was all I
could say. “You’re lying…We’ve had our moments,
but he would never—he would never do that.”
He pulls a phone out of his pocket and holds it
up to my face. Then he hits play.
It’s a grainy video, with two men. One is a
young blond—the flower delivery guy who once
came into my office every day to deliver Michael’s
daily roses. The other man is my father.
“Once we do this, there’s no going back,”
Flower Guy says.
“I know. I don’t want her to suffer, though.
Nothing too hurtful, okay?”
“Whoa. We’re just making her disappear for a
while. There’s nothing too hurtful about that at all.”
“You don’t understand,” my father says. “I
want her gone gone. Not just missing. Missing for
good, if you catch my drift. I don’t want her body
found for at least five years.”
Flower Guy shakes his head. “I’m not
authorized to discuss that type of a job with you.
You’ll have to take that up with the next guy in the
chain.”
“Then get him on the phone or have him meet
us here.”
They continue talking, but I have to stop
listening. I can feel an unfamiliar heaviness in my
chest, and I can’t stop the tears from falling if I
tried.
Michael places the car in park and unfastens his
seatbelt, leaning over and holding me in his arms
for what feels like forever.
I want her gone-gone…
* * *
The next several hours pass by in a hazy blur,
marked by a few stops at gas stations and off-road
coffee shops, but no words are spoken.
There’s nothing to say.
As the sun sets in the distance, we approach a
bridge—where an abandoned grey Honda sits idle.
Michael pulls over to the side of the road and
turns off the car. Motioning for me to sit still, he
steps out and pops the trunk. Taking out our bags,
he moves them to the parked car ahead of us.
After securing the bags into the new trunk, he
opens the passenger door and motions for me to get
out.
I don’t ask questions. I’m still trying to process
the idea of my father wanting me murdered, and I
don’t think I’ll ever understand. I don’t think I’ll
ever be the same.
Settling onto the seat of the newer getaway car,
I stare straight ahead and wonder what the hell I
could’ve done to make my father want me
permanently gone. My heart refuses to accept it,
but the wheels in my mind are spinning overtime.
I comb through all of our most recent
conversations, the proud look in his eyes when he
gave me away at the wedding, the well-wishes he
gave at the reception. It’s not until I think back to
the night of my impromptu flower delivery from
him, that his written words cross my mind. They
remain suspended in a freeze frame for several
seconds, and a part of the puzzle becomes
somewhat clearer.
‘Everyone wants to vote for someone who
makes them feel something. Sometimes even
sympathy…’
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and
I swallow. I can’t believe I never questioned him
about that before. Never even asked him to prove
that he was really dropping out of the campaigns.
I look through the rearview mirror and see
Michael stepping out of his old car—him shutting
the door as the car rolls forward and down into the
lake.
He waits until the roof is completely
submerged, and then he walks to our new car and
cranks the engine.
“Are you cold?” he asks, pulling onto the road.
“Only on the inside.” I cross my arms. “Is my
father still campaigning?”
“He is.”
“So, you were hired to kill me and you chose
not to?”
“I think that’s quite obvious, Meredith,” he
says, looking over at me. “Seeing as though you’re
still breathing.”
“Is that what you do when you’re not running
your nightclub and investing in Broadway plays?
Take out people?”
“I make the world a better place.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means we still have several hours to go, and
that’s the end of that conversation.”
“Did you decide not to do it because you felt
sorry for me?”
“I did it because I fucking liked you, and then I
made the huge mistake of fucking loving you.” He
looked upset. “Happy?”
“No…What about the people you don’t fall in
love with? Do you go through with it on them?”
He doesn’t answer me. He turns the music up,
leaving me alone to a mess of my thoughts for
longer than I can bear.
* * *
Another several hours later
The Sonoran Desert stretches ahead of us for miles,
and I realize that we’re nearing the border of
Mexico. The sun has yet to rise over the horizon,
and the early morning clouds hang low.
We’ve been driving in silence for hours—
occasionally stopping for drinks and stretches, bits
of “Are you okay?” here or there.
His hand has clasped mine several times, the
mere touch of his fingers making me feel a bit more
secure with ease. He says the words, “It’ll all make
sense in the end,” under his breath, ever so often,
but I don’t ask him what that means.
“You know, if your ultimate plan was to save
me from my father, and run away together to start
new lives, I would’ve been fine with that. All you
had to do was tell me that in advance,” I said,
trying to start a conversation. “The kidnapping was
a bit unnecessary.”
He doesn’t answer. He just stares straight
ahead.
He pulls the car over into the parking lot of a
small bed and breakfast. He steps out and he
motions for me to follow suit.
“It’s time for you to check in.” He pops the
trunk and grabs a bag. “Make sure to request a
room with a good view.”
He doesn’t grab a bag for himself. There isn’t
one for him anymore.
“Aren’t you coming?” I ask.
“Does it look like I’m coming?”
I look down at the bag he hands to me and
realize that this isn’t the bag I packed.
This new bag is stuffed with hair dye—
strawberry blond, sweaters and hoodies, a
disposable camera (Who still uses those?), and
toiletries. There are envelopes and money inside,
but my journal and personal mementos—things I
actually wanted, are nowhere to be found.
“Where is the bag of my real stuff?” I look at
him. “The stuff you insisted that I pack?”
“I saw what was in it,” he said. “You won’t
need any of that for where you’re going.”
“So, what was the point of you making me pack
it?”
“To see if you were willing to trust me again.”
His voice is deadpan, and the warmth that was in
his eyes earlier is long gone.
I stare at him for several minutes, each moment
of silence marking a realization that I’m just now
getting to see.
“This is what you were planning to do the
whole time, isn’t it?” my voice is hoarse. “This is
your idea of saving me from ruin and being my so-
called hero?”
“I never told you that I was a fucking hero.” He
sounds offended. “I have eight more things to
handle, and I would’ve been finished with them by
now, if you weren’t in my way. I can’t afford to let
you be a burden to me anymore.”
“I’m a burden?”
“I didn’t stutter.” He pulls a wad of bills from
his pocket and stuffs them into my jacket. “I have
more important things to do than deal with a
romance that’ll never work out right now. I’ll
handle the divorce and make sure you have access
to an account that’ll never run dry.”
“You’re leaving me in Mexico?” I narrow my
eyes at him.
“This isn’t twenty-one questions, Meredith,” he
says. “You need to listen very carefully, and you
need to follow every direction to the letter.”
“Or else what?”
“I’m not going to answer that.”
“Michael—”
“Meredith.” He cuts me off. “Stop fucking
talking, and just do what the hell I’m telling you to
do. Now.”
He presses his finger against my lips before I
can say another word. “If you don’t, you’ll die, and
you’ll have wasted my fucking time.” He glares at
me. “Eight o’clock check out. Cab to Naco. Pay in
cash and show the Harriet passport. Check into the
Rio Grande Hotel, and tell them you’re meeting
someone named Benny. There won’t be a Benny,
but at noon, you’ll need to swim across the lazy
Azul river to avoid the number of protestors that
are going to storm the city that day. Traffic will be
at a standstill all week, so this is the best way.
You’ve been doing one hundred laps a day for
weeks, so you should be able to make that swim
easily by now…”
I stare at him in utter disbelief.
“When you get there, you’ll tell them your
name is Anna,” he says. “You’re a tourist who got
lost, and you’d like to visit your security box. It’ll
have everything you need. Transportation, more
directions, currency, everything. And then four
days from now, you’ll need to get to the airport and
check in for an eight o’clock flight to Geneva,
Switzerland. The receipt for the first-class ticket is
already in your bag. The second you get there, you
can start over living happily ever after.”
I shake my head, feeling tears fall down my
face.
He repeats his instructions, three more times—
each time more painful than the last. When he
finishes, he has the audacity to ask me if I have any
questions.
“Fuck you, Michael.” I step back. “Fuck you.”
“I never told you that this would be a fairytale,”
he says. “I told you on the night we met that we
couldn’t go any further. It’s your fault for getting
your goddamn hopes up.”
“I thought you said that you wanted me to trust
you.”
“You should trust me,” he says. “I just helped
you get a whole new goddamn life. You can’t go
back to New York, and you damn sure can’t live in
the United States,” he says. “You can make
something of yourself overseas, though. You once
said that you could live anywhere and do fashion,
so now’s the chance to see if you’re right.”
“Michael, please tell me that this is some type
of sick joke. What about us? All the things you said
about restarting what we had?”
“This is the end of us, Meredith.” He shrugs. “I
said all of those things because at one point I
thought I could mean them. Now, I’ve realized that
I don’t, and I think that’s for the best.”
I don’t respond. I just let my mind remind me
just how big of a fool I am for ever trusting this
man.
“I need you to listen very carefully to this final
list of directions I’m about to give you.” He starts
talking again. “I wrote you this letter explaining the
first part of everything I’ve done in detail. Should
you take my advice and arrive at all the locations
on time, a second letter will arrive explaining the
rest.”
I take the letter from his hands and rip it in half.
Then into smaller shreds, again and again.
“You’re going to regret that, Meredith.”
“The only thing I regret is falling in love with
you.”
“So, you don’t enjoy living?” he hissed.
“Because that’s far more important than some
relationship. I’ve just ensured that you’ll get to
keep doing that. You can say, ‘Thank you’ at any
given time.”
I stand still, shocked to my core. First the news
of my father, and now this. His way of ensuring I
have a new life doesn’t sound like “living” at all.
“Who burned you this badly?” I say, looking at
him. “Who fucked you up to the point where you
can walk away from someone who loves you
enough to be fucking okay with everything you’ve
done?”
“You don’t know half of the things I’ve done,
Meredith…”
“I’m willing to assume,” I say, stepping close to
him as more tears fall down my face. “I feel like
there’s a reason for what you’ve done, and you can
trust me enough to tell me.” I stare at him, waiting
for him to come to his senses. “I’m sorry for
whoever or whatever burned you so badly in the
past, but mark my words, Michael. I will never
forgive you or take you back if you leave me here
like this.”
“I’ll never beg for you to take me back,
Meredith,” he says. “We both know that’s not my
style. You’re welcome for everything. I wish you
the best in your new life.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
“If there was more, I would’ve said it.”
I nod and bite my tongue; he can have the last
word.
He can have the last glimpse of me because I’ll
never let him back into my life again.
Taking a step, I look this man over one last
time. I silently scold myself for getting my hopes
up, for ever thinking that “we” were ever anything
more than a planned game for him. He’s always
been the far better player than I am, and this is the
ultimate checkmate.
He looks at his watch, and then he walks to his
car and slips into the driver’s side, pulling off
without word.
He disappears into the distance and although
I’m struggling to hold back tears, I can feel my
heart shattering in my chest.
I was such a fool for ever trusting you…
Michael
Now
I stare at Meredith in my rearview mirror as I drive
forward and leave her in my past. That’s where
she’ll remain for the rest of her life.
She was a mere chapter in my book and this is
our final page.
No happily ever after included.
I watch as she wipes her eyes, as she moves to
the middle of the road and throws up her middle
finger.
I consider throwing it back, but I don’t.
I just keep driving.
As I move farther away from her, I feel a
familiar pang return to my chest—the same one I
felt once before when I almost completed the
intended job and killed her.
I can also hear a voice in my head, begging me
to go back and get her—to come up with another
alternative, where we can perhaps be together, but
my job is done. I’ve done far more than I’m
supposed to do for her, and one day she’ll be able
to see that.
Truth is, I’ll never be whole or able to
completely care for anyone besides myself until I
finish dealing with the people who have brought me
years of pain. I need to spend the next few months
focusing on trying to put it away once and for all,
even if I know that it’s hopeless to dream of a night
when it won’t haunt me in my sleep.
Meredith may be just as broken and lonely as I
am, but she’ll never know the same type of pain.
She’ll never know what it feels like to cope after
being “burned so badly”…
Michael
Long Before
When Someone “Burned Me That Badly…”
Trevor trembles in the cold, looking at me with
tears in his eyes. “Did you win your chess match up
there today?”
I don’t answer.
We both know that he doesn’t care. He’s just
asking a question to pass the time, trying to make
me think about something other than the hellish
state of our existence.
“I’ve managed to make a few new friends down
here,” he says. “I mean, granted they can’t talk, but
it’s been the highlight of my day.”
I say nothing. I can’t play the ‘let’s pretend this
isn’t happening’ game right now. The signs of
reality are far too strong, too unforgiving.
“Michael?” He shakes my shoulder. “Michael,
you’re zoning out again…”
I can’t help it.
He’s currently chained to the metal pole behind
the washing machine, and I’m free to roam about
this small, windowless room. For now.
Five hours from now, I’ll be chained and he’ll
be free. It’s a rotating punishment, a twisted,
psychological experiment that weighs heavily on
my mind every single day.
“Michael, can you please talk?” He begs. “Say
something…Anything.”
“What did he make you do earlier today?” I ask
him a far more important question. “Who was up
there when you went?”
He shakes his head, and he starts to answer, but
no words come out. Just cries.
He’s always been the more emotional one
between us, although getting passed around and
sexually abused will break down any person. Even
me at this point, but I’ve stopped letting it show.
Tears have never saved me or given me any
grace. They’ve never stopped our Uncle Avery
from using us like pets, torturing our minds on a
daily basis, or offering us up as options for his sick
and perverted friends.
They come every other day like clockwork,
dressed in their thousand dollar suits with pictures
of their families tucked into their designer leather
wallets. They exchange pleasantries over a cup of
coffee or tea on the “luxurious” side of the house,
and they say things like, “Lovely weather we’re
having,” or “How many rounds do you think you’ll
go today?” It’s all coded conversation, a way to ask
which one of us they want, how rough they plan to
be.
That part of the house is right above us, and
we’re only privy to see it when these men stop by.
Our uncle always has us ready and waiting for
them. Freshly groomed and showered. Left alone
naked with packs of condoms, a bottle of lube, and
a soundproofed bedroom.
For most of the men, me and Trevor are just
sex. For others, we’re the subjects of the pictures
that they store in the hidden folders of their phones.
And for the more depraved group, it’s a mix of sex
and a side of violence—a session of jaw punching
and forcible submission, the kind that lingers in the
mind years after and shows up in the middle of
morning breakfast.
There’s nowhere we can go, no one we can tell.
Occasionally, he lets us upstairs to watch crime
shows and cook food. He also allows me to use one
of his laptops to play chess whenever one of his
dogs chews up one of the real pieces. (“You’re one
hell of a chess player, boy…”) From the
newspapers that he lets us keep from time to time,
I’ve caught sight of the world outside this hell a few
times.
Our lives revolve around his basement, and no
matter how many cans of air freshener I spray, it
always smells like rotten fish and dried vomit. The
scent is trapped under the wallpaper, woven into
the threads of the fraying carpet.
The scent of hopelessness…
There are a few rats that join us here or there,
but they always die after a few weeks, thanks to the
boric acid and antifreeze drops that he occasionally
sprinkles in the corners. It’s enough to weaken
them at first taste, to drain them of their energy
should they try to make it up the steps for water,
but it’s never enough to kill them at once; he does
this to constantly remind us of who is in control.
The only things he can’t seem to kill—besides
us yet, are the spiders that roam freely. They come
and go at their will—slipping under the tiny cracks
of the wood near the far end of the basement. They
avoid the poison and weave their cobwebs under
the abandoned furniture—trapping their prey and
staying focused solely on themselves.
They’re the ultimate survivors, the smartest
players in the game.
“She’s going to come back for us…” Trevor
finally stops crying, wiping his eyes. “She’ll
eventually come back and get us, right?”
I nod, even though I don’t believe at all.
I stopped hoping for our mother’s return years
ago.
She was gone, and I never wanted to see her
face again. I’d never be able to look her in the eye
and give her any form of forgiveness for dropping
us off here and moving on with her life. For never
coming back.
I doubted that I would ever be able to accept
that she honestly thought that we’d be “far better
off” with Uncle Avery. I wanted to believe that she
had no idea how big of a monster he truly was
when she dropped us off at his doorstep in the
middle of the night, but something told me that she
knew.
Beepppp! Beepppp! Beeppp!
The timer on the washing machine goes off, the
signal for us to switch places. It’s time for Trevor to
roam freely and be at my uncle’s beck and call if he
needs something upstairs.
I unlock Trevor’s handcuffs, but I don’t let him
lock me in.
Instead, I slip the key into my pocket. Walking
upstairs, I leave the basement door cracked, not
sliding the lock it into place like usual.
“It’s Trevor’s turn to be up here, Michael.” My
uncle scoffs as I walk into the living room. He’s still
dressed in a suit, poring over this week’s edition of
The Wall Street Journal. I notice that he’s stolen a
few new pens from his company, where he sits on
the board of directors: Goldman Sachs.
“Do I need to remind you how this system
works?” he asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“No, sir,” I say. “He’s throwing up, so—”
“Ugh.” He cuts me off. “Of course. Sometimes,
I wish you were more of a weak bitch like your
brother. Go take him a towel and a cup of water
when you’re finished cleaning. I still want him to
sleep with me tonight. Not you.”
I grab a towel and start to head downstairs, but
he stomps his feet—forcing a plate of china to fall
to the floor.
“Make me a glass rum and cherry coke first,”
he says. “Pour it over some ice and make me a
sandwich to go along with it.”
I nod and head to the kitchen.
Opening the fridge. I start to make his drink, but
I realize that I can’t wait anymore. I need to take
my chances on escape now.
I reach into my pocket and grab all of the boric
acid as I can, all that I’ve saved over the past
several months. I sprinkle it into a glass and make
sure to wipe off the rim.
This won’t be enough and you know it…
I look over my shoulder to make sure he isn’t
watching, and then I reach far back behind his
collection of beer—looking for the bottle I filled
with antifreeze a few weeks ago.
I pour it into his glass and add the coke and rum
on top, swirling the liquid around with my finger.
Grabbing the chips, I take it over to him just as
he’s standing up from the couch.
“Took you long enough.” He scoffs, taking the
glass from my hands. “Let’s play a new game of
chess since reruns are on.”
It’s not a question. I don’t have a choice.
Taking my seat at the glass table, I set up the
board as he takes a seat across from me.
“This is really good,” he says, taking a long sip
of his drink. “I’ll have to buy more cherry coke this
week. If you learn to behave like your brother, I’ll
think about getting you a few cases for the
basement.”
I move my pawn first, and he follows suit—
talking to me in between moves as if he’s trying to
distract me from what will undoubtedly be another
win for me.
He’s honestly far too predictable to make this
game interesting, and sometimes I’d rather not play
at all than share a board with him.
By the time we’re sixteen moves in, I’m ready
for a damn checkmate, but I hold back and let it
drag out by making small pawn moves. He’s
finished his drink and he’s sweating profusely, but
he doesn’t look unusual.
“Get me a fucking Sprite.” He snaps, and I
oblige—jumping up and quickly returning with a
cup.
“You’ll only have about fifteen minutes to use
the shower when we finish,” he says, snatching the
glass from my hands. “I’d use them wisely if I were
you. We’ll be having a few new visitors next week
and you have a lot of—” He suddenly sucks in a
loud breath and drops his glass to the floor. The
bubbles hiss and fizz as they splatter on the
hardwood.
His eyes go wide and he grabs his neck, as if he
can stretch it wide enough to force in fresh air.
I watch as he gags, as he stumbles forward and
falls onto our game, then onto the floor.
“Call fucking 9-1-1…” His face is paling.
“Now.”
I pick up his cell phone and dial the 9 and the 1,
but then I stop.
What the hell am I doing?
I step back and erase the numbers, then I set his
phone down on the window sill.
“Michael, Michael…” He’s struggling to
breathe, pleading with his eyes. “Please…”
I don’t move. I just watch as his face shifts
from white to blue, as he writhes in painful agony.
His gagging and gurgling sounds become more
labored as the seconds pass, and then there’s
silence.
Beautiful, freedom signaling silence.
I walk over and stand over his body, realizing
how sad of a human being he is. How even he was
scared of something bigger than himself in the end.
Or, so I thought…
He suddenly starts coughing again, managing to
wheeze and let out another soft, “Help…Please.”
I’m not sure what comes over me, but I lean
over him and grab his neck—gripping it as hard as I
can. Using all of my frustration and pain for power,
I strangle him until I can feel the last breath leave
his body. I keep my fingers on him long after he’s
gone, wanting to secure my future, wanting to make
sure he never wakes up again.
“Uncle Avery, can I stay free for—” Trevor
gasps as he steps into the kitchen, all the color
leaving his face. “What the hell are you doing,
Michael?”
“Getting rid of our problem,” I said. “Help me
put his body in the deep freezer. Get some trash
bags.”
“You killed him…” His eyes widen, and he
takes a step back. “How did you…How did you
even—”
“Now, Trevor.”
He hesitates for a few seconds, but then he
walks over to the drawer and pulls out several
black trash bags. He slices them open with a pair of
scissors and spreads them onto the floor.
We take our time wrapping every part of him,
and good measure, I stuff a wad of paper towels
into his mouth and use duct tape to shut it. In the
off chance that he magically wakes up and takes
another breath, it’ll be his last.
We struggle to drag him across the living room
floor and down to the basement. He’s at least one
hundred eighty pounds, and the sickening sound of
his head hitting each step makes Trevor vomit.
Propping his body against the metal pole, we
rest for a while before lifting him up and placing
him into the freezer.
The moment I shut it, I let out pained screams
and feel warm tears fall down my face.
Trevor’s cries are far louder, and for what feels
like forever, we sit down next to each other and let
out years’ worth of hurt.
I don’t know it then, but those are some of the
last tears I’ll ever cry in my life.
The adrenaline that’s rushing through my veins
is clouding any bit of sympathy. All I can think
about right now is the fact that the man who has
ruined the past few years of my life is rightfully
dead.
“Now what do we do?” Trevor asks.
“Now, we live our lives,” I say. “It’s going to
take some time to figure out how we do that,
though. We haven’t been enrolled in any school
since tenth grade…”
He blinks. “You don’t think any of his friends
are going to come looking for him in two
weekends? It’ll be the monthly Poker Night.”
I hold back a sigh and think.
“We need to bury him first,” I say. “We need to
make sure that he’s at least ten feet under.”
“On all the TV shows they only suggest six.”
“Exactly.” I sigh. “We need to dig deeper than
that, and it’s going to take us a while…”
* * *
For a week and a half, we move out of the house at
midnight—laboring under the moonlight. We cover
the hole with a tarp during the daylight hours,
setting the swings he never let us use back in place.
We bury him without a word about his life,
without any remorse whatsoever. Without ever
saying the words aloud, we both agree that this
incident never happened. That as far as we know,
he simply walked out of our lives one day. Just like
our mother.
In between discussing our options (What the do
we do now? Who can we call? How the hell do we
move on after this?) , we rummage through his
things and after looking through his bank
statements and emails, we realize that we aren’t the
only people he’s hurt. He’s a criminal of the highest
degree, and he’s been siphoning millions from his
own company.
Not only that, but although we knew he was the
devil, we didn't know he had a second life outside
of us. That he was dating a woman named Stella
who lived on the other side of town (but he had
several other mistresses), was a member of some
type of whiskey aficionado club, and was well-
revered by all of his peers.
He'd lived an amazing life while stealing
ours...
“You need to tell them not to come,” Trevor
says, sitting across from me as I put down a letter
he sent to one of his many mistresses. “That’s the
first thing.”
“I thought the first thing was figuring out how
we could possibly get back into school.”
“No,” he said, holding up a few sheets of paper.
“The asshole had us enrolled in school…
Apparently we were gifted and we graduated a year
and a half ago. We also got into Hudson College
and deferred acceptance.”
“How is that even possible?”
“I think Mr. Choate was a Hudson board
member or something…We can figure that out
later.” He swallows, shaking his head. “Tell them
not to come, Michael.”
I unlock his cell phone and scroll through the
recent contacts. When I reach the end of the list, I
notice that there’s a folder titled, “Poker Club.”
Opening it, I seethe at the sight of his digital
black book.
He has all the names, addresses, and phone
numbers of all the people who’ve abused me and
Trevor. For some of them, he even has their
occupations and their company names.
The men are all upstanding citizens of New
York, men who hold powerful positions and own
profitable businesses.
I draft a message and select all of their names,
hesitate a few seconds before hitting send.
Text: Poker Club is cancelled. Indefinitely.
Relieved, I start to put it down, but then it
begins buzzing against my fingertips.
Response: Are you sure?
Response: You know I have some of the best
lawyers in the state. Want to discuss this over
lunch?
Response: You don’t think the boys will talk to
anyone do you? I know a therapist you can take
them to…He’ll report what they say to us and we
can make sure the police won’t get involved.
Response: Are you still coming to the Poker
Night Bill is hosting next weekend?
The responses continue to come in, and I read
each and every one of them. Stunned that these
men are more concerned with covering their asses
than anything else.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Trevor shakes my
shoulder. “Why are you looking like that?”
“Because Poker Night or not, they’ll just find a
way to do what they do to someone else.”
“Makes sense,” he says. “I don’t think people
like that will change overnight.”
“I think people like that deserve to die.”
He nods, picks up a few sheets of paper. “I can
call the school tomorrow and see what the terms of
deferment are. We’ll probably have to take some
super basic classes and—”
“Did you not hear what I said?” I knock the
papers out of his hands.
“Yeah. People like that deserve to die. I agreed
with you.”
“I heard that part.” The phone is still buzzing
with their responses. “I’m waiting for you to say
that you’ll help me do it.”
His eyes widen and he’s looking at me as if I’ve
grown two heads. “Michael, you’re joking, right?”
“I’m not laughing.”
“Michael, there’s so much shit running through
my mind right now, so many things that I need to
fucking process, and I can guarantee that one of
them isn’t becoming a goddamn murderer.”
“It’s not murder if they killed you first.” I don’t
feel bad saying that. “I’ll never be able to process
this shit until they’re gone.”
He stands up from the table. “I’m calling social
services tomorrow. I’m going to tell them that he
walked away and that we need mental help.
Especially you, no offense.”
“None taken.”
“Good. I’m going to try to sleep more than five
hours tonight and see if it works.”
We both know that it won’t—it never will, but I
give him an encouraging nod anyway.
“Wait, Trevor,” I say, before he can leave the
room.
“Yeah?” He looks over his shoulder.
“If you still can’t sleep and this still haunts you
after so many years, will you help me get some of
them back?”
He stares at me for a long while, and then he
lets out a breath. “No, I won’t help you get some of
them. It’ll be all of them…”
* * *
It takes ages for us to “cope” with the so-called
tragedy—we’re cycled in and out of therapists’
offices every other month. It’s not until we both
enroll in graduate school that we become somewhat
sane. (And by “somewhat” I mean fucking barely.)
His advanced degree is in business accounting.
Mine is dual. English and Forensic Science.
He goes into the corporate world—finding
numerous ways to makes millions. I slip into the
darkness—finding ways to do the same.
After several years, we return to the promise
we made about getting every one of those men
back. Armed with enough experience in the real
would, with enough knowledge to begin to build,
we start with the richest client and work on a six-
month plan, to get him to his grave.
I didn’t care how many more years it took. How
long each job would take, who I would have to
pretend to be. Since I’d never be able to rest in
peace, since I was always too weak to save myself,
I could spend all of my waking hours preventing
them from hurting someone else.
All or nothing…
—
END OF EPISODE #2
Legacy of Lies
Michael & Meredith’s crazy story has tons more
twists and turns to come in the next part of this
story, Legacy of Lies! You won’t believe how much
more intense this story gets! You can pre-order it
now, by
In the meantime, be sure to check out my other
erotic romances, which are full-length novels:
(Meredith’s best friend Gillian is the
heroine in this story ) and
(Probably one of the sexiest alphas I’ve ever
created is in this one, and his name is Andrew
Hamilton.)
Speaking of erotic romance, my next full-length
novel in this genre is FILTHY LAWYER, and it can
be
Author’s Note
Thank you to every reader who is currently reading
this note. I wrote this story for myself and it’s a true
passion project, but I wanted to share it with you.
Between you and me, I spend the majority of
my reading hours on thrillers and suspense, so I
wanted to bring in the new year (and new decade)
by writing something in that vein while still keeping
the romance.
Originally, I had no plans to publish this serial.
It was going to be printed and tucked away in my
desk drawer where I keep a box of manuscripts
labeled, “Just for Me,” but I dared myself to hit
publish for this one. Perhaps doing so will give me
the courage to publish the others someday. Maybe.
Anyway, if you read it and loved it, please leave
a review to let others know. (If you hated it…Well,
keep that shit to yourself. LOL Just kidding! Please
leave a review for that as well.) If you want to
personally tell me your thoughts, you can find me
here: Instagram or Facebook.
Also, please
so I can
keep you in the loop about my upcoming work. Or,
if you’re not into that, check in with me every so
often at whitneygbooks.com where I spill the “tea”
on whatever I’m working on next.
Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU.
F.L.Y.
(Effin love you)
Whitney G.
