Page 25 of Ruthless Intent

I go up to my bedroom, and spend some time taking down all the old posters, and emptying out the dresser and closet of clothes I haven’t worn in eight years or more. By the time I’m done, I have a decent-sized pile on the bed. I’m pretty sure there’s a goodwill store in town, so I bag them up and put them in the trunk of my car.

As I’m walking back to the house, a dark sedan pulls up and a suited man climbs out.

“Ms. Trumont?”

I stop on the steps to the front door.

“Can I help you?” I don’t confirm or deny who I am.

A faint smile crosses his face, and he holds out one hand. “My name is Lionel Rogers. I work for Peter Longeaton, of Longeaton, Cassidy, and Fraser. I’ve been asked to deliver this.” He draws a white envelope out of his jacket pocket. “You are Ms. Ashley Trumont, correct?”

“What is it?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know the contents. I’m just supposed to wait while you open it, so I can take your reply back.”

“My reply?” I reach out for the envelope, and turn it over, rubbing the paper between my thumb and finger.

It feels thick, expensive. My name is written on the front in black ink, in an elegant, cursive style rarely seen these days. There’s no hint as to what it contains. I can’t even see through the envelope.

“Is this going to cost me money? Are you serving me papers for something?”

His smile is more obvious this time. “I’m not a process server, and unless you’re getting divorced, broke a tenancy agreement, or battling a child custody or support battle, I think you’re safe.”

I don’t feel safe as I stare down at it. I feel like I’m holding a snake that’s about to strike and kill me, but I push down the anxiety trying to take over, slide a finger beneath the seal and tear it open.

The paper inside is just as expensive-feeling as the envelope, and I unfold the letter. The words are written in the same confident strokes. I have to read it twice for the content to sink in. When it does, I screw the sheet up into a ball and throw it at the man in front of me.

He fumbles, but catches it.

“That’s my answer.” I turn to go inside.

“Ms. Trumont, wait. I need a verbal answer.”

“Tell him that I would rather dine with the devil himself than sit down and talk to him over dinner.”

“So your answer is no?”

“No. Hell no. Fuck no, and I’d rather die no.” I walk inside and slam the door.

I’m shaking. I don’t know if it’s from shock, fear, or anger. Maybe all three.

How dare he?

How fucking dare he?

My vision blurs, and I throw out a hand to balance myself against the wall and wait for the lightheadedness to pass.

I’m still shaking, my breath sounds uneven, my heart is pounding against my ribs, while butterflies take a ride on the world’s craziest roller coaster in my stomach.

He isn’t serious.

He can’t be serious.

But I know he can, and he is. He warned me at the cemetery that he was going to turn my life into a living hell. And this is the start.

This is his warning.

So what will he say when he receives the news that I’ve turned down his invitation to dinner?

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