Page 69 of Black Heart

And I know, with a certainty that terrifies me, that this woman will be my undoing.

21

LAYLA

My body screams for Kaden to return even as my mind races with plans to defy him.

His stifling presence lingers in the kitchen, the scent of his cologne, the taste of his exhales on my lips, a cocktail of heat and adrenaline that leaves me dizzy and bracing against the counter.

I shake my head, banishing the fantasy. I don’t have a lot of time.

The rhythm of my pounding heart plays out beneath my skin, but I force myself to calm. I need to be quick, efficient.

My bare feet hardly make a sound up the rickety stairs. I reach my bedroom and start rifling through my closet, pulling out an old black lace dress that’s been gathering dust in there. It’s a bit too fancy for me, but tonight it may just pass for acceptable at a formal conference.

The thought that Kaden could walk in at any moment and stop me tightens my chest. But this is something I have to do. For me. For anyone who thinks they don’t matter and can’t save the world, when actually, they damn well can.

I slip into the dress and look at myself in the full-length mirror. The lace clings to my curves, the plunging neckline boldly revealing more than I’m used to, but there’s a power in my reflection that straightens my shoulders.

Gathering up my long hair, I twist it into a loose updo that falls over one shoulder. A quick makeup application to enhance my eyes, cheeks, and lips are next until I can delay the inevitable no longer.

I pick up my phone. Kaden’s tracking software is undoubtedly running, but I don’t have a choice. I open my messaging app and type:

Ethan, can you pick me up at the old boat launch? ASAP. Don’t reply.

As I await his read receipt, it feels like I’m counting down the seconds on a ticking time bomb. I nervously bite my thumbnail, fixated on my phone’s screen as if I could telepathically send a message instead. But Ethan’s always glued to his video games and never off-line, even when he needs to attend a conference in an hour.

At last, the checkmark appears. He’s seen it.

“Thank God,” I mutter, then turn the phone off and toss it on the bed.

There’s no doubt that Kaden will find the phone and go through it. He’ll know I’ve left, but at least he won’t know where I’m going. Not yet.

I peer out the window. The lighthouse cuts a lonely silhouette against the roiling clouds, its feeble light penetrating the mist of tempered rain, but it’s the smaller shadow prowling over the rocks that catches my attention.

In less than a minute, Kaden will disappear behind the lighthouse for no more than thirty seconds. I’ve been watching him all day, inadvertently learning his surveillance routine. It’s my only opening.

Three... Two... One...

With my heart spilling out of my chest after every beat, I grab my clutch purse then fling open my bedroom door and race down the stairs toward the front door.

On the modern security panel next to the door, the red warning lights glare at me like accusatory eyes, but I quickly mute them with practiced hands. There’s no way to shut down Kaden’s multiple cameras and no time to mess with the footage, but when he checks them, he’ll know I haven’t been taken against my will. A small consolation, because he’ll be furious either way.

For a fleeting moment, I feel a pang of guilt for betraying his trust. But this isn’t about Kaden. He’s made it clear he doesn’t care about the ramifications of Morelli’s illegal technology.

I do.

Through the front door, across the cobblestone path slick with sea spray and rainwater, my heels click softly as I crane my neck to keep the lighthouse in my view and ensure I stay in Kaden’s blind spot before pushing through the wooden gate separating my property from the woods. Starting a car would draw his attention, so I skirt past my old girl and his sleek truck and disappear into the dense foliage.

The smell of seaweed and wet earth fills my nostrils as I navigate through the underbrush in the light drizzle, my dress getting splattered with droplets falling off the leaves until I find the small path leading to the boat launch, its once lively energy now nothing more than a desolate shoreline dotted with rotting skiffs and long-forgotten buoys. The weathered sign creaks and groans from the cold wind as I pass under it, a relic from fifty years ago when fishermen hauled their vessels to sea at dawn and returned at dusk. Now, the place is hidden under a blanket of fog and decaying planks.

A set of headlights cuts through, disturbing the peaceful melancholy. Ethan’s van pulls up, his engine humming like a dying animal. The sliding door squeaks open, and there he is—looking like he’s about to piss himself.

“Hey, Layla,” Ethan grates out, hunched behind the steering wheel like he’s expecting to be ambushed.

“Thanks for coming,” I say, stumbling into the passenger seat.

The van is a crammed spaceship of digital paraphernalia: consoles, keyboards, and monitors flicker with lines of encoded gibberish. A glowing unicorn bobblehead vibrates merrily on the dashboard, while empty soda cans and chip packets roll underfoot.

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