Page 90 of Savage Seduction

"I’m not sure yet, but I’ll definitely keep close tabs on them."

"Don’t fuck this up, agent. Haven’t I made myself clear? If this gets out to the public, we won’t be able to control it. We’ll look like a bunch of fucking idiots."

"I understand, sir."

"You have no fucking clue." He coughs, wet and loud into the phone. I close my eyes, disgusted. "Find out what Max andthis London person know and move on. Do you understand me? There are bigger things at play here."

Given the intensity and savagery of the attack, I couldn’t agree more. "Yes, sir." I hang up the phone. My orders are clear, but am I willing to follow them if it means Max getting hurt, or worse, killed?

CHAPTER 35

Max

The following day, I wake up in a bad mood. I'm tired from not having much sleep over the past couple of days and, frankly, I'm tired of getting chased and attacked. The only good thing that’s happened lately is the apartment superintendent actually fixed the front lock last night so I could sleep in my own bed. After a long hot shower, I sit on the edge of the bed and lay back, facing the ceiling. I can't even imagine going into work today and being productive.

I pull out my phone and send Catherine Nakamura a quick text to let her know I’m not feeling well and will be taking another sick day. It's not a total lie as I’m not feeling my healthiest emotionally. Rolling over to my side, I wage an internal debate on whether to even get dressed or go back to bed. It doesn’t take long for me to make up my mind once my stomach growls.

Shoot, I think as I go into the kitchen and pull open the fridge door. Nothing in there for breakfast, not even creamer for coffee. I rush back into the bedroom and get dressed.Out the front door I run, already imagining the iced coffee and breakfast burrito I'm going to have.

In the car, I flip on the radio in time to hear the man reading the day’s headlines. “In other news, another body was located in the dry L.A. River underneath the famous Sixth Street Bridge. The unnamed victim was found to have ritualistic markings on their body, but the police are remaining tightlipped for the moment.”

Ritualistic markings? The scars on my belly tingle as if they’re warning me of impending danger. I push away my unease and take a couple of deep cleansing breaths. I look outside the passenger side window and sigh. After I get my food, I spend a few minutes trying to enjoy breakfast. Unfortunately, I can't shake my unease, and I can't get Ben out of my head.

“You’re a little psycho, dude,” I say to myself. “You can’t just show up at his house.” He hasn’t returned any of my texts. In fact, the last two I sent didn’t even show they were delivered. That means one of two things. Either he’s blocked my number, or something is seriously wrong.

“Screw it,” I say. There’s no way I can live with myself not knowing what happened. If Ben left for two years and I never heard from him again, I would be devastated but also tormented by our last interactions. I pull out of the parking lot and drive straight to Ben’s place. I need closure, if nothing else.

I pull up to the driveway and turn off the car. Ben’s house appears empty; the blinds are shut, two days of newspapers lay unopened on the front porch, and there are no lights on anywhere. Had he already left for his charity work in South America? Was I too late to to try and fix things between us? Even if it’s not really my fault, I’d love the chance to at least say goodbye. Ben really is a wonderful man, after all.

Only one way to find out, I think. I wet mypalms with the water from my water bottle and muss my hair into some semblance of style and get out of the car. I straighten my shirt and make sure the fly is up on my pants. “You can do this,” I say as I close the car door.

I march right up to the front door and ring the bell without hesitation.I can do this.

The house remains silent.

I ring the bell again followed by a quick series of loud raps on the screen door. The wait is killing my confidence and determination. I feel the usual pull to run away—forget about it. But where’s that gotten me in the past?

Alone. I’m tired of being alone.

I pull the screen door open and bang on the hardwood door—it slides open a crack. I push the door farther so I can pop my head inside and shout, “Ben? Are you home? It’s Max. I think we need to talk. Hello?”

I wait what seems like forever for a response, but then I hear a thump from upstairs where I know the bedrooms are and I step inside. “Ben… are you home? Is everything okay?”

Again, no response, but another thud and what sounds like a mumbled voice comes from upstairs. Part of me wants to go back outside and call the police to come and do a welfare check, but what if Ben needs me now? What if there’s nothing wrong and I bring the cops to his house for nothing? Ben would think I’m crazier than he already does.

No, I will check first and call for help if needed.

Without another word, I step farther inside, careful to not make a sound as I go deeper into the home. After each step, I stop and listen for movement or cries for help—anything that might indicate what is going on or where the danger may be. After a few moments of this I reach the stairs. Each step is covered in a thick pad of carpet, which helps keep my footfalls silent. I make it quickly to the second floor and stop. I listen again for signs of struggle or danger.

Up ahead at the end of the hall is Ben’s bedroom. The door is cracked open, the light on. My belly tightens with nerves, but it isn’t until I see the shadow under the door move that my heart rate races out of control.

I inch toward the bedroom. Other than the shadow movement under the door, there is no indication the bedroom is occupied. Now waiting right outside the room, I look for something I can use as a weapon.

Stupid. Why hadn’t I thought of bringing something with me from downstairs? Thinking back to my training as a police officer, I decide it is best to enter quickly and decisively. Don’t give the enemy time to react.

On a silent count of three, I ready myself for a fight and kick the door open with a crash. I step through the door and gasp. Lying on the bed in front of me is Ben, naked and covered in blood. I rush into the room but stop short. An ankh has been carved into Ben’s left thigh. The knife my abuela had given me, the one that was stolen, lays next to Ben on the bed.

The room spins and my breathing comes in ragged gasps as my panic intensifies. I grab the bed and nearby dresser to steady myself and manage to remain standing. Ben’s voice drifts through the echoing heartbeat pounding in my ears. I do what I can to focus on Ben’s words.

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