Page 21 of Curse

Fumbling, I try to salvage what I can of the car, piecing together the wreckage like a puzzle missing half its pieces. It’s not working. The driver’s seat is shredded, the steering column ripped apart, wires dangling like exposed nerves.

Maybe, if I can get someone out here to replace the tires, I could get it home? No, the steering wheel isn’t even attached to the dashboard. The car is beyond repair, just like everything else in my life.

I slump back into the seat, staring up at the ceiling, which has been slashed, the fabric hanging from it in jagged sheets. I’m starving, exhausted, and sore in every way possible. My body is wracked with tension and aching from being in thecar for so long, and then there’s the different kind of ache that Matti left me with. I just want to go home.

As I rub my temples, I spot a note tucked under the windshield wiper. I step out and snatch it up, unfolding it to reveal a business card inside a blank piece of paper. The business card reads “Jacob Bennett, Attorney at Law.”

I snort, the sound bitter and sharp in the garage. The last person I’m taking this flash drive to is anyone associated with Matti and his asshole friend.

Still, the idea of a lawyer isn’t bad. There are dozens of law offices nearby, and I could use someone on my side. But the arrogance that makes him think he can manipulate me this easily is infuriating. Either Matti is stupid, or he thinks I am.

Or he has reason to be confident in his power to force my hand, and I should be terrified.

I shiver, remembering his hard glare and the way his words cut through me.“I’ve killed men for less than this.”

The memory sends a rush of heat through me, and not the good kind. His words almost sound like a challenge. I sit up taller and straighten my shoulders, trying to quell the slight tremor making its way through my body. No way I’m backing down where Emily is concerned.

I pull my phone out of my bag and order an Uber. I’ll deal with getting this pile of shit car towed later. To fix it would cost more than it’s worth, I’m sure. Not like I have the money to replace it anymore than I have the money to fix it.

Rage at Matti for his part in destroying my car and leaving me stranded flashes through me, adding to my list of grievances against him. I see his face in my mind, those piercing blue eyes, the scruff along his jaw, the intensity that he brings to every word he says, every look.

He’s the spawn of Satan.

As I wait for my Uber to arrive, I close up the car the best I can and pile up Emily’s belongings so I can take them home with me. When I get to the makeup case, I almost break. My breath stabs me in the throat, grief wracking my chest and making my head throb as I clutch the little bag tightly.

My sister. My best friend. Gone.

I tamp it down hard, shoving it as deep as I can, using it to fuel the rage that returns to take its place.

FUCK them. Those bastards took Emily from me. They’ve tried to destroy everything I have left. But they won’t win. I won’t let them.

I pull up the browser on my phone and search for criminal lawyers. I scroll through the names until one catches my eye. Alexandra Hayes. Smart, relentless, and someone I worked with years ago on a case at work. She’s the one. Tomorrow, I’ll go see her.

The Uber arrives, and I load Emily’s things into the trunk before sliding into the backseat. I slump down, drained but resolute. I might be shattered now, but tomorrow, after I’ve had a shower, some food, and a chance to sleep, I’ll start piecing things together. For Emily. For justice.

13

Siena

Idon’t bother calling ahead or trying to make an appointment with Alexandra Hayes the next morning. Instead, I wake up at 5 a.m., determined to get to her office as soon as possible. After quickly getting ready, I catch the train into the city, arriving at her building just after 7 a.m. Too early. The doors are locked.

Leaning against the cool brick facade, I watch the city come to life around me. Cars hum past, people bustle along the sidewalks, and the faint aroma of coffee wafts from a nearby café. I shove my hands into the pockets of my jean jacket, the flash drive pressing against my palm, a physical reminder of why I’m here.

Finally, at 8 a.m., she arrives. Alexandra Hayes is every bit as poised as I remember—dressed in a perfectly tailored clay brown pantsuit, her sleek, glossy hair spilling over one shoulder. She’s carrying a leather bag that doubles as a briefcase, her heels clicking softly against the pavement.

She gives me a polite, curious smile as she unlocks the door. “Are you waiting for me?”

“If you’re Alexandra Hayes, I am.” I know who she is, but I don’t want her to think I’m a stalker. Just because I remember her doesn’t mean that she remembers me.

Plus, I’m trying to lie low, so I’m wearing a short dress with a jean jacket on top and running shoes. I have a ball cap pulled low over my eyes, my ponytail sticking out the hole in the back, and large sunglasses that cover half my face. Definitely not how I would have been dressed when I met her at the Victim Advocacy Center.

“I am. Do you have an appointment?” She frowns, looking at her watch. I know she’s busy, and I don’t care.

“I don’t, but I do have an emergency. Something I think you’ll want to see.”

Inside her office, a tidy space with desks, shelves crammed with legal texts, and filing cabinets lining the walls, I follow her to her desk. The air smells faintly of coffee grounds and copier paper. As she settles into her chair, I pull the flash drive from my pocket and place it on the desk in front of her.

“This belonged to my sister,” I say, my voice steady despite the knot tightening in my chest. I recount Emily’s story as briefly as possible, keeping my tone clinical, biting back the acidic bile that rises in my throat. “She and her husband were killed by someone who bombed her plane. This was found in the wreckage.”

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