Page 32 of Oh No, My Kidnapper Is Hot!

“Why are you doing this?” I ask. My voice trembles with desperation. I don’t want to see that file. I don’t want to see his face.

“It’s important to at least try to understand before you condemn someone, wouldn’t you say?”

I frown. Usually, yes. However, when a psychopath abducts you and puts you in a front row seat to murder, I think the benefit of the doubt goes out the window. Rosie does not share my sentiments.

“Michael Fern worked for the Durano family. Do you know who that is?”

I shake my head. Rosie hums.

“They’re a local mafia. The family settled here in the early 1900s and have been lurking the shadows ever since. Not bad, as far as mafias go. I have a bingo club on Wednesdays with some of the wives. Very nice ladies.”

I blink in disbelief. Rosie continues, “Fern was an accountant for them. Over his three years working for them, he stole six million dollars from The Family.”

“Stryker killed him because ofembezzlement?” I interrupt. Sure, embezzling from the mafia is not smart, but it’s not shot-in-the-head stupid. It’s cut-off-his-hands stupid, according to popular media.

Rosie shakes her head. “Fern used that money to buy girls. Adolescent girls, Millie. That folder documents each one… and what he did to them.”

I look back at the file. It’sthick.Nauseatingly thick, if Rosie is telling the truth. I glance at her.

She looks angry, sickened, concerned. Her nose wrinkles as she scowls at the file on her table but smooths out when she moves her gaze to me. I don’t want to believe her.

I don’t want to keep seeing red.

I gulp. Open the folder. I flip past the first few pages of biographical information on Michael Fern and reach the first picture of a little girl. She’s happy, healthy, and bright.

The next page is another picture of her – of what Michael did to her.

My chair scrapes on the tile as I lurch out of my seat. I barely make it to the trash can in time to heave up my tea, then painfully dry heave when there’s nothing else left in my stomach to hurl up. Rosie’s hand is on my back, rubbing circles while she murmurs soft words of comfort. They do nothing.

I collapse on the floor, spent, and look up at her.

“He did that?” I ask. “He did that to that little girl?”

Rosie nods.

“And others,” she confirms. I flinch.

“That’swhy Stryker took the job, Millie. He does kill for hire, and sometimes it’s hard to reconcile that with ourmorals, but it goes a long way to know that the men he kills are the worst type of men. They’re not even men at all. They’re monsters.”

She helps me up off the floor, guiding me back to the table. The file is gone, and I’m relieved. I hope I never have to see it again.

Rosie continues, “Stryker had to become a monster to fight them. He is the boogeyman who ends boogeymen. He never accepts a case that isn’t worth it, and the ones that are worth it are like Fern’s. Usually worse, actually.”

“Worse?” I ask, shaking my head. There can’t be worse.

“Yes,worse,” Rosie insists, relentless in her effort to make me understand.

I… don’t know what to do. The image of Fern in my head has been replaced by something so much more horrific, something I don’t know if I’ll ever erase it from my mind. The replay of Fern’s body falling to the ground in a splatter of crimson is twisting, becoming a source of peace instead of terror – the picture of a monster being slain.

I see that little girl again, happy and whole, then I see her in the aftermath of horror, broken beyond repair.

Yeah, Fern’s death isn’t going to haunt me. Not anymore. I wish he had suffered more – hurt more. His death was quick and efficient. So much better than what he deserved.

I look at Rosie, grateful for the clarity she’s given me – for the mending she’s done on my perspective. I take a deep breath.

“I’d like some more tea, if you don’t mind,” I say. She smiles softly, then fetches me another cup. It’s the most beautiful shade of green.

Chapter Twelve

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