Page 1 of Possessed
1
ISLA
The knock at the door comes at just past 10 AM. Rain is streaking the windows, thunder rumbling in the distance, but that isn't strange for Seattle. Sometimes it's like I've forgotten what it feels like to stand in the sunshine.
The noise scares me enough to make me almost spill my coffee, but I manage to set it on the counter without incident. Looking through the peephole, all I can see is a figure dressed in a dark suit, his head down, arms full of a long, sleek black box.
I hesitate, but I can hear the voices of other tenants in the apartment building talking and running up and down the stairs, so I figure that it's safe enough. Who tries to rob people at ten in the morning, anyway?
I crack the door open, and once I'm able to see my visitor better, I relax a touch. He's just a delivery man, albeit a fancily dressed one. "Yes?"
"Are you Isla Cross?" he asks.
"Yes."
"Sign here, please." He holds out a tablet and a stylus, and I take them, scrawling a messy signature across the screen. "Here."
"What's this?"
"No idea." The man shrugs. "I'm just paid to deliver it."
I close the door, setting the box on my kitchen table. The box is heavy, sleek, and shining. When I gently pull the lid off, I gasp at what's inside—two dozen dark red roses, so dark that they could almost be black in the right light, with a cream ribbon wrapped around them. Tucked inside the ribbon is a matching envelope, sealed with a wax stamp the same dark red as the roses in the shape of a dragon's head. The entire setup must have been obscenely expensive, and I've never received anything like it.
"This must be a mistake," I mutter, pulling the ribbon away and picking up the envelope. Cracking the beautiful seal feels like a waste, but I do it anyway, with a strange feeling of dread in my belly. I have the oddest instinct just to throw all of it in the trash and forget about the flowers altogether, but I brush it off.
Inside the envelope, a thick piece of cardstock reads,
Ms. Cross,
I have recently acquired a debt of your father's that he cannot repay. You will join me at the Smoke and Sage Bistro tomorrow night at 8 pm. Show them this note, and they will escort you to me. This is an instruction, not an invitation, but if you comply, we will be able to reach a settlement for what your father owes. Do not speak to anyone about this arrangement, especially your father, or the deal is off.
I look forward to your attendance.
D. Vale
For a moment, all I can do is stare at the note. I'm dumbstruck. The sheer arrogance of this man is enough to make me want to crumple up the note and toss it in the trash. Instead, I stare at it, reading it again and again, trying to puzzle out what to do. I don't know who this D. Vale is, but if he's demanding my presence at a restaurant to discuss my father's debt, then it can't be good.
It also means that this man knows where I live. That sends a shiver down my spine.
The last thing I want to do is keep this from my dad. He's the only family I have left—my mother died when I was just a girl—and he's the one person whom I trust more than anyone else. But I had no idea he was even in debt. He's worked in marine shipping logistics my entire life, boring but successful, and I've had little reason ever to question what he does for a living. Knowing that he's in trouble and that he's kept it from me makes me feel a pang of sadness.
Well. It's just dinner. The feeling of dread has intensified, but if this mysterious D.Vale is willing to make a deal, then I have no reason not to hear him out. We're meeting in public, how dangerous can it possibly be?
It has amazingly stopped rainingby the time the next night rolls around, and I don't have to take an umbrella with me when I leave the apartment. It isn't completely dark yet, and I feel surprisingly self-conscious as I exit the building in my heels and black satin dress, which hugs me from my chest down to a few inches above my knees. I'd agonized over what to wear; it was easy enough to look up the dress code for the restaurant, butnot nearly as easy to choose what sort of energy I wanted to give off. My choice ended up leaning sexier than I wanted, but my wardrobe options were limited.
I left my hair loose and wore no extra jewelry besides a simple gold chain with a single sapphire gem. It was important for me to look sophisticated, even if I felt like I was faking it. I'm not sophisticated. Tonight, I'm mostly just scared.
Before I can request an Uber, a black sedan with dark-tinted windows rolls up to the curb in front of me. My heart races. The back door opens, and a man in a dark suit beckons to me.
"Ms. Cross?" he asks.
I nod, moving closer. "Who are you?"
"Someone who works for Mr. Vale," he says shortly. "He sends his apologies that he couldn't pick you up himself."
I nod again, not knowing what to say. It's becoming clear that tonight, Mr. Vale is in full control, and I'm just along for the ride.
The man holds out his hand, and I take it, letting him help me into the car. I'm surprised by how soft the seats are, how luxurious everything is. The leather is buttery smooth, the tinted windows cut down on the light, and the car smells faintly of pine.
