Page 110 of King of Praise
Sandra’s carefully maintained appearance—the immaculate clothing and perfectly styled hair that served as armor throughout our previous encounters—has deteriorated. Her designer blouse is wrinkled and stained, mascara tracks streak her tear-stained face, and her usually sharp eyes are red-rimmed and wild with fear.
“Oh, thank God,” she croaks when she notices my returned consciousness. “Thank God you’re awake. When they brought you in like that I thought maybe…” She trails off, swallowing hard.
Her obvious relief catches me off guard. This couldn’t be the imperious woman who condemned me at family gatherings, who enabled and encouraged Lucas’s worst tendencies, who recently threatened to prove my involvement in her son’s disappearance.
This Sandra appears traumatized, her usual masks stripped away by whatever circumstances brought us both to this dark place.
“I didn’t know,” she continues, words tumbling out in desperate rush. “You have to believe me. They said they would help me find out what really happened to Lucas. They promised evidence, witnesses. Not this. Never this.” Fresh tears spill down her cheeks. “They weren’t supposed to take me too. I’m not supposed to be here.”
There’s an hysterical edge in her voice that makes me wonder how long she’s been been held prisoner, though my own sense of time remains fuzzy. The last clear memory I have is baking in Micah’s cabin, seeing movement outside, then pain exploding at the base of my skull.
I force myself to think strategically despite the lingering effects of what I suspect is a mild concussion. The zip ties allow minimal movement—perhaps enough to saw through against a sharp edge if I can find one. The chair isn’t bolted down, creating potential for mobility despite my bound ankles. Most importantly, we appear to be temporarily alone, giving me a chance to gather information that might be useful.
“Sandra.” I keep my voice low but firm. “I need you to focus. Who took us? What exactly do they want?”
She draws a shuddering breath, visibly trying to collect herself. “I don’t know.” Another sob escapes her. “I thought they were private investigators at first. I hired them to look into Lucas’s case because the police weren’t doing enough. But then they started asking strange questions about Micah instead of Lucas. And when I couldn’t tell them what they wanted to know—” She shudders.
The mention of Micah sends adrenaline coursing through my system. “What did they want to know about him?”
“His schedule. His habits. Who he spends time with.” Sandra’s expression crumples. “I told them I didn’t know—we’ve barely spoken since the divorce. But they didn’t believe me. They thought I was protecting him.” A bitter laugh escapes her. “As if Micah would ever needmyprotection. He made it clear long ago that he wanted nothing to do with me or Lucas.”
The irony of her statement—given Micah’s current role in my life—might be amusing under different circumstances. Now it only increases my anxiety. These people, whoever they are, have professional resources and specific interest in Micah. Combined with their tactical approach to the kidnapping, it suggests connection to Columbus’s criminal power structure.
I bite back the questions I want to ask about her role in exposing my location. The details matter less than our immediate survival.
“How long have you been here?” I ask instead, trying to establish a timeline.
She shakes her head. “I’m not sure. They grabbed me outside my house … yesterday? The day before? It’s hard to tell in here.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “They keep bringing water, some food. But no one will tell me anything. What they want. Why they took you too. Nothing makes sense anymore.”
She truly doesn’t understand the larger context of our situation.
Another piece clicks into place—Sandra is collateral damage in an operation targeting Micah through me. Her presence must serve multiple purposes—additional leverage, certainly, but also concealment of their true objective.
Anyone investigating our disappearance would focus on the connection between Lucas’s widow and mother rather than looking for ties to Columbus’s criminal underground.
Heavy footsteps echodown the concrete corridor, each thud filling me with dread despite my determination to remain calm. I force myself to breathe steadily, to school my features into a neutral mask that reveals nothing about the fear coiling in my stomach.
Across from me, Sandra’s trembling betrays her panic despite obvious attempts to maintain dignity.
The metallic screech of the door opening has me searching my surroundings. Three men enter with coordinated efficiency. Their movements remind me of military documentaries—precise, purposeful, designed to control space and intimidate through implied violence.
The leader approaches with measured steps that echo sharply against the concrete floor. When he’s close enough that I can see his face, something about his features triggers recognition, though I can’t immediately place him. He’s probably in his late thirties or early forties, conventionally handsome in a way that makes his cold expression more unsettling. Power radiates from him, a man certain of his authority.
“Ladies,” he says with a mild New York Italian inflection. “I apologize for the rather crude accommodations. I assure you, this is temporary assuming certain negotiations proceed as anticipated.”
His casual courtesy is a stark contrast to his menacing disposition. This is a man accustomed to civilized conversation preceding uncivilized actions.
“Who are you?” I ask, proud of how calm my voice sounds. No tremors despite the fear overwhelming me.
“I’m Tommy Moretti.” He holds my gaze, dark eyes studying my reaction. “Some call me ‘The Blade,’ though I find the nickname rather melodramatic.”
The name confirms my suspicions about his connection to Columbus’s criminal landscape. Though Micah has been careful about sharing details of his work, his is a name I’ve heard spoken in hushed conversations.
“Now then.” Tommy pulls up a metal chair, positioning it backwards so he can rest his arms across its back while facing us. “Let’s discuss Micah Hunt.”
My heart rate accelerates at Micah’s name, though I maintain my neutral expression.Focus. Breathe. Give nothing away.
“When did you start fucking your father-in-law?” The question lands like a slap, designed to provoke reaction through its crudeness.
