Page 21 of Web of Lies
“Drop her,” a rough voice grits, but only the person holding my arms lets me fall to the floor, my upper body hitting the stairs with a thud. Then I'm lifted and thrown over a shoulder and my breath whooshes out of me.
“Don't fight,” a different voice rasps. “You'll get hurt if you fight.”
“Let her fight,” the first voice laughs. He's the one carrying me down the rest of the stairs. “It'll be more fun if she does.” He swats my thigh twice. “She's probably going to get hurt anyways. They always do.”
“Let's just go before the nurse gets here. Hurry up.”
I do not stop fighting. I keep kicking my feet and screaming as much as I'm able to around the cloth, pounding my fists against whatever I can reach. I won't let myself be taken without a fight. I stop hitting and start scratching, reaching around the man's torso to dig my nails into his side, raking them across his skin, trying to inflict as much damage as possible.
“Get her hands,” he hisses. Both of my wrists are snatched and bound together as they continue carrying me through my house and right out the front door. I guess they're not worried about Mr. Lawrence being outside walking his nine-hundred year-old Pomeranian before the sun is up.
We stop moving and they put me on the ground long enough to secure my wrists together. I lift my foot to kick again but one of them scoops me back up and I hear the unmistakable sound of a car trunk being opened. I start shaking my head and fighting against the man holding me. I don't like closed-in spaces. I can stand it for a few minutes if it isn't too tight of a fit, but I can't breathe if it's too tight or if I'm enclosed for too long.I could be crammed into a dark, musty trunk for who knows how long. That thought makes me fight harder and he almost drops me before he shoves me into the trunk.
They slam the lid shut before I have time to sit up or try to get out. Pure panic seizes me as I listen to them get into the car and nausea threatens to overwhelm the panic when the vehicle dips with their weight. The only thing stopping me from throwing up is the fact that there's a sack over my head and I don't want vomit all over my face and in my hair on top of everything else.
I need to calm myself so that I can think and the way to do that is to find small things to concentrate on until I can breathe easier. During all the screaming and fighting the cloth was pushed from my mouth and I can feel it damp against my jaw. The inside of this trunk smells mildly like mildew and motor oil, but floating above that is the scent of my own laundry detergent. It's too dark to see anything, but I can safely bet that the sack covering my head is one of my own pillowcases. I'm glad I didn't change into my usual tank top and shorts to sleep in, otherwise my skin would be in direct contact with whatever else has been all over the inside of this trunk. That thought isn't as comforting as I wanted it to be. How many people have been shoved into this trunk? How many bodies, or body parts, have been transported in here?
I force my attention away from this trunk's body count to focus on my wrists. What are they bound with? It isn't cloth. It feels almost like metal. No. Plastic. Thick plastic. My mind starts flicking through everything I can think of that could hold my wrists together this tightly without any give and finally figure it out. My Dad used zip ties for all kinds of things, including the water hose.
Remembering my Dad's water hose reminds me of his house. Oh God. What about his house? I cannot believe I haven't thought about it until now, I just assumed that it would be there waiting for me when my fog lifted. If Adrian tricked me into signing away Dad's house, the house I grew up in, I just might kill him. And now I'm stuck in this trunk, being driven away to wherever by whoever. I'm finally out of the house but I'm still a prisoner. I have to find out what happened to my Dad's house. I have to fix things with Vincent Solutions. I can't let this be the end of everything. I can't let Adrian get away with this.
My feet. My feet aren't bound together. If I can get myself into a position to jump out of the trunk when they inevitably open it, maybe I can run. If I can get away, I'll eventually get somewhere and find someone who can help me and then I'll go to the police. I'll tell them everything and then …Then Adrian will show them the videos he has of me acting crazy and the police won't believe me. I need to keep quiet, and I need to get to Regan. She'll help me. She's the only one who will believe me no matter what and she'll help me figure out what to do.
Chapter Eight
Wyatt
Three days ago
“I obviously don't want her hurt, not permanently. And I especially don't want her aesthetically damaged, so nothing that would leave a physical scar. I just want her to be very happy to be home once I pay the ransom and rescue her from the awful, scary, bad men.”
The man across from me gives me a crooked smile and leans back in his chair after he finishes explaining what he wants to hire Jesse and me to do. I stare at the blue surrounding his pupils long enough that he looks away, his eyes flicking to the side.
And I'm supposed to be the monster.
“No, no,” I say softly. “Don't look away. You made the call. You asked me to meet you. There's no reason to look away now. You know what you want and you asked for it.”
He tries to smile again, but doesn't quite make it. “So you'll take the job?”
I push out a heavy breath through my nose. I don't usually take jobs that involve women or kids. I don't like dealing with that much emotional dramatics. I typically don't do abductions, period, but something about this one felt different. It isn't the guy. The guy is a piece of shit. It's the job itself and I can't put my finger on it. Now that I'm sitting at this table with him, that feeling is still pulling at me and the sight of him and the way the words sound coming out of his mouth are making me regret entertaining this whole thing.
Jesse won't like it. He doesn't touch what he callscouple's therapy. It's almost always some pissed off husband or ex boyfriend who wants revenge on his cheating wife and that hits too close for comfort for Jesse. He doesn't take these types of jobs regardless of the money the client throws at it.
But I've got this feeling crawling all over me. It's clawing up my spine like a thousand little stinging insects.
“Why?”
He blinks at me. “Why what?”
“Why hire us to take her? Why not just make her miserable yourself? Cut out the middle men. She'd be just as happy for you to treat her right again, if you were to handle things on your own. His eyes shift around the room before he answers me and I don't miss the way he rubs and twists his fingertips together. “Because I've got a company to run and her theatrics are already taking up so much of my time and attention. I need more time away from my wife to do the things that need to be done and I simply don't have time to make her as unhappy as I need her to be. Besides, I want to hire professionals. And that's what you are. Isn't it?”
Of course I'm a professional. I can professionally rip out her toenails and feed them to her, but I just don't like this guy. “What did she do to you anyway? Have an affair? Maybe with your best friend? Buy an expensive new bag or eight without asking first? Didn't get the dishes clean enough for you?” He doesn't look like the type of man who would beat his wife, but most of the men who do that kind of thing don't look the part.
“No, of course not.” He laughs. “Nothing like that. Larken just doesn't have any give. She needs to learn her place.”
I sit back in my chair and watch him for another long minute. It's disappointing when he doesn't look away from my stare, but I'll live. Larken. I like that. I've known a Lark in my lifetime, and a Wren. Several Robins. But this is the first Larken I've come across.
The thing is... I really,reallydon't like this guy. Something about him is unsavory. And Jesse really,reallywon't like it. I sigh and lace my fingers behind my head. It's just another job. “Fifty thousand.”
