Page 27 of The Reluctant Reaper
“Open it.”
She did. And stared at the contents.
A trick. Had to be.
“That’s twenty thousand dollars. More than enough for your credit card debt with plenty left over to cover your moving expenses.”
“I don’t get it.”
“No, youaregetting it. That’s thepoint. The cash is yours, and every month you don’t contact your son, I’ll wire another two thousand to your bank account.”
“You... can do that?”
“Are you asking if I’m rich or if I temped at your bank to get all your account information? The answer is yes. However. The minute—thesecondyou break our deal, we’re done. And not only does the money spigot close forever, I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you stand trial for your monstrous actions.”
“But you can’t?—”
“The statute of limitations for felony child abuse won’t kick in until your son is dead. He can sue you and press charges anytime he likes. Sorry to keep cutting you off, but I hate the sound of your voice.”
“Did you take another temp job to learn that? About the limitations thing?”
“No, you worthless shitpile, I looked it up.”
Gloria let the envelope fall and thumbed one of the packets of cash while the stranger watched. “There’s gotta be a catch.”
The stranger rubbed her eyes and sighed. “You meananothercatch, don’t you? Because most parents would assume cutting off all contact with their only living child to be a sizable catch. Two.”
“What?”
“Two states between you and your son at all times. Minimum. Big ones. Rhode Island and Delaware don’t count. Neither do Massachusetts and Vermont. But wherever you go, if you’re only one state away, that’s a deal-breaker and you’d better get a phenomenal lawyer. If Gray moves out of state, I’ll contact you and give you the new boundaries you will abide by.”
“What’s wrong with your eyes?”
The stranger stopped rubbing and glared red. “Nothing. I left my contacts at home and I’m getting a migraine. I wanted this meeting to be memorable, Gloria. Stamped on your brain for the rest of your life, so there are no misunderstandings, now or ever.”
“So you’re just gonna give me two grand a month forever? What if I live to be eighty?”
The stranger made a sound that might have been a laugh. “You won’t.”
“What?”
“Live to eighty. You’re waaaaaay off. Your son won’t, either. That’s the other reason you need to get the hell gone. If there are fewer than ninety miles between us, I might eventually give in to the urge to beat you to death. I want to do thatnow, Gloria. I want to see if you’re an ugly crier. I want to hurt you very, very much. And so you’re going.”
Terror had shrunk the already tiny apartment to a pinhole. There wasn’t anything in her world except the stranger’s burning gaze.
Gloria bent, picked up the envelope, stuffed the cash back inside. “It wasn’t just me, y’know. I’m not making excuses...”
“Of course you are, you useless twat.”
Gloria felt her face get hotter and hotter, bit her lip, glared at the carpet. “I’m just saying, my ex-husband?—”
“Oh. Him.” The stranger stood and speared Gloria with one more bloody glare. “He’s my next stop. I’m aware there is plenty of blame to go around.”
She left, and Gloria listened until she heard the door at the far end of the hall wheeze open and slam shut. Then she stacked the cash on the counter, ran to the bathroom, and threw up.
ChapterThirteen
Amara’s tower rooms were unchanged. The setup was beautiful; even at her most angsty, she could never deny the trappings were sweet. The queen-size bed with a semicircle headboard (still sporting the clamp reading lights she would attach, her mother would hide, she would find and reattach) was square in the middle of the room, and the curved wardrobe was opposite the fireplace.
