Page 110 of All You Want
“I let her go.” He spreads his hands palm up. “I’m not a bad guy. I was only going to threaten her life, but I’m not a killer.”
“Then why did you kill Viola?” Now my voice turns to acid, because no matter his delusions, he’s not going to get away with murder.
“That wasn’t me,” he says. “And don’t ask me if I know who it is. Larissa and I were not around when it happened.”
“If you saw anything, you should let Todd know.”
He flicks a strand of stray hair from my face and smiles. “Sweet bride, don’t you worry your pretty little head. Come on in and meet your family.”
He helps me from the van onto the flagstone walkway. I’m grateful for the stretching of my legs, but I shake my hands, rattling the handcuffs. “My shoulders are sore.”
“I’m sorry about that, honey. Promise not to resist?”
“Promise, darling.” I nod, hoping he believes me, and he reaches for the keys.
“Not yet,” Driver, a burly black-bearded man, says. “Let’s get her inside before letting her loose.”
“I don’t think we were followed,” Passenger, an older man with a thick white mustache, says. “But I don’t trust her.”
Between the two of them and the thick stench enveloping them, they hog march me up the steep stone steps to the covered porch.
“Hi, my name is Tami, what’s yours?” I beam at Driver and then at Passenger while my eyes water from the mustard gas fermenting in their bellies.
“You don’t have to treat my bride like a criminal,” Justin intercedes. “Tami, these are my uncles. Doug and Bruce.”
“Uncles?” I blink at Justin. “If you had uncles, why did you have to live at a foster home?”
“I didn’t know about them until after, well, let’s go in and see your surprise.” Justin unlocks my handcuffs and points to the massive ornate double doors decorated with carvings of wolves. “I can’t wait to see you in your wedding dress. Time’s getting short, and it’ll be midnight before we know it. Besides, you have to meet my family.”
I sure hope he has air freshener inside the house. Maybe I ought to insist on incense and scented candles for the ceremony.
“My mom is going to be so disappointed to miss my wedding,” I put on a wheedling voice. “Please, Justin, can we call her to let her know?”
Justin removes my phone from his pocket and shows me the screen. “Looks like we’re out of luck. There are no bars.”
“We can still take selfies and text them later, can’t we?” I’m still hoping to get access to my phone. Any evidence is better than nothing, in case I never return. “My girlfriends will kill me if they don’t get pictures. Let me get cleaned up first.”
He tucks the phone back in his pocket. “You don’t need to get cleaned up. You’re perfect just the way you are.”
It figures. Personal hygiene was never high on his bucket list.
He picks twigs from my hair and licks his finger, then swipes his spit-wet finger over a smudge on my cheek.
“Do we have to do this stupid tea party?” Bruce stomps his boots behind me.
“Let’s get on with the ransom video,” Doug growls. “We’re not letting her go until the money’s in the account.”
“Hey, you guys needed my help getting the golden goose, so hold your horses and let me have my fun,” Justin says. “This is our special night, and it has to be done right.”
We step through the doorway, and I get a glimpse of the chandelier lit with candlelight, as well as the massive oak stairway with a carved balustrade. Like the doors, a series of prancing wolves are depicted on the wooden borders. The floor is parquet, and the entrance foyer or vestibule is illuminated by flickering oil lamps.
The parlor doors to the right are closed, and a crackling fire licks a pile of logs in the library on the left. Herbal wreathes and the scent of pine and cinnamon fight to dispel the distillery of male gut juice.
“Tami Tutu, ready for Mooma Belle’s Tea Party?” Justin finger combs my hair, tugging out the tangles, then kisses me on the lips. I try not to cringe, and I keep my mouth firmly closed, tucking my lips back as much as possible.
He opens the door to the parlor and pushes me through. It’s dark inside, with only a shining crystal ball giving light. Gentle mists of essential oils bubble from a cauldron hanging over an open fire, but as grateful as I am for olfactory relief, my apprehension escalates at the ghostly sight before me.
A figure stands in the shadow, dressed in a furry black costume. White-gloved hands extend from the costume, eight in total. Two of the hands are moving, gesturing a welcome to me, and the other hands are stuck in various angles above and around her.
