Amour Toxique: Books 1-3 Boxed Set (Books 1-3 Series Boxed Set)

by Dori Lavelle

  My eyes blur with tears and I blink them away furiously.

  “I have lots of employees working for my company of whores all over the world, but I always enjoy the hunt. I never delegate that to anyone. I enjoy the thrill of meeting students and locking them into my web. I have to tell you though, I don’t normally sample the goods first but I make exceptions for the irresistible girls. You and Jennifer were among the lucky ones. I wanted to fuck you first before I sold you to another hungry cock. And the other faculty like fools wonder why some promising students suddenly abandon their studies and vanish. Parents search for their missing children, never knowing they are in a place where they are much more useful.”

  I swallow the sour bile inside my throat and turn away from him. I can barely breathe as my anger returns. It warms my frozen body, bringing it back to life. I unfurl my fingers while glimpsing a snow globe on the bedside table. There’s a little cottage inside with a bridge on one side and miniature trees on the other.

  I used to love snow globes as a kid. They reminded me of how magical the world can be. My father had been a collector. Every time I traveled to a place he hasn’t been before, I always brought him one to add to his collection. When he died, I was crushed to find my mother had thrown them all away as though they were trash and not memories.

  I look back at Judson when I feel the bed sink from his weight. He’s fully naked but I don’t look below his waist. I don’t want to see his evil dick, to wonder how many girls it has defiled, how many innocent lives it has ruined. The thought of fearful abducted girls and grieving parents sends fire raging through my veins. He can’t continue this evil. I can’t let him hurt any more families. I will not let him hurt any more innocent people. He has to be stopped and I will be the one to do it.

  Before the anger-fueled drive leaves my body, I grab the snow globe as he’s positioning himself above me. I strike him on the side of the head with it and watch him crumble on top of me.

  “I guess you underestimated this pussy,” I push him off me and lunge for his gun.

  “Bitch.” As he clutches his bleeding head, I aim the gun at him. He tries to move but his body is fighting the unexpected pain. I try not to think of the fact that from this moment on I’ll be a killer. I think only of my freedom and of saving other lives.

  “No,” I say with tears streaming down my cheeks. I get onto my knees. “You are the bitch, and I’m the big bad wolf you never saw coming.” My eyes are closed as I pull the trigger and shoot. I shoot him again and then once more. I feel him jolt and try to scream through a mouth full of blood. I hear him sink deeper into the small bed. His blood sprinkles my face, drop by evil drop. Finally I lower the gun to my thighs and open my eyes.

  I don’t see him, not any more. His face is completely unrecognizable.

  I did it.

  It’s over.

  I’ve ended the horror. Then why do I feel sick instead of relieved? My stomach clenches and before I can stop myself, I throw up onto his body, over and over again until I have nothing left inside me to give.

  70

  Only a towel is wrapped around my body as I stumble out of the room.

  I descend the stairs, almost tripping on my feet, one hand holding tight to the banister, and the other clutching the briefcase with the money Damien had given me. There’s a phone in the living room and I pick it up, only to drop it again when I fail to recall the number of the police station.

  Without thinking anymore, I swing open the front door and run out onto the street. The sun is warm for early in the morning, warming my damp head. I lower the briefcase to the ground and tighten the towel around my body. As I pick it up again, I scan the street for someone I can run to for help.

  On one side of the street is the sea and on the other are a sprinkling of cottages dispersed at great distances from each other. No wonder no one came to my rescue when Judson was attacking me. For all I know the other cottages aren’t even occupied.

  Tears stream from my eyes and drip onto my arms. When I glance down, I see Judson’s blood.

  Seeing no one on the small street, I distance myself from the house of murder. It takes a moment for me to realize I’m barefoot, but it doesn’t bother me as I’ve done it before when I tried to run away from Damien.

  With one hand holding on tight to the briefcase, and the other wrapped around the middle of my body, I hurry toward the largest cottage at the far end of the street. My body is on the move, pushing me toward my destination, but my mind is frozen with the shock of what had happened, the crazy turn of events. I doubt I’ll ever get used to the fact that I killed a man, even one who had been threatening my life.

  The two-story cottage is teal, with white window frames and door. As I walk up to the small gate, I pray someone is home. Whatever the case, there’s no way I’ll return to Adrian’s house. Once the cops show up, they will probably make me go back there, but I’ll not be able to handle returning there alone. Judson may be dead, but his presence is still so clearly in the air around the house.

  I breathe a sigh of relief when the small gate opens without resistance. My knees knock against each other as I walk along the cobbled stone path to the front door. I close my eyes and take a deep breath before ringing the bell. The moment my finger meets the silver doorbell button, I’m unable to remove it, to stop pushing the button.

  Over the sound of my crying, I hear a tinkling sound coming from inside the house. I should remove my finger, pause the ringing. I should wait for someone to come to the door. But I don’t. My finger stays on the button. The door is finally yanked open.

  A woman with silver hair and cheeks flushed with annoyance stands before me, smelling of cigarettes and rum. The moment her eyes meet mine, she screams and before I can say a word, slams the door in my face.

  I haven’t had a chance to look in the mirror, but I know I must look a complete sight. In her place, I’d also be wary of opening the door to a stranger that looks like me. I ring the bell several more times but the door remains closed. From the other side, the woman is shouting something in Spanish. The word policía tells me she’s threatening to call the cops on me. My hand drops from the button to my side.

  Instead of heeding her warning and walking away from her property, I sink to the ground, hugging the briefcase. After a good cry, I push myself to my feet, ready to leave. But I change my mind and sit again. I came to the house to ask if I could call the cops. If I stay here, she’ll call them without my asking.

  I move to sit against the wall nearest to the door and lean my head against it. My eyes drift shut.

  I feel safe here. I can rest for a while. The cops will be here soon. They’ll take me to safety.

  I had meant to only rest my eyes, not fall asleep but I do. The next thing I know firm hands are shaking me awake. I force my eyes open. A uniformed cop comes into focus as my eyes clear.

  I use the back of my hand to rub away any remnants of sleep.

  In Spanish, he asks me who I am but I don’t respond, just stare at him because it hits me I have not worked out yet what to say without sounding like a crazy person. And where do I even begin, with the events at Damien’s mansion or Adrian and Hanna’s place?

  He gestures for a second cop to join us. While he makes a call, the second cop asks if I speak English.

  I nod and he lowers himself to my level. Our eyes meet. “Who are you? What you doing here?”

  “He . . . help.” I lick my lips and try again. “Please, help me.” Explaining everything to him right now would take too much energy.

  “You come with us, okay?” He helps me up by the elbow. When he bends to lift my briefcase, I snatch it from his hands.

  “I’m from the US.” I hug the case to my body. “Please—I want to go home.”

  While the first cop exchanges a few words with the distraught owner of the house, his colleague guides me down the path and out the gate. A second police car pulls up and a thin woman in uniform steps out. The two cops talk to her for a moment,
explaining what little they know about the situation.

  The woman smiles as she approaches me, concern in her deep brown eyes. “I’m Officer Florez. Please, come with me.” She drapes an arm around my shoulders and escorts me to her car.

  I’m shocked that instead of treating me like a trespasser, they’re showing me kindness.

  “What’s your name?” She asks once we’re settled in the backseat of the car. Another cop is drinking coffee from behind the wheel.

  “Ivy Hollifield.” I glance out the window to her colleagues who are peering at us through the window, perplexed expressions on their faces. I turn away from them. It’s much easier talking to a woman.

  “What happened, Ivy?” Officer Florez lowers her gaze to my hands, which are clasped together over the briefcase. “Did someone hurt you?”

  “Yes.” The word is drowning in the tears blocking my throat. “He’s dead.”

  “Who? Who hurt you? Where is this person?” Her voice is like a gentle stream of water but underneath the calm, I detect a blade of steel that likely emerges when a challenging situation calls for it.

  I’m not sure whether to mention that first it was Damien and then his brother who hurt me. I focus on Judson, the man who did the most damage, the man who died without redeeming himself.

  “Judson Devereux. He’s a fugitive . . . wanted for murder in the US. Was—”

  “Where is he? Where is this Judson?” she asks before I can tell her his killing spree didn’t stop in the US.

  “House Number 7. On this street.” Before walking away from Adrian’s house, I remembered to note the house number.

  “Wait here,” she says as though I have a choice. She opens her door and says something to the other cops, an authoritative and much deeper voice replacing the soothing one.

  In a flurry of action, the officers get into their cars and doors slam shut. A few heartbeats later, we’re in front of Adrian’s house. Officer Florez gives the male cops—including the driver of the car we’re in—what sounds to my ears like orders to get inside the house and confirm my story. As they follow her orders, she remains inside the car with me.

  She wants to know how and why I came to Mexico and everything that followed. Not wanting to break her trust, I tell her a version of the truth, that I came with my husband, who Judson Devereux also murdered. I leave out the part about Damien kidnapping me and holding me captive. I don’t understand why I’m protecting him. It’s not as if he’s alive to pay for his crimes. It has everything to do with the fact that his crimes pale in comparison to Judson’s.

  I mention that Adrian had called the cops to Damien’s mansion, but no, I don’t know the address.

  She stops taking notes and taps the side of her face with the ballpoint pen. A shadow crosses her face. “Was there a fire?”

  I frown, shaking my head. “No. I—the house was not on fire when we left. Unless . . .” I wrap my arms around my body, suddenly cold. “He could have set the house on fire before he escaped.” A fire could have been the perfect way for him to distract the cops, giving him a chance to escape the crime scene.

  Judson not only murdered his brother, he scorched his body. My throat constricts at the thought of burning flesh and hair. I blink away tears.

  The officer pats my arm. “We’ll look into it. Please continue. What happened when you arrived here?”

  By the time I’m done telling the story, I’m sick to my stomach. “I killed him.” My lips tremble. “I shot him with his gun. He wanted to kill me.”

  She hands me a piece of paper and pen. “Please write down the names of all people who were involved.” I start with my name and then the names of the people who are now dead and gone. My tears come faster when I write Adrian and Hanna’s names.

  As soon as I’m done, and she has made a few calls, two ambulances, and a van pull up in front of the house. She urges me to get into one of them, even when I insist that apart from a few bruises I’m fine.

  On the way to the ambulance, I watch as bodies are wheeled out of the house. My head starts to spin and I clutch my throat, struggling to breathe. Then black dots appear in front of my eyes seconds before darkness swallows me.

  The next thing I remember is waking up from a nightmare and finding myself inside a hospital. The nurse tells me that I fainted and need to stay a few nights for observation. Outside my door, I spy Officer Florez talking on the phone. After she hangs up, she enters the room, unsmiling.

  “Are you okay?” She places herself at the end of my bed.

  “Yes.” My voice sounds foreign. “Am I in trouble?”

  She sighs. “No, but we’ll need you to stay a few days for questioning.”

  “Did you . . . did you find out anything?”

  “Yes, we’ve found evidence that proves you acted in self-defense.”

  “I’m innocent,” I mumble to myself. What if they don’t believe me? What if I go to prison for trying to defend myself?

  “You are. And once you answer more of our questions and get some rest, you’re free to leave Mexico. We’ll help you in every way we can.”

  “What about the house?”

  “It was burned to the ground.” She pauses. “A body was found. Do you want to—”

  “No.” Not interested in asking more questions and just wanting to leave it all behind, I nod and close my eyes.

  I dream of Chelsea and my mother, and everyone I left back home, people who had meant something to me. We’re on the beach and he’s standing a few feet away from me.

  He smiles and waves for a few seconds, then turns to walk away, disappearing into the night like a whisper.

  71

  The detectives get into their car, and I raise a hand to give them a wave.

  As I watch them drive off, the hairs at the back of my neck bristle. With narrowed eyes I scan the patch of dead bushes on the other side of the road in time to catch a flash of blond hair between the thin branches. I close the door and rest my back against it, eyes closed, drawing in deep breaths. I’ve been taking lots of deep breaths since arriving back home two weeks ago. It has been a struggle to return to my old life, but I always remind myself to breathe and take the next step.

  My eyes fly open when I hear the sound of my mother returning to the small living room, a tray in her hands. A frown touches her brow as she lowers it onto the coffee table. A lot has changed since the last time we saw each other. The amazing changes in her were clear from the moment I stepped off the plane and she pulled me into a hug, sobbing uncontrollably. I had tracked her down through her modelling agency.

  Tightening her arms around my body, she whispered that she refused to let herself believe I was dead.

  When we saw each other again in person, she was not the stubborn, hard-hearted woman I’d left behind. Having neglected her Botox injections and her bleach-damaged hair hanging in limp ropes around her shoulders, she looked much older than her forty-five years. But despite her abandoned looks, she had transformed in other ways. She had turned into the mother I wished I’d had as a child.

  Coming home has turned out to be the best decision. I’ve found a fresh start in the place I least expected it. And a new home. Mom brought me to a small one-bedroom apartment instead of the large house I spent my childhood.

  “I couldn’t stay in a place that reminded me day and night of what I lost,” she’d admitted as she let me in. “Everywhere I looked, I saw you . . . and your father. I remembered the pain I caused you both.”

  “This is a nice place.” I’d hugged her to hide my own tears in her shoulders. The tears marking the end of an era. A piece of my heart aches at the loss of the home that carried my childhood memories and memories of my father. But I got something better. I found my mother, and she didn’t even care that my hair was in a messy ponytail instead of hanging neatly down my back, attracting potential model scouts. For the first time she saw me, her daughter, and not her personal cash cow.

  “Where have the detectives gone?” Mom asks, bringin
g me back to the present. “I thought they were staying for coffee.”

  I shrug and move to the couch. “They got the answers they needed from me, for now at least. But keep baking those cookies. I’m sure it won’t be their last visit.” I wish it were.

  During my absence, Mom had found comfort in baking. Who would have thought my mother, the society lady, would find joy in a kitchen? But one thing I’ve learned is that life is full of surprises, some horrifying and some amazing. Most of them life-changing.

  “Did they question you about Judson again?” She lowers herself next to me and places her hands on her knees. She’s wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, not the miniskirts and stilettos she’d loved so much.

  “Yes. They keep asking about his illegal prostitution business. They claim it was a massive operation. They want information that would lead the authorities to his business partners. He was guilty of so many crimes, Mom. Human trafficking, drugs, money laundering.” I shake my head. “I can’t believe he got away with it for so long.”

  Mom tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Thank God you put an end to it. If it weren’t for you, he’d still be hurting people.”

  “I know.” I pull in a breath. “But I wish I didn’t have to live with someone’s blood on my hands.”

  “Still having nightmares?”

  I lean my head on her shoulder. “I don’t think they’ll ever go away.”

  When I go to bed at night, I relive the moment I killed Judson Devereux over and over again, night after night.

  Mom runs a hand up and down my arm. “You had no choice, Ivy. If you didn’t kill him, you would be dead. I read that—”

  “No,” I cut her off. “Don’t tell me what you read in the papers. I don’t want to know, remember?” It’s so much easier for me to bury my head in the sand and wait for the news about me and the evil twins to go away. Several times I’d come close to reading an article, to check if the stories are accurate, to find out where Damien is buried, but I managed to stop myself. Judson and Mexico have to remain in the past.