by RM Johnson
The plan—Monica was not certain of it. Her mind was not as calculating as her ex-husband’s. It was why she might need to call on Daphanie and was reaching out to Tori, to help her devise a scheme that would bring at least as much pain and suffering to Nate as he had brought to each of them.
Monica approached the stairs to Nate’s house confidently, climbed them, placed herself in front of his door, and rang his doorbell. Only then did the enormity of what she was about to do, what she might risk, club her over the head.
As Monica waited for the door to be answered, she realized she could turn, run away now, try to forget all that tormented her about her past with Nate. Her life as it was was not that bad. Or she could follow through with her intentions and risk his once again coming out on top, as always, leaving her with far less than she had right now.
Think quickly, Monica told herself, feeling a bead of sweat form at her brow and roll over her forehead.
She heard the lock turn on the other side of the door, and Monica quickly wiped at her brow. It was too late. Her decision had been made for her.
The door opened. Nate stood behind it, wearing slacks and a polo shirt. Upon seeing Monica, he smiled but looked surprised that she was there.
“You, uh … what are you doing here?” Nate asked.
Monica stared into his eyes. It was like staring down the devil himself. “What you said to me the other evening in my store—were you serious?”
“About coming back to me? About us being a family once more?” Nate said, genuinely looking as though there was nothing more he wanted in life. “Yes, Monica. You know I was.”
Monica swallowed hard. “Then I want to come back. I still love you,” Monica forced herself to say. “I want to come back and for us to be a family again.”
95
Lewis took the day off from work to spend at the hospital with Eva. He sat there by her bed, tormented by the fact that he was the reason she was raped. He so badly wanted to admit that to her but could not bring himself to do it. What good would it have done?
She lay in bed quiet for Lewis’s entire visit, half sedated from the pain medication for her wired jaw, half still in shock from the ordeal.
Lewis kissed Eva’s cheek, told her he would be back to see her later, then left the hospital. He drove toward home but found himself unable to deal with the overwhelming feeling of powerlessness.
Eva was the woman he loved, the woman he would one day marry. For Freddy to have sent someone to break into his home, rape and beat Eva, and then think that Lewis would stand for it—the man obviously didn’t know Lewis like he thought he did.
He grabbed the wheel of his Escalade, whipped a U-turn across three lanes of oncoming traffic, and headed downtown toward the one person he thought could help.
Nate Kenny sat poised behind his desk, his eyes focused intensely on Lewis.
“And you said they didn’t touch Layla,” Nate said, with concern a father would show for his own daughter, for Nate had had the child in his care for a couple of months and had grown to love her as his own.
“No.”
“And you’re sure this was Freddy Ford?” Nate said.
“Yes.”
Nate closed his eyes and lowered his chin onto his intertwined fingers. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Freddy Ford is my problem. I created him, and for him to do this to you, to the woman you love …” Nate said very softly, then suddenly slammed the side of his fist against his desk with enough force, it seemed, to reduce it to splinters. He stood and paced, troubled, over to the windows.
Lewis watched him, thinking about the man’s statement, that he had created Freddy Ford, and Lewis was thankful that Nate finally took responsibility for that. It had truly been all his doing.
Nate turned to Lewis. “Was there anything else said by these men?”
“Nothing more than I told you.”
“Do you want me to go after them?”
“I … I don’t know,” Lewis said, then wondered how anyone could find them. There was no information given. All there was was the warning Joni’s brother gave, and the fact that Freddy knew where Lewis lived, and how to hurt him.
“Lewis,” Nate said, walking over to him. “Do you want me to go after them? I’ll call my investigator.”
Lewis stood. “No. This is done. I don’t wanna risk something happening to Layla or Tammi or something worse to Eva. We’re gonna work hard, and I know we have what it takes to get past this. But what about you?” Lewis said. Despite the feelings he had for Nate—which at times closely resembled hate, considering all they had been through—they still shared a bond. Freddy had come after Nate once, shot him four times with the intention of killing him. Lewis didn’t want to see Nate hurt again. “If he’d do this to me, and we used to be best friends, what do you think he’d do to you? You have a child too. What’s to stop him from …”
A frown came to Nate’s face. “Understand this, Lewis. If that man again tries to come after your family, or even considers trying to hurt me or mine, he will know the full, unrelenting scope of my rage, and I promise you, he will wish every day, for the rest of his miserable, tormented life, that he had never been born.”
96
Freddy Ford walked beside the man in the white uniform, into the visitation room.
Inside, there was another man standing, waiting. He was broad shouldered and muscular. He was of medium height, appeared to be in his early thirties, and wore sagging jeans, a T-shirt, and a denim jacket.
Freddy walked with the attendant over to the man. Freddy wore jeans, slippers, a bathrobe, his chest bare underneath. He heard the attendant tell the man, “I’m not leaving the room. I’ll be right there by the door. If you need me, just say.”
The other man nodded, crossed his arms over his chest, and focused on Freddy as he approached.
Freddy scratched his beard, looked over his shoulder then sat. The man lowered himself into a chair across from him, staring Freddy in the face.
“It’s done,” the man said. His name was Scott. He was Joni’s younger brother by two years. He had run in gangs since thirteen, had been arrested several times, and spent more time in prison than out.
“You ain’t hurt her too bad, did you?” Freddy asked.
“Too bad?” Scott said. “That was my sister and I loved her, and she’s dead now!”
“That was my girl, and I love her too!” Freddy raised his voice. He looked up and saw the attendant’s eyes on them. He lowered his voice. “Scott, I feel you, but she ain’t the one who had your sister killed, okay? We just sending a warning right now. The other comes in time.”
“How much time?”
“You got what I asked for?”
Scott sunk his hand into the inside pocket of his jean jacket, brought out a small, thick envelope, and passed it to Freddy. Freddy quickly pushed the package into the pocket of his robe.
“How much?” Freddy asked.
“Two thousand. It’s all I could get right now.”
“It’s gonna take more.”
“I’m working on it,” Scott said, standing.
Freddy stood, gave the man some dap, and a half hug. “I’m missing her too, but we gonna take care of that, okay?”
Scott stepped back, and stared at Freddy with conviction. “We better.”
Freddy nodded and sat back down.
Scott walked toward the attendant. The man opened the door, walked Scott out, and left Freddy sitting in the room alone. That was against protocol, but then again, letting Scott in the facility with that wad of money was against the rules, and agreeing to what Freddy approached the attendant with was as well.
A moment later, the visitation room door opened again, and the tall dark-haired attendant stepped back in. He quickly walked toward Freddy.
“You got it?”
Freddy handed him the package. “It’s only two grand.”
“You said—”
“I know what I said, but ain’t nobody no millionaire. We’ll
get you the rest eventually.”
The attendant—the name plate on his chest read Kelly—hid the money in one of his pockets, grabbed Freddy by the arm, then said, “Don’t play games with me. I’m putting my ass on the line trying to break you out of here. I don’t get all the money! You can rot behind these walls for the rest of your life.”
About the Author
RM Johnson is the author of eleven novels, including bestsellers The Harris Family and The Million Dollar Divorce. He holds an MFA in creative writing from Chicago State University. He currently lives in Atlanta, Georgia.
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