by Whitney G.
He’s the type of man who plays it safe whenever he bets. A man who will walk away from the table with all of his chips in tow, if he even senses that the game won’t end in his favor. From what I’ve witnessed by following him here or there these past several weeks, he’s the very definition of the word ‘cautious.’ He also has far too much to lose, if one blemish ever lands on his carefully curated record.
I could’ve sworn he was attempting to run for public office…
“How sure are you that it’s her father who wants her gone?” I look over at Trevor, still stunned at the news.
He shrugs, puffing another “O” of smoke. “Pretty sure.”
“Pretty sure or one-hundred-fucking-percent sure?”
“Both.” He rolls his eyes. “When’s the last time I did something half-assed?”
“You don’t want me to answer that.”
“I can show you the video, if you’d like,” he says, reaching over and rummaging through the burner phones in his glove compartment. “Is that what you need to see to believe me?”
“No.” I shake my head. He’s made stupid mistakes before, but he’s never been wrong or misfired. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Good.” He sits up and lights a new cigar. “Don’t hurt her too badly when the time comes, okay? I mean, make sure she doesn’t suffer more than necessary. His words, not mine.”
I give him a blank stare.
“Oh, and uh—” He paused. “I know you don’t typically do this, but he wants to make sure that the police don’t find her body for at least five years.”
“I don’t take requests for how the fuck I do my job.”
“Hence the words, I know you don’t do this typically…” he says. “You don’t typically go on five-hour dates with the targets either, so it looks like this is opening an entirely new era for you, isn’t it?”
Fuck off, Trevor.
Him wanting Meredith dead doesn’t add up in the slightest, but I can’t spend too much time questioning it right now. There are far more important things on my mind, and I can get to the bottom of this Thatchwood mess later. Maybe.
Sure, I can’t seem to think about anything except getting another taste of her lips or diving deep into her pussy again, but she doesn’t mean anything to me. She’s just the first memorable woman I’ve ever met, the first person who’s ever intrigued me this much in over a decade.
She’s just a job. Just a job.
“What other business do you need to talk to me about, Trevor?” I ask. “I need to go home and get some sleep.”
“Please don’t insult my intelligence.” He hands me a folder.
I open his folder, and inside are two lists. The first one consists of the businessmen and companies who are late making their deposits into our account—an offense that will prove very costly if they don’t rectify it by the end of the week.
The second list is a personal one, the names we hardly ever say aloud. These are the people who ruined us long ago, the people who’d turned us into the half-hearted monsters we’ve become. The people who still, to this day, steal our sleep by haunting us in our nightmares.
We don’t make any money “handling” them, but I’m willing to fit them into my schedule for free.
The list started with twenty-eight, but now it’s down to ten. A far cry from the zero we’ve been wanting to reach for years.
All or nothing.
I stare at the name Dr. Holden McAllister and feel my blood beginning to boil. “I’ll pay our old therapist a visit in a few months. I need to do some research on his new life.” I glance at the other list and blink a few times to make sure what I’m looking at is real.
“Why is Rio Warren on the debt list?” I ask. “I just saw him a few hours ago at Fahrenheit 900. He didn’t seem off or anything.”
“I’m sure that’s because he dropped tons of money into your club and wanted you to see that,” he says. “Unfortunately, he’s months late paying us, so hopefully, he didn’t spend it all on liquor and bottle service.”
“We don’t fuck with the mafia, Trevor. Ever.”
“We do when they owe us over a quarter-million-dollars.”
I raise my eyebrow, stunned that anyone would ever be more than a second late after owing that much. Still, a man like Rio isn’t a suit. There has to be an explanation.
“Someone is probably late paying him,” I said. “Give him a few more weeks. He’s never been late before, and he’s always good for it.”
“Fine.” He motions for me to get out of the car. “I need to get back to New Jersey to finish off an IKEA manager, and you need to turn back into the Michael I know by the time I get back. I expect to hear fucking research and planned times of executions. Literally.”
I roll my eyes and step out of his car.
He speeds off the moment I shut the door, and I return to the Four Seasons. I know better than to revisit Meredith in the penthouse suite again—even though I’m tempted, so I request a different room. I also request that they extend her stay by a few days and set two aspirin, a tray of bagels, and a note from me on her nightstand in the morning. (It’s common fucking decency. It doesn’t mean anything.)
When I make it to my room, I turn the air conditioning on to the coldest setting. I open all the windows—letting in as much of the freezing night air as possible, and then I set the ceiling fan on high.
Taking off my clothes, I lay at the center of the mattress and shut my eyes for as long as I can bear it—hoping that for once, just once, sleep will come and stay for more than five hours.
Just once.
I drift off into a dream that feels like it’ll finally last a long time, but by the time my eyes flutter open, I look at my watch and realize that it’s been exactly five hours.
Fuck.
The flames of my past are still burning hot and bright, and I know they won’t stop until I finish that damn list. Until I can completely focus on putting it behind me.
I dress again and prepare to check out. As I’m walking to the elevator, my second cell phone buzzes in my pocket.
No one has this number yet, and I’ve installed software that prevents robo-calls.
Confused, I hold it up to my ear. “Yes?”
“Um, hi.” Meredith’s soft and raspy voice comes over the line. “It’s me, Meredith.”
What the fuck? “How the hell did you get this number, Meredith?”
“You opened your phone and texted the concierge at some point last night.” She sounds like she’s still in bed. “I have a photographic memory.”
I smile, impressed and completely caught off-guard. I never picked up on that while following her, so I mentally add that to my list of “Interesting observations about the Thatchwood Girl.” It can go right under “Sexy as hell without even trying,” “Unafraid of a little darkness,” and “Enjoys talking about books and authors for hours at a time.”
I rush her off the phone—shutting down any idea of meeting up with her again, and make sure my gun is loaded and concealed before stepping onto the elevator.
I’m supposed to spend today following a man who has an unfortunate criminal addiction, since I’m due to kill him in a matter of weeks, but I don’t drive to his job to stalk his routine. I don’t show up to the ice cream parlor where his family meets him in the afternoons, and I don’t hack into his personal computer when he “accidentally” leaves it in a locker at his gym.
Instead, I think about Meredith. How much I want her, how much I need to have her, at least one more time.
I try to let the thoughts remain thoughts, but before I know it, I’m using my own photographic memory and sending her an email.
Subject: One more date…
Michael
Now
Top Ten Reasons Why Meredith Thatchwood is Probably Still Alive (& Tips on How to Get Her Smoky Eye Wedding Picture Look)
If Meredith Thatchwood was a Regular, Ugly Missing Person and Not a Beautiful, Billionaire Heiress, No One Would
Care
Fans Launch Petition for Gillian Weston, Author and Best Friend of Missing Thatchwood Heiress, to Release Her New Book; “Meredith was a FAN, too!”
Police Question Heiress’s Newlywed Husband Again; Officially Clear Him as a Suspect
‘Hopeful, yet very concerned’ in the search for Missing Billion-Dollar Heiress, Father Says
Officials Find Abandoned Car with Blood Stains, Meredith Thatchwood’s Locket Necklace, and Hair Strands in Trunk; Police to Test DNA
The mainstream media is far too fucking predictable. They run every major story with the exact same cycle: Breaking news and an outrage story, tons of hour to hour coverage, new angle of the story, even more hour to hour coverage. They run with this big story for as long as they can—a couple weeks at most, and right when it begins to lose steam, they pick up the next breaking news story.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
It’s been two months since Meredith went missing, and her disappearance is slowly falling out of this vicious cycle—only mentioned by news stations when they’re desperate for clicks and want to examine “new angles” for the story. Occasionally, her name will resurface in the papers whenever her lying ass father wants to make a tear-filled appearance about how the cops aren’t doing enough to find her.
Honestly, if I didn’t know what I know, I’d feel the same. They’re completely incompetent and twenty steps behind what’s really happening, but that’s exactly where I need them to be.
Meredith
Now
1 out of 5 stars
Dear fellow Goodreads.com reviewers,
This is not a book review. I’m writing this here, on this book’s page, in hopes that someone will see this before I’ll be forced to delete it.
My name is Meredith Alexis Thatchwood, and my husband—Michael Anderson—has kidnapped me. He is currently holding me against my will in a mansion, in the middle of nowhere. (From what I remember from the last time I managed to escape, the place is five miles away from the Genessee River, past a drive of overgrown maple trees. Some street names nearby are Ardmore Lane, Pine Avenue, and Trellis Cove.)
If you help me, I promise that my father—Leonardo Thatchwood—will reward you for alerting the police to my whereabouts.
PLEASE call 1-888-MER-TIPS and show them this review. Please tell them I’m still alive…and please contact Gillian Weston and show this review to her, too.
Please help me,
Meredith
Comment from InLovewithBooks: Ugh. These indie authors are getting on my damn nerves. Stop promoting your book blurbs on other author’s book pages! (And why would you post this as a 1-star?)
Comment from TheDNF-Queen: She left out, “Help me, I’m poor! Please BUY MY BOOK!” I’m sure that’s what she was going for with this pandering-ass review/blurb. SMH. (She probably posted it as a 1-star since those are the ones we all read first BAHAHA!)
Comment from RomanceHeart: I hope you’re not going to buy her book, TheDNFQueen! And I’m with InLovewithBooks. What is it with these newer indie authors? #theaudacity
Comment from TheDNF-Queen: I just googled the woman who she’s claiming to be and this Thatchwood woman has been missing FOR REAL for eight weeks. Like, she’s using a real-life tragedy to sell her book. SAD. I’m blocking this author.
I stop reading the comment thread and scream as loudly as I can into a pillow. I’m tempted to throw the cell phone against the wall, but I’ll only be hurting myself.
The phone is a “gift” that Michael left on the table for me last week, but there’s nothing to thank him for. It can’t make calls or send text messages, it has no email or web search functions, and there is no way for me to turn off the restricted controls, snap pictures, or even check the damn time. What I have left is the super basic version of Netflix, access to a curated YouTube, and the ability to post reviews (but not comment or message) via Goodreads.
I also have access to seeing a delayed version of Gillian’s Instagram, but it brings me to tears each time I load the page.
Every other day, she posts a different picture of us when we lived together—along with a long and beautifully worded caption, and I know that she’s still crying herself to sleep.
She’s had to turn off all the comments, since her fans only want to know about her next book. I’m pretty sure the comment that sealed the deal was from mmrr025 two days ago: Can you give us an idea of when you THINK you’ll be normal again? With all due respect, I think Meredith would want you to publish that new book! She was your FAN, too!
Even with these new glimpses that I’m allowed to take of the outside world, most of my free time is spent wandering through this gilded prison—looking for new ways to get the hell out of it.
I may cry myself to sleep here or there, spend a few hours longing for the days when my husband would fuck me with his mouth during the afternoons with an unparalleled passion, instead of staring at me blankly from across a chessboard, but I refuse to feel sorry for myself.
I’m going to get away from him within the next couple of weeks. Come hell or high water.
Grabbing my watch and my journal, I walk over to my bedroom’s locked balcony and look up at the cameras that guard the terrace.
9:05…9:06…9:07…Left balcony camera shuts off and restarts. Right balcony camera doesn’t pick up the slack for twenty-one seconds…
I move to the hallway and wait for fifteen minutes, writing down those camera patterns. The cameras above the winding staircase are too high for me to see, but I’m willing to bet that they’re on the same schedule as the ones in the main living room.
When I make it into the kitchen to check the cameras above the cabinets, I stop at the sight of Michael standing in front of the stove. Dressed in all-black, with the sleeves of his button-down shirt pushed up to the elbows, he’s staring intently into the skillet—looking sexy as fuck.
His shirt is clinging to his muscles in all the right places, his perfect, chiseled jawline is freshly shaved, and from here, I can smell a hint of his intoxicating cologne.
I notice that he has a new tattoo on his left hand—a grey spotted spider that’s far smaller than any of his other ones. He’s also wearing a new watch, a Patek Phillippe that costs what my entire inheritance is worth. It’s almost as if he’s making a statement.
Noticing me, he turns around and smiles, sending unwanted butterflies fluttering against my stomach. He stares at me for several seconds, looking me up and down—fucking me with his gorgeous green eyes.
Suddenly, images of late-night sex in my condo, kissing him in the back of a cab, and his daily flower delivery from before invade my mind. My heart swells at the memories, but the frames quickly dissolve and give way to the darker pictures of our story: Him stuffing me into a van after our honeymoon, him lying about loving me, and his insistence on keeping me here.
I hate to admit it to myself, but this man can still turn me on and wet my panties within seconds. Criminal kidnapper or not, he’s still the sexiest man on the planet, and he knows exactly how to look and what to say to get under my skin.
“Good morning, Meredith,” he says. “Did you sleep well last night? Have you completed the daily swimming laps that I now require you to do?”
I don’t answer. I head toward the breakfast bar and lean against the counter, looking at my phone. With any luck, the breakfast box that drops via drone every morning will be here soon, and I can return to my room.
“Anything interesting happening in the news lately?” he asks. “Oh, that’s right. You can’t access those things. If you’d like, I can update you on where the police are on your case.”
Don’t react to him, Meredith. Don’t react. I suck in a breath and open my Goodreads review to read more upset comments about my post.
“It’s such a shame,” he says. “Some of the people on social media are starting to think that your husband has something to do with your disappearance. They don’t seem to care that the cops have cleared me, and there’s evidence to
the contrary.”
I grit my teeth and keep my eyes glued to the screen, as he steps closer to me. He gently grabs the phone from my hands, forcing me to look up at him, to stand up a bit straighter.
“I’m not sure I’m a fan of this extended silent treatment, Meredith,” he says, looking into my eyes. “It’s not really fair, given the circumstances and all I’ve done for you.”
I bite my tongue to prevent myself from saying, “You haven’t done shit for me,” but I can feel the words begging to be freed.
“We have to leave here in a few weeks,” he says, his voice low. “So, it’s in your best interest to—”
“Talk to you?” I cut him off, unable to hold in my emotions anymore. “You honestly expect me to talk to you and act like this shit is normal? Like I’m actually happy to be your wife?”
“You should be, but I’d probably use the word ‘lucky’ over ‘happy’, if I were you.”
“Bullshit, Michael.” I try to push him away, but he grabs my hands, holding me still. “You are a fucking criminal, and I don’t care how big of a ‘monster’ you think you can be, or how well you think you can torture me by holding me here in pain anymore.”
“You have no idea what real pain is, Meredith,” he says as a vein begins to swell in his neck. “You’ve lived a life where your biggest issue is overcoming your own fucking emotions.”
“I beg to differ.”
“You have no fucking idea what true captivity is.” He prevents me from pushing him away again. “You can roam freely in this house. You can eat whatever you want, do whatever you want—whenever you fucking want.”
“I can do everything except leave,” I hiss, feeling my chest heave up and down. “Oh, and let’s not forget the fact that you’ve now started forcing me to swim one hundred laps every evening, for no goddamn reason.”