“The detective?” Larkin grabbed one of the coffee cups from the counter, placed it in the microwave, and turned it on.
“Yes?”
“He’s a nice guy.”
“How do you know?”
“I haven’t met him, but he and Douglas have had some back and forth. He approves, so I approve.” Her sweet friend’s smile was so sincere but misplaced.
“He is a nice guy. Too bad I’m not a nice girl.”
“You’re one of the nicest.”
Gen hiked a brow. It pulled on her puffy eyelid.
“Yes, you’re a bad bitch, but you’re always there for your friends. You just have to let your friends be there for you.” Larkin pulled the cup from the microwave, took the phone from Gen, and replaced it with the coffee.
The drink would have been better fresh and with Owen, but it knocked back the cloud of sorrow enough for her to see a few feet in front of her. She sipped and sat with someone willing to skip out on what was sure to be a day of very important business to be here for her.
“He was in the military before the police force,” Gen volunteered. Not that it mattered anymore.
“Really? He doesn’t strike me as the killing type.”
“He wasn’t. He was a Navy Corpsman. He took care of people.” She pulled in a shaky breath. “He wanted to take care of me.”
Larkin chuckled. “You, a woman who doesn’t want to be taken care of.”
“I didn’t want to be until he took care of me.” A stray tear slipped down her cheek.
“Did you sleep with someone else?” Her friend asked the question with no hint of judgment, just inquisition.
“No.” Gen wrinkled her nose at the thought.
Two perfectly groomed brows shot high. “Oh, Genevieve, I hate to inform you, but he’s the one. He’s your one.”
Gen’s head shook.
Larkin nodded.
“I messed up.”
“You clammed up. There’s a difference. Talk to him. You won’t regret it.” Larkin patted her leg and stood.
“Like you know stuff.”
“I know you.” Her friend winked and disappeared left. A moment later, the whoosh of the bathtub hit her ears.
When her cup was nearing empty and the tub nearing full, Larkin reappeared and motioned her forward. What was it with the people in her life and their belief in the healing powers of a bath? Gen placed her cup on the counter next to Owen’s abandoned breakfast and followed Larkin into her candlelit bathroom.
“The bath won’t make you feel better, but it’ll make you look a little better.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Anytime.” Larkin kissed her cheek. “I have to catch a meeting. I wish I could stay, but between the conference, tech meeting, and Morocco I’ve missed a lot of important things at the office.”
“Oh, shit. Morocco.” Gen was a shit friend. “How was it?”
“Don’t worry about it. You’ve been dealing with your own mess.” Larkin slipped out of the bathroom but stopped short. “Talk to him, and I’ll talk to you later.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Bath now.” Larkin grinned and closed the door.
Twenty-Six
Miracle of miracles, the bath had helped her appearance. The puffiness around her eyes had subsided, getting her hair wet forced her to deal with it, and she’d even put on the barest of makeup as an incentive to keep her emotions in check. She pulled the door closed to her apartment, locked it, and headed for the elevator in a better headspace than she had any right to expect. Larkin was right. All she had to do was bare her soul as she never had before. If anyone in the world deserved the best of her, Owen Graham did.
A smile pulled her cheeks, surprising the hell out of her. He would forgive her because he was a great man, a man she loved without equivocation.
The phone vibrated in her briefcase.
Gen slipped it from the pocket, hoping it was Owen and knowing it wasn’t. She would have to make the first move in that game of love.
Janney’s sweet and sassy picture filled her screen. As promised, Gen answered. “Good morning to the best assistant anyone could ever have.” She stopped in front of the elevator and depressed the call button.
“Who the hell is this, and what have you done with my Genevieve?” Janney groused. “That broad doesn’t know how to answer a phone, and she certainly doesn’t know how to give a proper compliment to the woman who’s kept her business rolling in her absence.”
She winced. It was true. All of it. Owen had only been looking out for her; he’d only been exercising sensibility when he refused to get her those phone records or have Perry followed.
“Janney, I know I’ve been shit lately, and I’m so sorry.”
“If you really were sorry, you’d have been here at eight a.m. for the deposition you scheduled.”
“Shit,” Gen hissed. She pulled the phone from her ear and looked at the time. 10:58 a.m. “I’m on my way in, and I’m back mentally and physically. I promise.”
“I’ve heard it before. Ever since the murders.”
“Now I mean it.” Gen glared at the elevator. It never took this long unless someone was holding it. She scanned the corridor. It was midday. The apartment building was full of young and older professionals, which meant they were all being super responsible at their respective jobs and the freaking elevator should have been there by now.
“You better because my hands are tired of typing up extensions on all your cases.”
“I’m back, Janney, and better than my pre-murders self.”
“Better? How?”
“I’m in love, Janney.”
“Now I know I’ve dialed the wrong number.”
“Right.” Gen headed for the narrow staircase at the end of the hallway. “I’m leaving my apartment and heading your way. I’ll explain everything when I get there.”
“Uh …” She’d never heard the old bat without a well-crafted comeback.
“How would you feel about a new firm?” Gen asked, taking advantage of her bafflement.
“You’ve worked your ass off here,” Janney whispered.
“I know, and I can no longer do that for a man I don’t believe in.”
“Oh thank God, you’re not insane.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” Gen chuckled.
“The man is absolutely twisted in the head and even more so since the trial. He gives me the creeps.”
“Oh, Janney, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did, you little twit. You wouldn’t listen.”
“Fair point.” Gen shoved through the door into the stairwell. “We’ll get everything in order, and I’ll put in my notice by Friday.”
“Friday is tomorrow, crazy girl.”
“I know.”
“Christ, you are insane,” Janney drawled.
“Just steer clear of Perry. I’ll be in soon.”
“Steer clear? He’s not coming in today. Oh, you weren’t here when he made his announcement yesterday.”
The metal door slammed behind Gen. Her skin jumped off her skeleton a good foot before it snapped back into place.
“Announcement?” she wheezed.
“Yeah, he gathered everyone into the conference room yesterday afternoon and told us he was out early for the weekend because he was moving out of his Eastside home.”
Gen stalled on the top step. She’d thought he’d been moving out furniture to make room for his girlfriend. She’d been wrong. “Moving where, Janney?”
“Hell if I know. Out of that horror show set, which he should have done months ago, if you ask me.”
“You don’t have a clue?”
“No, child. Can you hear?”
“Just fine. I’m on my way. See if you can find some boxes.”
Janney huffed. “I might have liked you better before your new self-discovery.”
“Bye.” Gen ended the call and shoved the phone back into the pocket of her briefcase. She gripped the railing and suc
ked in a deep breath. The air was stale and overpowered by a cleaner.
Perry was moving. Good. She was moving, offices at the very least. Maybe she needed a fresh start with apartments too. But damn, NYC real estate was a beast and her place was great. Even the stairwell was a stunning shade of white with marble-topped posts and intricate metalwork on the banister. She took the steps one at a time, careful with her fancy stilettos. Since her usual commute had been shot to shit this morning, she’d opted to grab an Uber. She’d planned to make the request in the elevator. It wouldn’t take them long to respond when she got to the lobby.
Halfway down, the pressure in the stairwell shifted as a door whispered open. Gen slowed, waiting for the rushed sound of footsteps or the whack of the door back to its frame, but neither happened. Her lungs burned. It was only then that she realized she’d been holding her breath like a scared little girl. Maybe Janney was right in calling her child.
She shoved the hair back from her shoulders, lifted her chin, and continued cautiously. Maybe the elevator was broken, and they hadn’t had time to post it. When she reached the second floor, where she’d thought the door had opened, no one was in sight.
Gen shook it off and rounded the last of the levels. She had three doors from which to choose.
Small, overpriced parking garage. Mailroom. Lobby.
She turned left, away from the other two doors and hurried toward the lobby’s rear entrance. Her hand reached for the latch but stalled. There it was again. The pressure change.
Gen turned in time to see meaty knuckles sailing toward her face.
Twenty-Seven
The pain came in waves. Large, violent waves intent on drowning her jerked her left and right. They threw her deep into unconsciousness and then shoved her to the edges of a plight with which she was not yet ready to deal. For with it came the battle for her life.
A battle she was sure to lose.
Awareness slipped away for a time but hung within her reach, should she care to try, but trying only brought heartache. Nothingness was easier. She drifted in it, content, until one thought thrust her to the present.
Owen.
Her eyes shot wide, causing a stabbing sensation to rock her frontal lobe. Nausea knitted her intestines. Still, she searched. Owen was nowhere to be seen. Nothing was. Darkness swallowed her whole.
Fear froze her spine.
Where was she? What was going on?
A wretched sob threatened to ignite.
Gen mentally backpedaled in search of numbness and freedom from the horror and agony, but there was none to be had. The ground beneath her vibrated.
She blinked, and firecrackers exploded inside her skull. Her body lurched, trying desperately to escape the torment. A hard, uneven barrier connected with her shoulder. The incendiaries inside her thought it was Independence Day. They spewed off another round. Grimacing, she reached for her head only to find her arms bound behind her back.
Horror was not a movie, but life. A life she wasn’t long for.
Both her arms had been folded into 90-degree angles, placing her hands at either elbow. Whatever held her together was tight and winding, starting at one elbow and working its way to the other. Even her fingers were held prisoner.
Air whooshed in and out of her lungs so quickly that what little stability she possessed slipped from her trapped grasp. Her neck relaxed, and for the first time, she really felt the ground beneath her. It was hard but hollow. Panic ebbed and observation took its place. The edge of her chin scraped across the itchy fabric. Course fibers akin to an outdoor rug caressed her. Its base rumbled and shifted slightly.
A cargo truck, maybe.
Gen lay on her side in the fetal position. If she stayed there, she’d most certainly die. Surely, there was a weapon or something she could use to free herself. First, she needed to assess her surroundings. She’d feel with her feet. She pushed out with her legs. At least she tried. They were bound at the ankles.
Do not panic. Do not panic. Do not panic.
With each silent order, Gen sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. As ordered, the mania hovering just in view didn’t obliterate her vision. Not that she could see anything. Actually, that wasn’t completely true. A small, oddly shaped T glowed only a couple of inches above her stomach.
It hit her in a rush.
She was in a trunk.
Perry put her there.
The memory of a heavy fist rushing toward her flashed. She hadn’t had more than a fraction of a second to react because it’d been aimed at her face. Judging by the insistent pounding on the right side of her head, he’d missed obliterating her cheekbone, but the immense force had done the job of knocking her out.
Where was he taking her? What would he do with her when they arrived? Images of Pamela and the children’s bodies floated front and center in her aching brain.
He wouldn’t do that. If he did, they’d know it was him right away. Unless … What if he cut a deal with Sanchez?
Nausea hit her full force.
The car turned, and she shifted her head ever so slightly, away from the latch. No matter what Perry had planned, the end game was her death.
Death wasn’t on her agenda today, and she’d do anything she could to keep it that way. She was the baddest bitch attorney in NYC. If she couldn’t bargain for her life, then what good was she?
Who was she kidding? Perry was past words. He’d tried them. He’d tried wooing her with the offer of partner. He’d tried changing the course of her thoughts. He knew her too well to know she’d retreat from righting a wrong, especially one in which she’d had a hand. Which was exactly why hers were tied behind her back.
“Fuck you, Perry Carter.” Her words were a mere breath, but her body rattled with rage. Rage helped keep the terror at bay. Rage got her mind churning. She used her legs and head to search the interior for anything; a sharp edge, a hook, a crowbar. Anything to get off the bindings. There was nothing. Nothing.
If she had her phone, she could call Owen. And tell him what? She could tell him that she was sorry. She could tell him to come get her. She could tell him that she loved him.
The thought of him kept her moving, thinking.
Gen rolled onto her belly and up onto her left side. She threw her elbow and her bound hand toward the emergency latch. Her elbow hit the metal trunk lip where the bottom of the lid met the car. It sent a shockwave of pain through her network of nerves already tingly from lack of circulation. She gritted her teeth and used the pinkie of her left hand, the only digit she could get free, to feel for the thin plastic T.
Only cold, unfeeling air met her efforts.
She tried again and again, but the latch was too high. Gen drove her hips and shoulder into the itchy carpet in an effort to lever her arms higher. The edge of her pinky hit something. Every muscle in her core strained. Her pinky hooked onto the curved plastic.
Elation and triumph filled her to bursting.
In one swift move, Gen strengthened her pitiful grip, released her core, and pulled with everything she had. The latch slipped out of her finger as though the latch and its cord were attached to the immovable center of the Earth.
Attempt after attempt left Gen’s pinky raw. Sweat coated her skin. A mop of hair clung to her face. With each bit, she tried something new; grabbing higher, grabbing lower, grabbing with the rope. She panted on the floor of the trunk and wondered how much longer she had. New York had a ton of traffic, but it was only so big.
Gen flopped onto her belly and rolled to her right, facing the maddening latch. She wormed, insect style toward the latch for a better look. There was nothing to see but the eerie green glow of the T. It did little to illuminate anything around it. Not even the structure beyond a thin metal cord. She crunched high, opened wide, ignored the hair that slid into her mouth, grabbed one side of the T between her teeth, and pulled.
The latch didn’t budge.
Could a safety feature such as this be turned off or was her bite that p
uny?
On the third attempt, the curve of the T slashed the inside of her cheek. It didn’t stop her from trying several more times. She spit blood left, right, and center. If she didn’t make it, at least there would be a trace of her to nail this fucker. Owen would look at Perry first. Whether he cared for her or not, he cared about justice most of all.
She shoved off the side of the trunk, giving herself more room to think.
The brake lights.
Using the flats of her feet, Gen searched for the corner of the batting that lined the trunk. Where the fuck were her shoes? If he was smart, he took them because they made excellent weapons. If she was lucky—and it was clear she had shit for luck—they fell off when he stuffed her into the trunk and would leave a clue to what happened to her.
When she found the corner, she used her heels and kicked downward at the liner. With only a few more kicks, the stiff fabric crunched into the bottom corner.
If only she had shoes.
Gen pulled in a full breath, levered her feet back, and fired them in the direction of the taillights. Skin was no match for metal. Something pointed and sharp sank into the meat on the ball of her right foot. A howl flailed in her throat. It gurgled and whined through her teeth. She arched and strained against her bindings. The wild inside her unleashed. Her body thrashed. Her muscles swelled and contracted. Her mind raged.
Too soon she was drained. She lay limply on the floor. The low, steady rumble of the road lulled her for a long time. They drove for too long. Minutes piled into an hour or more. Maybe less. It was hard to discern time in the dark with pain and fear as her only companions.
She needed water. She needed light. She needed a knife.
She needed to get her shit together or she’d never have any of those things ever again.
Ever so slowly, Gen lifted her feet toward the taillights or where she expected them to be. Instead of ramming, she used her toes like fingers, examining the network of metal, screws, and cords she found. Using her left foot, the one not leaking blood onto the carpet—score another one for trace evidence—she wound a clump of wires between her toes.
Why (Stalker Series Book 2) Page 24