Chapter 16
Jiya
Ipull my car about a mile back from Marcel Durand’s lake house.
The undergrowth scratches against the paint job, but I push forward until the vehicle disappears into the natural camouflage.
Perfect spot. Invisible from both the main road and the house.
I cut the engine and sit in the sudden silence. Only the soft tick of the cooling engine and the distant call of a loon break the stillness.
The place is stunning. All glass and cedar, perched on the edge of the water like some architectural magazine feature.
Remote. Private. Perfect for what he does to women who trust him. Perfect for what I’m about to do to him.
I force my mind to stay focused on Marcel. Not on pierced cocks or the way he said my name when—
No.
I slam the mental door shut. What Calloway and I shared meant nothing. Less than nothing. He’s just an asshole like the rest of them.
I breathe in deep, centering myself. This is what I do. This is who I am. I’ve eliminated seven monsters before him, and I’ll eliminate more after. No distractions.
If I get distracted, I’m dead.
I am not thinking of Calloway Frost.
A glance in the rearview mirror confirms the disguise is set.
The chestnut brown wig sits snugly against my scalp, pulled back into a messy ponytail.
Minimal makeup suggests an outdoorsy type, someone who belongs on these backwoods roads.
I am the perfect picture of a woman driving alone.
The perfect bait for a predator like Marcel, who would never resist the urge to help.
My hand slides into my coat pocket, feeling the small vial there. A special blend I’ve been perfecting. No taste, no smell, and it leaves no trace. Just cardiac arrest that looks perfectly natural for a middle-aged man with a high-pressure job.
I take a deep breath and practice my expression. Flustered, grateful, a touch vulnerable.
The face his secretary wore before he took advantage of her. Before he told her, “You wanted this,” while she lay violated in his guest bedroom. He threatened to destroy her career if she went to the police.
I twist my ankle as I exit the car, not enough to hurt, but enough to give me a convincing limp.
I retrieve the small water bottle from my passenger seat and unscrew the cap. The rain had been a downpour earlier, but now the clouds have scattered, leaving behind that crisp after-rain smell and patches of blue sky.
“Authenticity sells the lie,” I whisper to myself.
I tip the bottle over my hair first, letting cool water trickle down my scalp and face.
I close my eyes as rivulets trace paths down my cheeks, my neck, darkening the collar of my hiking shirt.
I pour more deliberately over my shoulders, creating damp patches that spread across my chest. The material clings to my skin to draw his eye without seeming intentional.
A damsel in distress, caught in a sudden shower, car troubles on a remote road. It’s almost too cliché to work, but men like Marcel believe women are clichés, anyway.
I approach the house, noting the security camera above the door. I angle my face down. Enough to hide my features but not enough to look suspicious.
I knock on the door, three rapid taps followed by two slower ones. The expression of anxious relief arranged on my face when it swings open.
Marcel Durand fills the doorway. He’s taller than his corporate headshots suggested, with salt and pepper hair and the tan that speaks of wintertime escapes to islands where the staff call you “sir” no matter how you treat them.
“I’m so sorry to bother you,” I say, letting my voice waver slightly. “My car got stuck about a mile back, and my phone is completely dead.” I pull out my phone for emphasis, showing him the black screen. “I just need to call for a tow truck, if that’s okay?”
His eyes travel down my body, settling briefly on my chest before returning to my face. I can see the calculation happening behind his eyes. Remote location. Attractive woman. No witnesses.
“What a nightmare,” Marcel says, his smile too practiced to be genuine. “Getting stuck out here must be terrifying for a young woman alone.”
His gaze lingers on my damp shirt, exactly as planned.
“You’re completely soaked. Must have caught that downpour earlier.
” He steps back from the doorway. “Come in, please. I wish I could offer you my cell, but the reception is absolute garbage out here.” He waves his hand dismissively.
“Rich people's problems, right? Beautiful lakefront property, but can’t get a single bar of service.”
I hesitate, playing the part of the cautious woman. “I don’t want to impose...”
“Nonsense. I’ve got an old landline you can use.” He gestures inside.
I flash him a grateful smile. “That’s so kind of you. I wasn’t sure anyone even lived out here.”
“I value my privacy,” he says, stepping aside to let me in. “Especially when I’m working on big deals.”
The inside of the lake house is even more impressive than the exterior. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the water view, while minimalist furniture in shades of gray and white creates a space that’s both luxurious and cold.
Like the man himself.
“This is beautiful,” I say, looking around with awe.
“Thank you.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Let me get you a towel. Would you like something to drink while we call for that tow?”
And there it is. The opening I need.
“That would be amazing,” I say. “Whatever you’re having is fine.”
He gestures toward a sleek leather sofa. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”
As he disappears down the hallway, I take inventory of the space. No photos. No personal touches at all.
I think of his secretary at my bar, her eyes hollow as the drinks loosened her tongue. How she described waking up here, disoriented and sore. How he laughed when she cried. How he reminded her of who held power over her future. She didn’t go to the police.
Marcel returns with a plush towel and hands it to me. “I’m making us some hot toddies. Perfect for a rainy evening.”
“You’re too kind,” I say, dabbing at my damp hair. “I hate to be a bother.”
“Not at all,” he says, his eyes lingering on my neck as I tilt my head. “It’s not often I get unexpected company out here.”
That’s a lie.
I’ve studied Marcel Durand for weeks. Three secretaries at his firm have quit in the past year. Two moved out of state. One attempted suicide. All were invited to “working weekends” at this lake house.
“Let me go check on those drinks,” he says. “The phone’s right over there on the side table if you want to call for that tow.”
“Thank you,” I say, limping toward the phone while he disappears into what I assume is the kitchen.
I pick up the phone and press it to my ear. Nothing. No dial tone, no static, absolutely nothing. I press the switch hook several times in rapid succession. Still nothing.
“Excuse me?” I call out. “I think there might be something wrong with the phone.”
“What’s that?” Marcel calls back from the kitchen, the clink of metal against glass punctuating his response.
“The phone. I’m not getting a dial tone.”
“Shit,” he says with convincing frustration. “It must be the storm. Happens sometimes out here. The lines are old.”
I hang up the receiver, my fingers lingering on its smooth surface. Of course, the phone doesn’t work. How convenient.
“Don’t worry,” he continues, his voice getting louder as he approaches. “It should be back to work in no time, though.”
He appears in the doorway, two steaming mugs in hand. Through the window behind him, I notice the rain has stopped. Shafts of early evening sunlight now pierce through the dispersing clouds, casting golden reflections across the still lake surface.
“The storm seems to have died down at least,” I say, gesturing toward the windows.
Marcel follows my gaze. His eyebrows lift for a fraction of a second before his expression smooths over. He turns back to me, offering one of the mugs with a smile.
He takes a slow sip of his drink, his movements unhurried. “So it has. That’s good news. These lines are temperamental, but they’re usually quick to come back once the weather clears.”
I accept the mug, brushing my fingers against his. “I can’t thank you enough for your hospitality.”
He sits beside me, closer than necessary. “We’ll have to pass the time until the lines are back.”
Oh, I know how I plan to pass my time.
I blow across the surface of the drink, watching him over the rim. His eyes never leave my mouth.
“Tell me about yourself,” he says, angling his body toward mine.
My gaze drifts to the hallway where he disappeared earlier. I wonder which room down there is his bedroom. Which sheets have been witness to his crimes? Which walls have absorbed the sounds of protests ignored?
I take a fake loud sip of my drink, careful not to swallow.
“Not much to tell. Just a woman with bad luck today.”
“I wouldn’t call ending up here bad luck,” he says, his hand finding its way to my knee. “It’s destiny.”
I force myself to smile, not pulling away. I just need the right moment to empty the vial into his mug.
Marcel’s hand slides higher on my leg. Time to make my move before his wandering fingers become more than just suggestive.
I pretend to startle, spilling a bit of my drink onto the pristine couch.
“I am so sorry! I thought I saw a—” I point at the floor. “Is that a mouse? I swear I just saw something scurry under there.”
Marcel jerks his head toward the spot I’m indicating, his hand leaving my thigh. “A mouse? That’s impossible. This place is spotless.”
I leap to my feet with exaggerated terror, nearly knocking over the coffee table. “No, I definitely saw something. It was brown and furry and—” I gasp. “There! Behind that chair!”
He stands up now, irritation replacing the predatory look in his eyes. “There are no mice in my house. I pay a fortune for pest control.”
“Maybe it’s one of those jumping spiders then? The really hairy ones?” I shudder. “They can leap several feet, you know. My cousin lost an eye that way.”
“Your cousin lost an eye to a jumping spider?” His eyebrows crease.
“Well, not directly.” I wave my hand. “The spider jumped at him; he fell backward into his grandmother’s knitting basket, and, well, the details are pretty gruesome.”
Marcel stares at me, his expression caught between confusion and frustration, like he’s reconsidering whether I’m worth the trouble. Perfect.
“Let me get some paper towels for the couch,” he mutters, turning toward the kitchen.
The moment his back is turned, I dump most of the contents of my drink into a nearby potted plant and quickly fish the vial from my pocket. When he returns seconds later with a roll of paper towels, I’m dabbing at the small stain with a cocktail napkin.
“I’m such a klutz,” I say, looking up with an apologetic smile. “My friends say I should come with a warning label.”
His lips twitch with forced patience. “It’s fine. The couch is leather. It has been treated for stains.”
“Still, I feel terrible about it.” I straighten up, gesturing to his mug on the table. “Your drink is getting cold. Please don’t let me ruin your evening.”
He picks up his mug and takes a sip, watching me over the rim. “You can make it up to me.”
I laugh, and my fingers tighten on the warm ceramic of the mug. “This toddy is delicious, by the way. What’s your secret ingredient?”
“Family recipe,” he says, taking another long drink. “My grandfather was quite the mixologist.”
“Must run in the family,” I say, watching him drain half the mug in one go. The clear liquid from my vial is already dissolving, undetectable among the cinnamon and whiskey. “You have quite the talent yourself.”
Marcel sets his mug down with a decisive clink and slides closer to me on the couch. “You know, you still seem chilled.” His arm snakes around my shoulders. “Body heat is the most effective remedy for that.”
I fight the urge to grab his wandering hand and break each finger individually. Instead, I laugh, checking my watch. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen, before the poison takes effect.
“I’m feeling much warmer now, thanks to your wonderful toddy.” I scoot away, only for him to follow.
“You haven’t drunk much of it,” he observes, his breath hot against my neck. Whiskey and predatory intentions.
“I did,” I say, lifting the half-empty mug in a mock toast before pretending to take another sip.
His hand slides from my shoulder to my waist, fingers splaying across my hip. “You have the most fascinating bone structure. Has anyone ever photographed you? Professionally, I mean.”
Oh God. Not the photographer line. “Actually, I’m camera-shy. Religious reasons. My soul gets trapped in the lens and all that.”
Marcel blinks, thrown off script. Then he laughs, a sound like expensive shoes on gravel. “You’re funny. I like that in a woman.”
“That’s what all the boys say,” I reply, shifting away again. “Right before they discover my collection of taxidermied ex-boyfriends.”
His hand freezes on my hip, then he laughs again, taking it as flirtation rather than a warning. “I appreciate a woman with...unusual hobbies.”
Eight minutes to cardiac arrest, creep.
“Speaking of hobbies, is that a Remington sculpture?” I point to the far corner of the room, using the distraction to slide out of his grasp and stand up.
Marcel follows, unsteady on his feet. Good. The sedative component is working.
“I think we’ve wasted enough time with small talk.” He grabs my wrist and pulls me against him. His other hand slides down to grab my ass. “I saw how you were looking at me.”
With disgust?
“Mr. Durand, I think you’ve misunderstood—”
“Marcel,” he corrects. “And I never misunderstand when a woman comes to my door, all wet and needy.”
“I just needed to call a tow truck.”
“Let’s stop pretending,” he slurs, his lips moving toward mine.
I turn my head, his wet mouth landing on my cheek. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
I shove Marcel’s face away from mine with my palm, his stubble rough against my skin. The whiskey on his breath turns my stomach.
“Let me go,” I demand, struggling against his grip.
“Playing hard to get is cute for about five seconds,” he slurs, stumbling as he tries to back me toward the hallway. My wrist throbs where he’s squeezing it.
I check my watch. Six minutes until cardiac arrest. Too much time. I need to keep this disgusting excuse for a human being at bay until then.
“You’re hurting me,” I say, not having to fake the pain in my voice.
“You’ll like it rough,” he says, his words slurring more heavily. “They always do.”
An electric buzz, and the room is plunged into darkness.
His grip on my arm vanishes. Where did he go?
A soft shuff of movement cuts through the dark.
“What the—”
I hear a thud, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting the floor.
Every muscle in my body locks. My breath catches in my throat. What just happened? The question hangs unanswered in the dark.
Then footsteps.