4. Cami #2
Her face changed. A new edge to it, sharp and dangerous, that hadn’t been there before. The anger was still there, but underneath it... calculation. Like she was solving a math problem and I was one of the variables.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
“You worked for my son for four years.” Slow. Deliberate. Each word placed with care. “You did his books. You handled his finances. You saw everything that moved through that company.”
My mouth went dry.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play stupid. It doesn’t suit you.” Another step closer. The space between us shrinking. “My son has made some unfortunate decisions. Financial decisions. Exposed himself to people who don’t take kindly to being owed money. Dangerous people. People who solve their problems permanently.”
The blood drained from my face.
Logan’s gambling. The late nights. The stress he wouldn’t talk about. The phone calls he took in other rooms. The way he’d started drinking more in the last few months, the way his hands shook sometimes when he thought no one was looking.
I’d noticed. Of course I’d noticed. I’d just added it to the pile of things I wasn’t supposed to ask about. Things that were none of my business. Things that would upset the delicate balance of our perfect fake life.
“I didn’t know about any of that.” The words came out weak. Unconvincing even to my own ears.
“Maybe not.” Greta shrugged. “Maybe you were as blind to his gambling as you were to his affair. But it doesn’t matter what you knew. It matters what you could figure out. What you could tell people. What you could use against us.”
“I would never...”
“You just projected photos of my son’s affair on a screen for the entire church to see.” Greta’s smile was thin and razor sharp. “Forgive me if I don’t trust your discretion.”
Movement in the shadows.
My eyes darted to the left. To the dark corners of the parking garage where the fluorescent lights didn’t reach. Two shapes. Big. Moving toward us with purpose.
Men. Two of them. Dressed in black. Faces I didn’t recognize.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“What is this?” The words came out breathless. Shaky. “What are you doing?”
“What I should have done months ago.” Greta stepped aside, clearing a path between me and the men. “Getting rid of a problem.”
They moved fast.
Faster than I could react. Faster than I could run. One of them grabbed my arm and a scream ripped out of my throat, echoing off the concrete walls. My free hand swung, nails raking across his face. A grunt of pain. His grip loosened for half a second.
Not enough.
The second man caught my other arm. Thick fingers digging into my bicep hard enough to bruise.
“Let go of me.” Kicking, twisting, fighting with everything I had. “Let go of me you son of a bitch.”
They were dragging me now. My heels scraping against the concrete, leaving black marks on the gray floor. The ruined dress caught on every crack and seam, tearing further, until I was trailing torn white fabric behind me.
“Help.” The scream tore my throat raw. “Somebody help me. Please. Anyone.”
The parking garage swallowed the sound. Concrete and cars and empty space. No one to hear. No one to help.
Greta walked alongside us. Calm. Unhurried. Like she was taking a stroll through a garden instead of watching her goons drag a woman in a wedding dress across a parking garage floor.
“You should have kept your mouth shut.” Her heels clicked a steady rhythm on the concrete. “You should have taken the ring and walked away quietly and let us handle this in private. But no. You had to make a scene. You had to humiliate us. You had to show everyone what this family really is.”
“You’re insane.” Still fighting. Still struggling. Knowing it was useless but unable to stop. “You can’t do this. People will notice I’m gone. They’ll come looking for me.”
“People will assume you ran off to lick your wounds.” That thin smile again. “The jilted bride. The humiliated woman. Everyone saw you flee the church in tears. No one will be surprised that you disappeared. No one will come looking. Not for days. Maybe not ever.”
A black car waited in the corner of the garage. Expensive. Tinted windows. One of the men popped the trunk.
“No.” Panic exploded through me. Fresh strength surged into my limbs. Kicking harder. Twisting. Biting the hand of the man on my right.
He swore. His hand connected with my face. The world went white, then red, then spinning. Stars exploded behind my eyes.
“Get her in.”
The trunk gaped open. Dark. Waiting.
They lifted me. Shoved. My back hit something hard. My head cracked against metal.
The lid slammed down.
Darkness. Complete and absolute. The smell of carpet and exhaust and fear.
My fists pounded against the metal. The sound was dull. Muffled. Useless.
“Let me out.” Screaming until my throat gave out. “Let me out let me out let me out.”
The engine started. A rumble beneath me. The car began to move.
Greta’s voice filtered through the metal. Muffled. Distant. The chill of a grave.
“You wanted to ruin my son. Let’s see how you like being ruined.”
Then something pressed against my neck.
A sting. Sharp and sudden. A wasp at my throat.
The darkness got darker. The pounding of my fists got slower. The screaming in my throat faded to nothing.
And then there was only silence.