Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
Camilla was surprised to discover she’d slept. Adrenaline had sapped the strength from her body and left her in an exhausted stupor, from which she emerged with bleary, blinking eyes.
She took stock of her situation and sighed.
Curled on her side on an old brown sofa, she lay on the only piece of furniture in the bare concrete room. Near the door, a bottle of water and a sandwich from the gas station sat waiting for her. Beside the offerings, a familiar stack of papers was pinned down by a blue pen.
She sat up and rubbed her eyes.
Frankie Smith had robbed her, and now he was keeping her locked up here until she complied with his demands. Her life was a dumpster fire.
She’d left the Goodhew wedding feeling like a wrung-out dishrag hopelessly hung out to dry in too-humid weather. Her lot in life had only slightly improved, but the future wasn’t exactly bright. She’d made it to the bank just before it closed and was able to withdraw eight thousand dollars. She’d take the remaining two grand from the safe at the bakery, then pay Frankie off once and for all.
Eight thousand dollars was surprisingly slim in the bank envelope, only eighty clean, crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. It seemed like it should be a bigger stack of bills for what it represented. She kept the money in her purse, clasped near her stomach, and counted it again when she arrived at The Sweetest Thing.
The bakery was closed for business when she arrived, all her staff already gone when she went to pilfer her own safe. For a moment, she’d felt a flash of hope. Her shoulders had relaxed as she put the money together, nervousness and anticipation settling to a dull buzz in her gut.
Now, as she sat on that worn-out sofa, she wondered who that woman had been to be so happy and hopeful.
Time had slipped away from her as she did paperwork in the office, grabbed the envelope with the money, and checked over the kitchen and dining rooms.
Looking back on it now, she knew she’d been delaying. She hadn’t wanted to go to Frankie—but it hadn’t mattered. Frankie had come to her.
The snow had laid a thick blanket over the town when the knock came on the back door. Camilla, in her premature haze of hope, had somehow convinced herself it was Marlon coming to apologize, forgive her, and wrap her in his arms.
She’d opened the back door without checking the cameras.
“Get in the truck,” Goon Number One had grunted. “Bring the money.”
Camilla startled, gripping the door. “I’ll follow in my car.”
A heavy, meaty hand landed on her shoulder. “Get in the truck.”
Snatching her purse from the hook by the back door, Camilla hadn’t had much choice but to obey. Fear had crowded in her throat and silenced her cries. She’d been shoved into the back seat of the huge truck’s cab and followed by Goon Number One, and Goon Number Two had set the truck in motion.
The world was all shades of white and gray, and they left the heart of Stirling behind to pull into the parking lot in front of the dingy, run-down strip mall where Frankie kept his office. The Quik-N-Ez Loans sign flickered in the fading light. Camilla sat frozen in her seat, mind whirling, trying to calm herself with deep breaths.
She had the money. She’d pay. It would all be over.
Or so she’d thought.
Clearly, that hadn’t gone to plan.
Scraping herself off the sofa, Camilla took up the sheaf of papers and the bottle of water and sat back down. She unscrewed the lid and took a deep drink, grateful despite herself that Frankie had given her this much. Then she turned her eyes to the papers on her lap.
They hadn’t changed. He’d thrust them at her hours earlier, telling her to sign. Had it been hours? It was hard to tell the time in this windowless room, and her phone was currently plugged into the charging cable in her bakery’s back office.
Black ink stared back at her, unchanged. Frankie wanted her to sign over her business and commit to five years’ employment to boot. Her fingers curled into the sofa, anger warring with fear. He wanted her to ignore the agreement they’d signed and instead, give him everything.
She couldn’t give him her business, no matter how much he threatened her. She’d paid him! She’d paid him every penny she owed, plus an extra ten grand!
But Frankie had slipped the envelope into his jacket’s breast pocket, then pretended it didn’t exist. She’d been so stupid to trust him. So stupid to bring untraceable cash.
But she’d had no choice! The money had only hit her account that morning, and a bank transfer would have been late. Cash was her only option.
She’d asked him for a receipt when he took the envelope, and Frankie had laughed.
It made Camilla’s blood boil, but she couldn’t ignore the acrid tang of fear on her tongue. How long could he keep her here before someone realized she was missing? She hadn’t told anyone about her debt or about the fee. She’d been so sure that she could do it on her own, fix her past mistakes, then move on.
Even Marlon would think she’d changed her mind and found somewhere else to spend the night. He wasn’t coming to save her.
She’d been so stupid, hadn’t she? There had been a thousand chances to tell him what was going on. Even this morning, in the hallway of the Old Road Hotel, she could’ve told him where she was going. She could’ve explained why she froze up the night before, why she’d pushed him away.
But she’d been a coward, and now she was paying for it.
All Marlon had wanted was to take care of her, and in her infinite pride, she hadn’t allowed him to do it. The man who had lifted her onto her shoulders and carried her out of her parents’ awful house. The man who had housed her, fed her, loved her.
Bracing herself with a deep breath, Camilla turned back to the contract. She couldn’t sign it. Couldn’t .
Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside the gray metal door. A lock scraped. Frankie appeared in the doorway. He wore the same clothing as earlier, so Camilla guessed it was still Saturday. His hair was combed back from his face, revealing his receding hairline. The broken capillaries on his nose were stark on his pale skin.
“So,” he said, seeing the papers in her lap. “Are you ready to make the right decision?”
Camilla stood and set her jaw—then flung the papers at his feet. “Go to hell, Frankie.”
Anger flashed in his eyes. He took a step toward her, then paused. “After all I’ve done for you, Ms. Fox.”
Scoffing, Camilla planted her hands on her hips. “What, extorted me?”
Frankie clicked his tongue. “Such harsh language. We signed a binding contract.” He spread his palms, like he was helpless. “What am I supposed to do, let you get away with not honoring it?”
Her voice was a low hiss, spoken through her teeth: “I did honor it, Frankie. I paid every penny.”
“Except for the ten thousand dollars you owe me for the late fee.” He heaved a dramatic sigh, eyes sharp as he affected a shrug.
“I paid you the money.”
“Funny. I don’t remember that.” He gave her a smile that was all teeth.
“Why are you doing this?” Camilla whispered before she could stop herself. “Why do you care about my bakery so much? It doesn’t even generate that much money.”
Frankie’s eyes grew hard. “Why? You’re asking me why ?”
Helpless, Camilla spread her hands. “Yes!”
“I’m only doing to you what your prick of a father did to me,” he spat, his face growing red.
There was nothing Frankie could have said that would have surprised Camilla more. She gaped at him, speechless.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he said, taking a step toward her. “You know exactly what this is about.”
Camilla stood, not wanting him to loom over her. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about your father’s meteoric success as Stirling’s own luxury car mogul. Where do you think that came from? Who do you think he stepped over on the way up?”
“Um…you?”
Frankie’s eyes flashed. “Yes,” he hissed, “ me .”
They stared at each other for a beat. Camilla’s mind whirled. Frankie was punishing her because her father had hurt him somehow. What…how…when…?
“You have no idea, do you?” Frankie said quietly.
“I moved out of my parents’ place when I was seventeen, Frankie,” Camilla said, helpless. “All I know is he sold cars and made a fortune. Franchised the company. Sold it.” That was the gospel they preached at the dinner table. Dean Fox was a business genius, and no one would hear otherwise.
Except Frankie, who watched her, rocking back on his heels. “I brought him the first dozen cars he sold,” Frankie said quietly, his voice a low rumble. “They were hot, but your daddy didn’t care.”
“Hot as in…”
“Stolen, yes.”
The ground tilted, and Camilla’s worldview had to quickly recalibrate. She frowned at Frankie, then whispered, “My father sold stolen cars?”
“Your father promised me a cut of the sales. He paid me pennies for the cars, told me he’d pay me fifty percent of the final profit when all was said and done. He used those first few sales to start his dealership. Then he went back on his word, paid me nothing, and threatened to turn me in to the cops if I ever came near him again. He ran a respectable business, he told me. He’d never touch stolen goods.”
Her father had always boasted about the six-figure profits he’d obtained in his first year of business. He’d used that to beat Camilla down, to make her feel unworthy. And now she was discovering that he’d achieved that through illegal means?
Not only that, but she was at risk of losing her business for her father’s crimes?
Outrage and anger and betrayal tore her to shreds from the inside out. She stood motionless, breathing heavily, trying to figure out how she could get out of this.
Frankie watched her with dead, blank eyes. “Sign the papers and you can go home,” he told her. “Don’t be a hero, Ms. Fox.” Then he turned around and walked out of the room. The door slammed, and Camilla was alone.
An indeterminate amount of time passed. Camilla stewed in anger and self-hatred and despair. The past few years had been spent flogging herself every month by going to her family dinner. Her entire adult life had been underpinned by a vague sense of unworthiness, of failure. She wasn’t living up to her family name, even though she was being true to herself.
But now, she discovered that her father’s success had been built on a lie? On theft? On the back of a scummy car thief named Frankie Smith?
When she wasn’t busy grappling with the news about her father’s past, Camilla couldn’t keep her thoughts from turning to Marlon. Was he at home? Had he wondered where she was? Did he think she was ignoring him again? Was he angry? What had he wanted to say in the hallway before his phone buzzed?
The room took four steps to cross. Camilla counted up to four hundred steps as she walked over and back, then lost count and started back at zero. Then she did it again.
She needed to get out . If she signed those papers, she’d never be free of Frankie. She’d seen the hatred in his eyes; he wouldn’t be satisfied to own her business. He’d use the opportunity to exact his long-awaited revenge on her father.
All these years, she’d thought her loan was a stupid mistake, but a fixable one. Now she wasn’t so sure. What if she couldn’t get out of this? What if she’d doomed her business ten years ago when she first signed the papers?
She did know one thing for certain: No one was coming to save her. Camilla was on her own. Just like she’d always been. She’d gotten herself into this situation, and she’d have to get herself out.
It was like her first, awful ex-boyfriend. She’d accepted his advances and his invitations, not knowing any better, and she’d had to gather the courage to ask for help and get herself out. She’d had to apply for loans and make her own way in the world to get through culinary school. She’d had to find a way to start her bakery by herself.
So many mistakes peppered her past. She’d had to claw herself out of holes of her own making—but she could do it. Camilla had done it before.
There was no white knight riding to her rescue, but that was okay. Camilla had never been a damsel in distress. She could save herself from this mess.
She just needed an opportunity.
Finally, scraping footsteps outside her door slowed down her manic pacing. She stood a few feet away from the door and waited, hands clenched.
In the marrow of her bones, Camilla could feel the importance of the moment. This would be her only opportunity. She knew, somehow, that no other chance would come. If she didn’t save herself now, she’d be under Frankie’s thumb forever.
Vibrating with tension, Camilla stood in front of the door and waited as the lock slid open, the knob turned, and light spilled through the open frame.
One of Frankie’s men stood there, holding another soggy-looking tuna sandwich from the gas station and a new bottle of water.
Camilla played the only card she could: she squeezed her legs together and said, “I have to pee.”
The man regarded her from under his heavy brow. “Fine.” He jerked his head, dropping the food just inside the door. The bottle rolled toward the corner of the room; the tuna sandwich fell with a wet slap and stayed where it landed.
Camilla’s heart thumped heavy and hard as she was led down the hall and around a corner. The walls were lined with wire shelves, and a few locked rooms remained closed as they passed. Camilla looked around for an exit, an escape, but nothing appeared.
They arrived at the washroom, and the man tried to follow her inside.
She stopped him with a glare. “What are you doing?”
“I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight.”
“I’m going to the bathroom ,” Camilla complained, but her heart beat hard, because there was a window above the toilet. It was tiny, and grimy, and she wasn’t sure it would open—but it was there.
“Not supposed to let you out of my sight,” the man repeated.
Camilla huffed, panic mounting. She said the first thing that came to mind. “I’m on my period.”
The man hesitated, so Camilla pressed. “I use a menstrual cup,” she told him, all sincerity and wide eyes. “Do you really want to see that? I have to wash it out after I remove it.”
The man frowned at her, disgust edging into the corners of his mouth. “What’s a menstrual cup? You have to…wash it?”
Her heart beat harder. She shaped her hands to show him the approximate size of the thing. “It’s this little silicone cup that you shove up your vagina”—she motioned for emphasis—“and it catches the period blood. So when you take it out, you have to dump all the blood and the clots, and then you?—”
“Fine,” he barked. “Don’t take too long.” And he closed the door on her nose.
A slow, victorious smile stole over Camilla’s lips as she flicked the lock on the door. She wasn’t on her period. But he didn’t know that.
She turned the sink on to muffle her noise and turned to the window. It was small and Camilla wasn’t, but she didn’t have much choice. She opened it, feeling a blast of cold air on her face, and braced herself for her escape.
The toilet seat creaked as she tried to shift her weight, and the top of the toilet tank clacked against the porcelain tile.
“You almost done?” the man on the other side called out.
Camilla had her hands on the windowsill. She threw a panicked glance at the door. “Um. Just…dumping the blood into the toilet, and then I have to?—”
“Whatever. Hurry up.” His footsteps drifted slightly away, and Camilla’s heart rattled.
She stood on top of the toilet’s cistern and shoved her shoulders through the window opening. A little yelp escaped her lips as she saw the distance to the ground. It was lower out there than it was inside, and if she fell on her head, she’d break her neck. She pulled out again, scraping her arms against the frame. Breathing heavily, Camilla squeezed her eyes shut and tried to get hold of herself.
She could do this. “I can do this,” she whispered.
No one was coming to save her. She had no choice. It was now or never.
But Camilla sure as hell wasn’t going to break her neck on the way down. She was going out feet first.
It was an awkward thing, to be balancing on top of a toilet, trying to climb out of a tiny window. But her life was on the line. Her business. Her future.
She got both feet out over the ledge and began to wriggle. Her hips were a tight fit.
A really tight fit.
Grunting, Camilla squeezed herself through the opening, kicking her legs to try to help as she pushed and shimmied and scraped herself through. She was a human tube of cookie dough, being squeezed out of its plastic packaging. Her hips would be bruised to all hell after this, but she’d be free. She had to be free.
Both thighs were out now, and she could prop her toes on the edges of the bricks. She banged her knee against the wall.
The doorknob rattled. “What are you doing in there? I’m coming in.”
“I’m washing out the cup! Let me clean the sink!”
“The sink ?”
“Yeah! Cleaning it! If you have some boiling water, I’d really appreciate it. I have to sanitize?—”
“This cup shit can’t be real! I don’t believe you,” he shouted. “I’m coming in. Unlock the door.” The doorknob rattled, and then there was a heavy thump, like the man was trying to ram the door down with his huge shoulder. The frame groaned in protest.
Oh, no. Oh, this was not good. Not good at all. This was very, very bad.
“Wait!” she cried. “I’ve made a mess! Give me a second!”
“ What? ” Another thump on the door.
She wasn’t going to get out in time. He’d find her, pull her back in, and she’d be in real trouble. She had no car, no jacket, no phone. She couldn’t make it out. Couldn’t save herself.
Camilla wriggled and pushed, but her butt came up against the top of the window frame and in the last horrified moment, when she tried to pull herself forward again to salvage the situation and pretend that she hadn’t just tried to escape, Camilla felt her bruised thighs hit the edges of the window frame on the outside of the building—and stop.
Her heart pounded so hard it was all she could hear. Panic was an animal in her chest, snarling and biting and scraping. She couldn’t even hear the thump of the rattling door over her own heartbeat anymore.
Camilla paused, panting, wide-eyed…
And finally admitted the horrible truth: she was stuck halfway through the window, and in a few short moments, Frankie’s henchman would find her—and kill her.