4. Cara
— ? —
Cara
Two Days Later
I don’t call Damien.
Not that night. Not the next morning. Not even when Marcus’s threats keep coming - each one more vicious than the last.
Instead, I research.
Rachel helps me dig through everything we can find. Damien Thorne. Exiled from the family eight years ago. Runs a construction company now - legitimate, from what we can tell. No criminal record. No lawsuits. No obvious connection to Marcus’s current life beyond shared blood.
“He’s either exactly what he says he is,” Rachel says on day two, “or he’s very good at hiding.”
“Everyone in that family is good at hiding.”
“So what are you going to do?”
I look at the card. That single phone number. I’ve memorized it by now from staring at it so long.
“I’m going to find out which one he is.”
***
Two in the Morning
I pick the location. A twenty-four-hour diner on the outskirts of town - the kind of place that hasn’t been updated since the Reagan administration.
Cracked vinyl booths. A jukebox that probably hasn’t worked in decades.
A waitress named Barb who looks like she stopped being surprised by anything around 1987.
Nowhere a Thorne would be caught dead.
Damien slides into the booth across from me. The vinyl creaks under his weight.
“Coffee,” he says to Barb without looking at the menu. “Black.”
She doesn’t write it down. Just nods and shuffles toward the ancient coffee maker.
I don’t order anything. My stomach is still a tight knot of anxiety.
“Before I agree to anything,” I say, “I need answers. Real ones. Not vague hints about contacts and waiting for someone to fight back.”
“Ask.”
“Who told you about the gala?”
“A nurse in the ER. Owes me a favor from years ago.”
“Why does a nurse owe you favors?”
“I helped her son get into a trade program when no one else would take him.” He meets my eyes steadily. “Not everything is a conspiracy, Cara.”
“In my experience, everything is exactly a conspiracy.” I lean forward. “What do you get out of this? Helping me?”
“I told you. I want to watch him lose.”
“That’s revenge. That’s your motivation. But what do you actually get? Money? Property? Some kind of inheritance you were cut out of?”
“I was cut out of everything eight years ago. There’s nothing left to claim.”
“Then why risk it? Why get involved with your family’s mess again after all this time?”
He’s quiet for a moment. Staring into the coffee Barb has just set in front of him like it holds answers.
“Because I couldn’t save the others,” he says finally. “And maybe this time I can actually do something useful.”
“Others?” My stomach tightens. “What others?”
“Marcus has done this before. You’re not the first woman he’s destroyed.” He meets my eyes. “You’re just the first one who fought back.”
The words sink into me, heavy and cold.
“How many?”
“That I know of? Three. That I suspect?” He shakes his head. “More.”
I think about that. About other women sitting where I’m sitting. Feeling what I’m feeling. Wondering how their lives fell apart so fast.
“Tell me about them.”
“One was a girlfriend in college. He got bored, spread rumors she was crazy, had her kicked out of their friend group. Last I heard she transferred schools.” He takes a sip of his coffee.
Grimaces. “One was a colleague at his first hospital. He seduced her, got her to help him cheat on some certification exam, then reported her when he didn’t need her anymore. She lost her license.”
“And the third?”
His jaw tightens. “The third was someone I loved. I’ll tell you about her. Eventually. When you trust me enough to believe it.”
“I don’t trust you at all.”
“I know. That’s why I’m not pushing.” He sets down his coffee cup. “Look, I’m not asking you to believe everything I say. I’m asking you to consider that we might have a common enemy.”
***
Barb refills his coffee. Tops off my water without being asked. The diner empties out and fills up again - late-night truckers, a group of teenagers, an old man reading a newspaper at the counter.
We keep talking.
“Why did the family exile you?” I ask. “The real reason.”
“More than one reason. But if you want to understand this family, start here. Years ago, I found out my father was bribing hospital officials. Covering up safety violations. People were getting hurt - patients, staff. A janitor died because of a faulty ventilation system that should have been replaced years earlier.”
“Jesus.”
“Victor paid off the family. Made it disappear.” His voice is flat. Distant. “I found out by accident. Overheard him on the phone, bragging about how cheap it was to make the problem go away.”
“And you reported it?”
“Tried to. Went to the board. Thought they’d want to know.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “The family closed ranks. Called me a liar. A disgrace. Had psychiatrists lined up to testify I was unstable.”
“And Marcus?”
“Marcus was the good son. Kept his mouth shut. Got rewarded.” Damien’s eyes are hard. “He’s been like this since we were kids. Charming to everyone’s face. Cruel behind closed doors.”
I think about the supply room. The smile. Close the door, Cara.
“There’s something you need to see,” Damien continues. “So you know I’m not making any of this up.”
He reaches into his jacket. Pulls out his phone. Slides it across the table.
“A friend sent me these a few months ago. Works in IT at the hospital - owes me a favor from the old days.”
I look at the screen. Screenshots. A group chat.
She actually thinks I’m working late. It’s pathetic.
Amanda’s got this thing she does with her tongue - you have no idea
Three more months and I’ll have access to all her accounts. Then the real fun begins.
Can’t wait to see her face when she realizes. Might actually record it.
I read them twice. Three times. Each word landing like a physical blow.
“Why didn’t you warn me?” My voice is sharp. Angry. “If you had these months ago, why didn’t you-”
“Would you have believed me?” He holds my gaze. “Some random guy you’ve never met showing up with screenshots, claiming your husband is a monster? You would have thought I was crazy. Or that I was running some kind of scam.”
I want to argue. Want to say that of course I would have listened.
But I know better. I spent months convincing myself that Marcus’s cruelty was my fault. That I was paranoid and jealous and not good enough. I gaslit myself before he even had to try.
“I kept them,” Damien says. “Figured someday he’d slip up badly enough that someone would need ammunition.”
“And now?”
“Now you’ve got ammunition. But you’re going to need more than screenshots to survive what’s coming.”
***
I study him across the table. The tattoos peeking above his collar. The callused hands wrapped around a chipped coffee mug. Nothing like Marcus’s smooth perfection.
“I’m not saying I trust you,” I say finally. “I’m saying I’ll work with you. For now. But if I find out you’re playing me-”
“You’ll burn me down the same way you burned Marcus.” He nods. “Fair.”
“I mean it. I have nothing left to lose.”
“I know. That’s what makes you dangerous.” Something like respect flickers in his eyes. “Partners?”
I don’t shake his hand. Not yet.
“We’ll see.”
He doesn’t push. Just nods, like he expected that answer.
“Fair enough. We’ll see.”
My phone buzzes. Another text from Marcus.
Marcus: You have forty-eight hours to come home and apologize. After that, I’m calling my lawyers.
I show Damien. His jaw tightens.
“It begins.”
“What do I do?”
“Tonight? Nothing. Go to your sister’s. Don’t respond - anything you say can be twisted.” He glances at me. “Tomorrow, we start building your case. Because this?” He gestures at my phone. “This is just the opening shot.”
I look at the text. At the threat wrapped in a deadline.
Forty-eight hours.
Fine. Let’s see what we can build.