62. Jessica
October, Present Day
Maple Ridge
I rereadthe email Garrett sent me yesterday, my butt sinking comfortably into my couch.
Jess,
I just read the first chapter of your story. I can’t wait to read the rest of the book. If it’s anything like what I’ve read so far, I’m sure my agent will want to see it. She also represents historical fiction. Looking forward to reading the rest of it once I return this weekend.
Garrett
The Warriors group left this morning, which means I can’t try to talk to Troy for a few more days. And now I have to survive however long it takes Garrett to read the book before I can breathe again. Anne loved it, but it’s Garrett’s feedback I’m most eager and anxious for.
His agent? Oh, God. I can’t believe he thinks she might be interested in the book. That would be incredible.
Please let them both love the story like Anne did.
My gaze shifts to the floral box on the coffee table, with the Morse-coded messages inside. Do I dare reread them? Do I dare read how Troy once felt about me until I wrecked everything between us?
I trace over the flowers on the lid and pause when my finger touches a pink blossom. You can do this. I open the box and randomly pull out some of the pieces of paper.
I read through them, my aching heart pounding hard at his sweet and funny and sexy words. Yesterday was the one-month anniversary of the date I ended things with him.
A new email pings in my inbox. It’s from someone I don’t know, but the subject catches my attention: re Confessions of an Abused Wife.
My heart slams to a stop and stutters and stumbles. The email is probably a rejection. Or a request for an exclusive interview and not for the article I wrote.
I put Troy’s messages back in the floral box.
The curser hovers over the email for a second. I click it open.
To: Jessica Smithson
From: Ruby Davis
Subject: re Confessions of an Abused Wife
Dear Jessica,
Thank you for your submission. I enjoyed your article “Confessions of an Abused Wife” and would like to publish it in an upcoming issue of Embrace Life. The article was emotionally insightful, and I would love to read more of your work.
The rest of the email goes on to cover what the publication will pay me for the article. It’s not a large amount, but it is a start. Every published article under my name adds to my credibility, especially if they’re published in a major magazine like Embrace Life. Every article published is one more opportunity for my voice to be heard, one more chance for me to make a difference.
That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.
I close my laptop and fetch the vacuum from the laundry room. Bailey whimpers, not being a fan of the noise the vacuum makes. I open the back door to let her out into the garden.
I carry the vacuum upstairs and go into the second bedroom. I grab the headphones I recently ordered, which are nowhere near as good as the ones Troy lent me. I pull up The Greatest Showman soundtrack and hit Play.
I vacuum the bedrooms and head downstairs. The opening bars to “This is Me” plays, and I sing along to the lyrics. I direct them to all the people who’ve tried to cut me apart since they found out the ugly truth about my past.
I am bruised.
I am scarred.
But I’m also braver—like Robyn pointed out yesterday. I still have a long way to go. Healing from trauma like I’ve endured isn’t a quick fix. PTSD doesn’t go away overnight or after a few months of therapy—or even with the addition of a weighted blanket when I sleep. But maybe one day I’ll be able to walk down the street without having to keep looking over my shoulder. Maybe one day my past won’t have any control over me.
I park the vacuum by the coffee table in the living room, put the headphones on the table, and walk toward the back door to check on Bailey.
A man is standing in front of the door, blocking the exit, thick arms folded across his wide chest.
Chills lunge through my body, robbing me of the air in my lungs. Oh, fuckers. “Lincoln?”
The last time I saw Wayne’s brother was at my trial. The hatred he felt for me then hasn’t diminished with time. His scowl is no softer than it was the day the jury found me guilty of all charges. He hadn’t even seemed happy or relieved at the verdict. Just pissed he wasn’t allowed to come near me. To kill me with his own hands.
Lincoln remains motionless, his deep-blue eyes locked on mine. And his gaze, filled with burning hatred, turns my body to iced-over stone. Move. Scream. Run! It doesn’t matter how many times I say the words to myself, my fight-or-flight instinct continues to fail me.
“What are you doing here?” And why didn’t Bailey put up a fuss about you coming into the house?
“Bailey?” I call out, my feet moving forward. Has she eaten more poison?
“Where is it, Savannah?” The edge to Lincoln’s tone is more lethal than a rattlesnake’s bite.
“Where’s what?” I really have no clue what he’s talking about. The restitution payment because I was wrongly imprisoned? Is that what he’s after? He wants my money? Hell if that’s happening.
“The information Wayne had. The insurance policy. He hid it. It wasn’t in his house. Which means you took it. You know where it is.”
Hid it? Why would he think Wayne hid his insurance policy? He kept them in a safe box in the laundry room. Lincoln should know that, given Wayne bequeathed our house to him. Even from his grave, my dead husband had a hand in manipulating my well-being.
He’d left very little to me and Amelia. Lincoln then went to court and made sure I received none of the money—because I’d supposedly killed my husband. The judge had sided with him…and Craig never contested the ruling on Amelia’s behalf. He didn’t want her to have anything that once belonged to her biological father.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Lincoln. Which insurance policy?” I frown and take a step back.
“Information about the illegal activities he and I were involved in. He called it his insurance policy.”
“They don’t see you for what you are, but I know better,” the man with the Aussie accent said. “You stole the information. Didn’t you?”
“Let’s just say it’s an insurance policy,” my husband replied.
“Against whom?”
Had Wayne been afraid his brother would double-cross him? Was that what all those arguments had been about several weeks prior to Wayne’s murder? Something tells me I don’t want to know what kind of illegal activity Lincoln’s talking about.
But who was the man I’ve recently had the flashes of memories about regarding the missing insurance policy? The one with the accent?
I shake my head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You honestly think Wayne would’ve told me where he put it? When I could have used it to secure my own freedom from him?”
That’s exactly what I would have done—freed Amelia and myself from the abusive cycle I’d found ourselves in.
Lincoln might not have witnessed Wayne’s abuse toward me, but I’m sure he knew about it. As Craig recently pointed out, Wayne and Lincoln were cut from the same asshole cloth.
“No,” Lincoln says, his tone as lethal as before. “But I think you found it. Figured out what it was. Hid it.”
God, does he really think I’m that dumb? “That doesn’t even make sense. Why wouldn’t I have given it to the DA when they prosecuted me?”
Lincoln nods—but his eyes aren’t on me. His gaze is directed to something beyond my shoulder.
A meaty arm goes around my chest from behind, not giving me a chance to react or respond. It pins me to a solid body.
I let out a soundless scream, fear robbing me of my voice. I struggle and squirm, fighting for my life. What the fuckers? Who the…where…where’d he come from?
A sharp pressure pricks my neck, and a surge of adrenaline hits my blood. I kick and elbow whoever is holding me, searching for my voice. Searching for the ability to shout or scream.
My body turns numb, and I can’t feel anything. No pain. No hope. Nothing.
The world goes black, the building scream in my lungs rapidly dying away.
* * *
I jerkawake from a bad dream. I think I’m awake. My brain is foggy, and everything is dark when I open my eyes.
My arms are tied in front of me, and I can’t straighten my bent legs. I’m in some sort of enclosed space. My body is vibrating from whatever I’m lying on, and I can make out the low rumble of an engine. Car engine?
Shit. Shit. Shit.
My heart races and I can’t get enough air into my lungs. I kick and wiggle and flounder like a fish tossed out of the water.
My body aches as if I’ve been cramped up for several hours, but that could be the effects of whatever I was injected with.
“Help me!” I scream, praying the car is on a residential street. Someone walking their dog could hear me and call 9-1-1.
My voice sounds sluggish to my ears, but I don’t let that deter me. “Help me! Call nine-one-one!” I scream the plead again and again and again. My throat grows rawer with each cry for help, but I don’t care. I’ll keep screaming until I no longer have a voice if it means being rescued. “Please, someone. Help me!”
I strain to hear a sign someone heard my cries for help or a clue to where I am…beyond the trunk of an unknown car.
My chest tightens, an elephant-sized boulder pressing down on me, crushing the air from my lungs. They hurt—for all the good the screaming has done. There are no distant wails of sirens, no indication anyone heard me.
Why the hell did Lincoln stuff me in here? He’s a goddamn cop. Like his brother was. Cops don’t go around kidnapping people. It’s against the law.
But so is trafficking assault weapons, and that didn’t stop Chief Wilson and Officer Dunbar from being lured to the dark side.
Domestic abuse is also against the law. That didn’t stop my husband from beating me.
And apparently it didn’t stop him and Lincoln from getting involved in whatever illegal activity Lincoln was referring to.
Fuckers. Fuckers. Fuckers.I’m not going to get out of this alive. That much is obvious. Why confess all of that if he’s planning to let me free? I’m a liability. A guaranteed prison sentence.
I kick my legs, lashing out at the inside of the trunk. Thud. Thud. Thud. Anything to gain a passerby’s attention.
The car keeps going, giving no indication it’s picking up speed, and my stomach sags to the floor. The driver either can’t hear me or they aren’t too concerned about anyone else hearing me because no one can.
I’m alone and no one knows where I am or that I’ve been kidnapped. I made plans with Simone, Zara, Emily, and Avery for tonight, but the car could be long gone from Maple Ridge before anyone realizes I’m missing. I’m screwed. I’m royally going-to-die screwed.
That realization sucks the fight from me.
I lie still, listening for something, anything, that will help me escape.
There’s nothing but the quiet purr of the engine and the low vibration of metal against metal. I can’t hear music and I can’t hear talking. I don’t know if whoever is driving is alone or if Lincoln and the man who drugged me are both in the car.
“What would Angelique do?” I ask myself out loud, so I don’t feel so alone.
Unfortunately, I don’t have an answer.
I feel around for a weapon or a way to escape, but between my hands being tied together and the small enclosed space, I’m limited with my movements.
The road switches from being relatively smooth to bumpy, like the car is driving over deep potholes. My body jostles about so much, I’m positive I’ll be covered with bruises by the time the car stops. On top of that, the ache in my muscles from not being able to stretch out is getting worse.
My thoughts go to Troy. He won’t be going to my house and wondering where I’ve gone. He won’t be coming to my rescue, like Johann rescued Iris after the Gestapo arrested her. None of the Carson brothers will be.
Lincoln is a cop—or he was the last time I saw him—so I’m not expecting the Maple Ridge police department to come to my rescue either. The only person I can rely on to save me is me—and that’s hardly reassuring.
The car stops. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. I still don’t have an escape plan.
The crunching of gravel underfoot approaches the trunk from both sides of the car. Possibly two men. Or more. As far as I can tell, their strides are long, their footfalls rapid.
My muscles tense, bracing for the worst, bracing for my life to end in a round of bullets.
The trunk opens. Above me, bruised clouds obscure the sky—as do the broad shoulders of a man, his features dark in shadow.
The man reaches for my arm. All my shifting around while I was searching for a weapon achieved one thing: my legs are no longer where he left them when I was dumped in the trunk. I kick out.
My attempt to hit the man in the chest or face or anywhere else I can do damage is pathetic at best. He grabs my legs and yanks them hard. I’m pulled with such force, my top rides up, exposing my skin. Something rough on the edge of the trunk scrapes the length of my back, abrading my flesh.
A sharp pain rips through me. I shriek, but all the screaming I did earlier turned my throat raw. The sound comes out as a gasp.
The man releases me, letting me fall. The crown of my head hits the bumper. Thud. Pain ricochets through my brain, and I sag to the ground. Gravel digs into the exposed skin of my arms and lower back.
I lie there for several seconds, dazed and unmoving, too afraid to consider what’s coming next. My breath is a ragged pant; my heartbeat the frightened flutter of a caged bird.
I look up at the man who hauled me from the trunk. His features are still obscured in shadow, and my vision is blurry.
He bends down, grabs my upper arm, and yanks me up. Gravel stabs the soles of my bare feet.
It’s only then that I see him better. He’s…it’s…it’s the man who looks like he could be a cover model. The man who was looking for his wife and daughter the first time I saw him.
Is that what this is about? He didn’t want an ex-con living in Maple Ridge? He believed the lies I’m a risk to his child?
No, that doesn’t make sense. Why would he be with Lincoln? How did these two men end up together if the stranger just wanted to get me out of town?
I shift my attention to the abandoned concrete building in front of us, with bars on the windows, as if it has the answers. The layout of the single-story structure is bigger than my house, but I can’t tell what it was previously used for.
Trees surround us in all directions. Pine, spruce, and others I don’t have names for. The ground is flat here, but I can’t figure out if we’re in the foothills or somewhere in the mountains.
A flash of metal in Lincoln’s hand warns me he’s armed and dangerous. He’s going to kill me. No matter what happens, no matter what I tell them, my number of heartbeats is limited.
Fear and panic collide inside me, turning me cold.
I’m going to die.
I’m going to die.
I’m going to die.
I jerk my arm from Not-Lincoln’s grip, the action fueled by the knowledge I won’t survive, and I run.
I barely make it more than three steps when he grabs my arm and roughly shakes me. I lose my footing and stumble to regain it.
His grip tightens on my arm to the point where I’m positive my bone is about to snap in half. His other hand raises, and a hard slap stings my cheek. A stunned gasp falls from my lips.
Lincoln steps so close to me, his stale breath blows in my face. “Don’t you fucking try that again,” he growls, the mark the other man left on my cheek no doubt as red as his complexion. “Otherwise, the next time I’ll shoot you.”
My ears ringing, my cheek smarting, I’m half led, half pushed into the building and along a short corridor. Lincoln stops at an empty room that is not much more than four concrete walls and a concrete ceiling and a concrete floor. Thick metal bars cover the windows, and a decrepit toilet sits in the corner. And just like that, I’m back in prison, but I sense this one will be a new kind of hell.
My bound hands itch to grab the doorframe, to keep him from pushing me into the room, but common sense kicks in. It’s not worth getting shot right now. I’ll never have a chance to escape if I’m dead.
A laugh bubbles up inside me. It’s not a happy laugh. It spills past my dry mouth and cracked lips.
Not-Lincoln shoves me into the room. I fall to the cold, hard floor. The door slams shut behind me, and a deadbolt on the other side slides into place.
The resounding boom of confinement echoes in the room. It’s accompanied by the rapid thump-thump-thump-you’re-dead thumping of my heart.