And it’s not just enough to run away now.
I want to fucking bury him. To end his life as he knows it.
Metaphorically speaking, because death is too easy for a psychopath like him.
I want him to suffer, and I’ll make him pay. I don’t know how. But, someday, he is getting what’s coming to him.
I open the envelope, unfolding the letter with sweaty hands and a heart that’s trying to beat a path out of my chest. I draw deep breaths, trying to prepare myself, but nothing could prepare me for these words.
Pain infuses every cell in my body as I read, my teardrops soaking the page and blurring the ink as silent tears cascade down my face. Choking sobs clog my throat and the weirdest noises escape my mouth as I die inside.
I know he’s a monster, a psychopath, but this… This goes beyond that.
There are no words in the English language strong enough to describe him.
The letter floats to the ground as I curl into a ball, clutching my arms around myself, as gut-wrenching sobs birth straight from my soul. Agonizing pain rips through me, and it’s like I’m being beaten up from the inside out. Wave after wave of pain batters me from all sides, and I scream and scream, over and over, until my dry throat rebels and I can’t make another sound.
Time ceases to have meaning again, and I rock myself to sleep, absorbed in inner pain, vowing to make him suffer.
CHAPTER TWO
“Abby.” Her soft voice whispers in my ear, and cool hands brush hair back off my brow. I whimper, leaning into her hand, her voice affecting me even in sleep.
“Mommy!” I cry, reaching for her.
“It’s okay, sweetheart.” She cups my face, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek. “I’m here, and I will let no one hurt you ever again.”
The memory returns full force as I bolt upright in the bed, holding a palm to my cheek, as if I can magically conjure her soft touch. “Mom!” Tears leak out of my eyes as I cry out to the dark, silent room.
It’s no surprise I’ve dreamed of her.
Not after last night.
After she passed, whenever anything horrid happened, I’d dream of her. Like my subconscious knew how badly I needed her comfort and summoned her to a dream realm, because that’s as close as I’ll ever get to her.
I flop back on the bed, closing my eyes and wishing I was dead too.
But the sentiment doesn’t last long.
Last night, I indulged my grief, sobbing myself to sleep as intense pain laid siege to my body. It’s tempting to curl into a ball under the covers and never come up for air. But that would be selfish, because Father also included a list of all my other loved ones, threatening they’d share the same fate if I didn’t cooperate.
Everyone I care about is on that list. Even Madam and Liam from ballet, and Robert, my personal trainer.
I don’t doubt my father means every word of his threat, and I can’t have their deaths on my conscience too.
So, I’ve got to let this go. To tuck it away in the furthermost place in my mind to properly deal with at a later stage, because today is the day I plot my revenge.
And it can’t come fast enough.
Peeling back the covers, I swing my legs out of bed and stand, frothing at the mouth for vengeance.
I’m ready to get even. I don’t have it all worked out yet, but I know where to start—by becoming the obedient little girl he wants me to be.
The next three weeks crawl by at a snail’s pace, as I painstakingly put my plan into action, but finally, I’m ready to make my first move.
It’s six thirty a.m. and daylight has arrived as I stand by the window in my room, staring at the view outside. I have twenty minutes before Wyatt comes to get me for breakfast and five minutes before the supply trucks arrive.
I still have no idea where I am, because nobody will tell me. I’ve been working on Wyatt, but he’s scared shitless of my father, and all I could get him to admit was that I’m still in the US, which wasn’t of much help, as I’d already figured that out for myself.
I haven’t seen that bastard—I refuse to call him Father anymore even inside my head—since the day he broke my heart. My hands ball into fists as I stare out through the bars that cage me in, and I work hard to quell the rage that is always bubbling under the surface.
I try not to think about it.
Because I’ll fall apart if I do, and I must keep my wits about me.
Pressing my face to the bars, I sigh heavily as I skim my gaze over the acres and acres of rolling fields that stretch out in front of this facility. Orange- and yellow-tipped trees break up the bleak monotony, and they’re pretty to look at.
I’ve studied the landscape for clues.
The fields are bordered by fences, and I guess they usually hold livestock or maybe horses, and this is a ranch of some type. But that’s not very helpful, because I could be in any number of states.
In the distance is a cluster of buildings, spread out over a vast area with snow-capped mountains in the background. Sometimes, at night, I spot flashing lights and hints of activity at that compound. Occasionally, helicopters land in the dead of night, raising my suspicions.
My father didn’t know Atticus and company were planning on gate-crashing my engagement party. His reaction confirmed that. Yet, he could still get me out of the house and to here at short notice, which leads me to the conclusion I’m in Parkhurst.
Or a division of Parkhurst, because this building seems to house the medical wing.
It’s the only conclusion that makes sense.
Meaning I’m somewhere in the west.
The rumble of an engine stirs me from my thoughts. Dust clouds mushroom in their wake as the usual supply trucks amble down the wide driveway toward us.
They come every Tuesday and Thursday mornings and on Fridays at seven p.m.
As the men unload supplies from the back, I mentally record the distance from the service side entrance to the truck doors and the scant seconds when the guys unloading the boxes are out of sight. Sneaking on board one of those trucks is the only way I’m getting out of here, but it’s risky in the extreme.
It’s too bright at this time of day to risk trying it on a Tuesday or Thursday, so I settle on Friday night.
I can’t spend another week in this Godforsaken place. I’ll be as cuckoo as everyone else if I do.
As the key turns in the lock, I whirl around, plastering a pleasant smile on my face as I move right beside my bedpost.
“Good morning, Miss Manning,” Wyatt says, entering my room and casting a lingering glance my way.
“Good morning, Wyatt.” I flutter my eyelashes and smile coyly at him. “And please call me Abby. How many times do I have to say it?” I look up at him through hooded eyes, smiling dreamily at him, as I drag my lower lip through my teeth and stare at his mouth.
His eyes glaze over as he walks toward me, his expression betraying everything he’s feeling. “I don’t want to slip up,” he admits, tentatively tucking my long dark hair behind my ear. “The bosses can’t know we’re…friends.” He falters on the word, and I know it’s because he’s hoping we’ll be more.
Men are so fucking pathetic.
It’s ironic that bastard thinks women are weak because we’re ruled by our emotions, when men are definitely the weaker of the two sexes, because they’re completely ruled by their dicks.