Page 19 of Toxic Attraction
"I tried, but there are cameras and keypads, and I don't have access to most of the building yet—"
“Then get access." His tone remains steady, but there's a colder undertone beneath it. "Or would you like me to motivate you?"
My hands are shaking so hard that the phone almost slips. "No. No, I just—I need forty-eight hours. Please. I'll have something by then, I promise."
"Forty-eight hours." He lets the words hang there, savoring them. "And what happens if you don't?"
Please don't please don't please—
"Your brother Ethan is seventeen, yes? Still in high school. Brighton Prep, if I'm not mistaken." Papers rustle in the background, casual and terrifying. "He walks home most days. Takes the same route—down Atlantic Avenue, cuts through the park near the library. Very predictable routine."
My chest tightens so hard I can't breathe.
"If you don't have something useful for me in forty-eight hours, I'm going to have someone meet him in that park." Patrick's voice stays conversational, like he's discussing dinner plans. "They're going to take him somewhere quiet. Somewhere soundproofed. And then they're going to start with his fingers."
"No—"
"One at a time. Slowly. I'll have them record it so you can hear every scream, every time he begs them to stop. After the fingers, we'll move to his toes. Then his teeth. I'm thinking pliers for those—the sound is particularly memorable. Then his knees. His elbows. By the time we're finished, your mother will be praying for death. For both of them."
I'm crying now, can't stop, hand pressed over my mouth to muffle the sobs that want to tear out. "Please—"
"Forty-eight hours, Valerie. I suggest you make them count."
He hangs up.
I drop the phone and cover my face with both hands, trying to breathe through the panic tearing up my throat. Forty-eight hours. Two days to find something Patrick can use or listen to, or I’ll have to listen to my brother's fingers being broken one by one while he screams for me to save him.
I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't—
But Ethan's face flashes in my mind. Seventeen, scared, and crying silently while Dad bled out on the carpet. Trusting me to keep him safe. I’d lied and said I would.
And now I have to make that lie true, or watch him die screaming.
I have to do this.
I have no choice.
By the time Sofia comes to collect me for my second day, I've pulled myself together enough to function. Barely.
My eyes are red and swollen, but I blame it on exhaustion when she asks. She studies me for a moment with those sharp eyes that miss nothing, then nods and leads me through the maze of corridors.
"Today you'll focus on the main floor," she says, heels clicking against marble in that sharp, precise rhythm that sounds too much like gunshots. "General housekeeping. Keep your head down, do your work, and stay in your assigned areas. Understood?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She hands me a cleaning caddy and a list of rooms. "Start with the sitting room, then the library. If you finish early, Elena may need assistance in the sunroom."
The sunroom. I remember seeing it during the tour—lots of windows, soft furniture, the kind of room designed for a child to feel safe.
"Thank you."
Sofia leaves, and I'm alone in this massive house with two days to find something that will keep my brother alive.
I start cleaning because it's all I can do. Dust the sitting room furniture, vacuum the rugs, and polish surfaces until they shine. The work is mindless, which is both good and terrible—goodbecause I can't think past the panic, terrible because my mind keeps circling back to Patrick's words.
Fingers. Toes. Teeth. Pliers.
Stop it, Val. Just Focus and clean.
