Page 29 of Corrupted Bride

Only for that window to slam shut.

I’m afraid when I approach his door, but I force myself to stand straight. I won’t give him the pleasure of seeing me tremble. I have to face whatever this is and deal with it like I always have.

He answers right away. He’s in his suit still, the jacket fitting his muscular shoulders like heaven. His face is dark and closed off, and I can’t read his eyes as they flit down my body. I remember that look from the last time I was here. Before, it ended with him stripping me down.

I worry that might happen again, only worse.

“Come inside. Do you want a drink?”

“I’m working,” I remind him as I place the cart beside the table.

The door clicks shut behind me.

“Have one anyway.” He pours two glasses of our best whisky and shoves one into my hand.

Screw it, I could use some courage right now. I toss a big sip back and suppress a shudder.

He leans against the back of a chair, his tattooed hand gripping tightly. He seems angry, but I don’t know why. Silence stretches and it’s excruciating. It takes all my self-control not to start screaming at him.

“I want you to know that I had no clue.” He takes another long drink. “I only found out last week.”

“Found out what? Is that when you spoke to Hector about the car?”

He sighs, shoulders rounding as he reaches for a folder on the table and nudges it to me. “Read it.”

I hesitate only a second before hurrying over. He drinks and doesn’t look at me while I go through the papers. There’s a spreadsheet on top and I don’t recognize it at first, but horror dawns as I realize it’s listing every purchase I’ve made in the last six months. Extra clothes, trail mix, travel shampoo, hiking boots. The escape gear I have jammed into my duffel. The page behind is even worse: a list of my Google searches over the same time period.

“How?” I croak, feeling drunk. I take another big sip to help fight the swelling in my throat. “I was careful.”

“I have very, very good people. Keep looking, there’s more.”

The next page is a picture of Hector’s Honda Element and a receipt for every payment I’ve made to him.

“Oh fuck,” I whisper like the world is going to swallow me up. “Please, this isn’t Hector’s fault. He doesn’t know—about what I plan—” I turn, heart racing in pure terror. “Please, Bass. Don’t hurt him.”

Bass turns—and looks confused.

“Why would I hurt him?”

“Because… I plan on running away… and he’s helping me…” I’m tempted to drop to my knees. Maybe if I beg, that’ll help. “Last time, my cousin followed, and you know what they do, and please, don’t do it to Hector. Please, he didn’t⁠—”

But Bass’s eyebrows only screw up, and I realize he has no idea what I’m talking about.

“I don’t give a damn about Hector or about the car. I don’t care about your escape plans. That’s not where this is going.”

I take a step away from the table. The proof of my betrayal is spread across it. I force more whisky down my throat.

If he’s not here to stop me from running, then what does he want?

Think, Mari, think. Hector disappeared around the same time Bass found out about all this. It can’t be a coincidence, right?

Maybe he’s lying.

Or else something worse is about to happen.

“Why did you call me up here then?” I ask as calmly as I can but I can’t stop the quaver in my tone.

He reaches into his jacket. I flinch back, recalling what it sounds like when a gun smacks into a human’s face. The ugly crunch of metal against bone. Skin is stretched thin over facial tissue and it breaks easily. All the small vessels that feed our eyes and mouths love to bleed and they’re slow to clot. I remember the smell of it, copper and sharp. Fear and pain.