CHAPTER SIX
Alex
DAY FIVEat the Parkview Motel. I’d established a routine of sorts—if you could call pacing a fifteen-by-twelve foot cage a routine. Wake up at dawn when the light filtered through the threadbare curtains. Splash water on my face in the rust-stained sink. Eat whatever non-perishable food I’d managed to acquire from the corner store two blocks away.
Then wait. For what, I wasn’t sure. For Marcus to find me. For the case to start in court. For my money to run out. For something to change.
I hadn’t left the room in two days. My supplies were dwindling—down to a package of crackers, a jar of peanut butter, and three bottles of water. The thought of venturing outside made my heart race. What if Marcus had people looking for me? What if someone recognized me from the photos he’d surely distributed? What if he was out there himself, cruising the streets in his sleek black Audi?
I peered through a gap in the curtains. The parking lot looked the same as it had yesterday—a couple of beat-up sedans, a delivery van with a dented fender, the motel manager smoking by the ice machine. No black Audi. No Marcus.
But that didn’t mean he wasn’t looking.
My phone buzzedwith a text fromDamian.
My stomach lurched. I’d see Marcus tomorrow. In person. The thought made me dizzy with fear.
Another textfollowed:
I stared at the message.The offer was tempting—to hide here while Damian handled everything. But I needed my things. More importantly, I needed Buster. The thought of my cat alone with Marcus made me physically ill. What if he was hurting him to punish me?
I typed back, and the response camequickly:
Relief washed over me, followed immediately by suspicion. Marcus wouldn’t give up Buster that easily. He knew how much I loved that cat. There would be a catch. There was always a catch with Marcus.
I spent the rest of the day sketching obsessively, trying to quiet the voice in my head that kept whispering that this was a trap. By evening, my fingers were cramped and stained with graphite, and I had filled pages with the same image over and over—Buster in a cage, reachingthrough the bars.
THE NEXT MORNING, I woke to another text. Unknownnumber.
My blood ran cold. How had he gotten this number? Damian had helped me get a new phone, a new SIM card. I’d given the number to no one except Damian.
Another text followed, this one with an image. I clicked on it before I could stop myself.
It was Buster, curled up on the silk bedspread in the master bedroom—our bedroom. Marcus’s bedroom now. Anothermessagearrived:
I threw the phone across the room. It hit the wall andclattered to the floor, screen miraculously intact. I could still see it lighting up with another incoming message.
Somehow, I found the courage to retrieveit.
I called Damian immediately, my hands shaking so badly I could barely hold the phone.
“He texted me,” I said when he answered. “He knows my number. He knows about today.”
“Slow down, Alex,” Damian’s voice was steady, anchoring. “What exactly did he say?”
I read the messages aloud, my voice breaking on the last one.
“Forward them to me,” Damian said. “Don’t delete them. This is a clear violation of the temporary restraining order. It strengthens our case.”
“How did he get my number?”
“I don’t know,” Damian admitted. “But we’ll find out. Are you still coming today?”
“I have to,” I whispered. “For Buster.”
“I’ll have security present,” Damian assured me. “He won’t be able to touch you.”
But that wasn’t what frightened me. Marcus didn’t need to touch me to hurt me. He never had.
