“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.
