CHARLOTTE
Blood hasa smell I never noticed before, like pennies left too long in the sun. It coats the basement air, making it hard to breathe without tasting copper on my tongue.
“You don't have to do this,” Thor says, his hand warm against the small of my back as we descend the concrete stairs. Each step feels like a decision I can't take back. “You can stay upstairs.”
“No, I have to do this.”
The basement comes into view, dim fluorescent lights casting everything in a sickly glow. The first thing I notice is theplastic sheeting laid across the floor already splattered with dark patterns. The second is him. Vincent.
He's barely recognizable as human. Chained to a chair bolted to the floor, his face is a grotesque mask of swollen tissue and split skin. One eye is completely sealed shut, the other a bloodshot slit that follows our movement. His shirt hangs in tatters. His chest rises and falls in shallow, wet gasps.
Ratchet stands before him. His forearms are flecked with blood, his expression eerily calm as he selects something from a small metal tray.
V emerges from the shadows. He doesn't notice me at first, his attention on Thor.
“Took you long enough,” he says with a crooked grin. “Thought maybe you two were going for a world record up there. Had to get started without you considering it sounded like to two of you were bringing down the fucking house.” He chuckles, tossing the rag aside. “Never heard a woman scream like that outside of?—”
His words die in his throat when he spots me standing behind Thor. His face drains of color.
“Shit,” he mutters, looking like he wants the concrete floor to swallow him whole. “Charlotte, I didn't...I mean, I wasn't...”
“It's fine,” I answer automatically, though heat floods my cheeks.
Holloway makes a gurgling sound that might be laughter. “That’s why you’re protecting her. Big guy is fucking her.”
My stomach lurches as I take in the full extent of what they've done to him. His fingers are bent at unnatural angles, nails missing from three of them. Dark patches of blood have soaked through his pants at the thighs where something sharp has clearly been inserted.
The sight of Holloway's mangled body should horrify me, but all I feel is a cold detachment spreading through my veins likeice water. This is the man who would have dragged me back to Terrance. This is the man who would have delivered me like merchandise.
Holloway slurs through broken teeth, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth, “Pretty little thing. Worth every penny he's paying.”
Thor moves to step between us, but I put my hand on his arm, stopping him. “Let him talk,” I didn’t come down here to be protected. I came down here to get the truth. To see just what Terrance’s money had bought.
“Your husband misses you,” Holloway continues, his one functioning eye gleaming with malice despite his condition. “Showed me pictures of what he did to you last time you tried to leave. Said it would be worse when he got you back.”
My skin crawls, but I hold my ground. “He's not my husband anymore.”
Holloway's split lips twitch into what might be a smile. “Not what he thinks.”
“We've been having a chat about your ex, Charlotte. Vincent here wasn't very forthcoming at first, but...” He gestures to the bloody pliers on the tray next to their prisoner. “We're making progress.”
“What has he told you?” I ask, wet stains spreading across the plastic sheeting.
V's eyes flick to Thor, seeking permission. At Thor's curt nod, he moves to a laptop perched on a workbench nearby.
“Been digging through his files while Ratchet kept him company,” V says, his fingers flying across the keyboard. “Encrypted, but nothing I couldn't crack. Found correspondence, payment records, surveillance photos—of you.”
My stomach drops as V turns the screen toward me. There I am, captured in grainy images—walking on the beach in front of my house, checking my mail, entering my apartment. Dozens ofphotos documenting my movements, my routines, my life. The violation of my privacy cuts deeper than I could have imagined, leaving me feeling exposed and vulnerable.
“Nothing concrete on Terrance yet,” V continues, clicking through files. “The money trail's complicated—offshore accounts, shell companies. I'm making progress, but he's careful.”
“What about him?” I nod toward Holloway. “What has he told you?”
Ratchet crosses his arms, his expression grim. “Turns out our friend Vincent here isn't just some hired muscle. He's Terrance's personal clean-up specialist.”
“Clean-up?” The word feels heavy, ominous.
“When Terrance has problems that need to disappear, Vincent makes them go away. Permanently.”
