Echo(86)

Every cell in my body fills with a storm of tumult as I watch my world spin more and more out of control. I watch helplessly when he pistol-whips the side of her head, sending her flying to the floor. They exchange more words, she stands, he slams the gun into the side of her head again, this time, knocking her unconscious. He then goes out to his car and returns to duct tape her lifeless body, binding her ankles and wrists. Anger explodes, erupting in an outburst of seething fire when he hunches over her and spits in her face. Once he’s dragged her out of the house and tossed her into the trunk of his car, I slam the computer shut.

My breaths come heavy, loaded with guilt, fury, and an undeniable urge for vengeance.

I want to kill that motherf*cker.

“Drive faster, God dammit!” I bark at the driver.

Raking my hands through my hair, I can feel my body shuddering in emotions I need to get in check before I lose all the temperance necessary to keep my shit together. As we continue to drive and the mania begins to dissipate a little, I’m reminded of all the ways this woman has sent my life into an upheaval of disarray—her cunning hypocrisy, her ugly spitefulness hidden underneath her shiny exterior, and the blood that will everlast on my hands because of her malicious and selfish vendetta.

I remind myself of all the reasons why I should let this man kill her, remind myself of all the reasons why I hate her. But no matter how many reasons there are, I can’t rid myself of the unyielding need to find her. It tugs on the threads that stitch my heart together, the heart that she ripped from my chest and tore apart. And as much as I want to deny it, as much as the thought repulses me, the fact is, the one that destroys is the one that heals.

I need her.





MY STOMACH GROWLS as I sit here on the ground with my hands bound with a plastic zip tie around a pipe that runs down the length of the wall. Since restraining me, Richard has retrieved a bag from the car filled with food and water that will never find its way into my stomach that hungers. So, I sit and watch, having no idea how much time has passed, if it’s night or day.

We’re underground, and I can tell by the looks of his phone that he’s also operating on an untraceable disposable, making me worry that no one will be able to find me. Although Declan called and now knows I’ve been taken against my will, a part of me doubts that he cares enough to even come looking for me. But he’s the only hope I have because there’s no one else out there that even knows who I am. No friends. No family. Nothing.

Strength wanes.

Hope fades.

The tired fight inside of me vanishes.

Slowly, I open my fisted hand and wince from the sting of oxygen hitting the gash in my palm. Flesh covered in crusted blood—blood dead—proof that nothing survives forever. Old news to me, but yet I’ve always chosen to go on.

Why?

What’s the point?

Win one battle only to be faced with another, but when will it end?

Will it ever stop?

Cellophane crumpling draws my attention to Richard’s hand that holds a wadded chip bag. He stares at me as he throws it my way, but it doesn’t reach me as it falls to the ground. I look at the garbage and can’t help but compare myself. I sit here, lifeless as well, but marred in swollen bruises, cuts, and scabs. Some are self-inflicted, but others come from my love and this bastard in front of me.

I’m waste.

“What are you waiting for?” my voice cracks.

My words catch Richard’s attention, and he looks down at me with question in his expression.

“No one’s coming for me,” I tell him. “If you think Declan cares about me, you’re wrong.”

He doesn’t respond as we stare at each other, and then I ask what I need clarity on before my time runs out, “How did you know my father?”

His eyes shift to his gun that lies on top of the desk, and when he reaches over and picks it up, he gazes at the steel as if it’s his desired beloved.

“You worked together, didn’t you?” I ask on a trembled voice that threatens to break. Pieces begin to connect in my theory. “You said you used Bennett’s business to wash money from guns.”

Keeping his hand around the pistol, he rests it upon his thigh when he leans forward, saying, “You have no clue the tangled web you’re caught in. It’s almost a privilege to be the one who gets to unwrap this gift for you.”

I thought I knew Richard. Thought he was nothing more than an ascot-wearing chauvinist that I didn’t have to worry about. But now, I have no idea who this man sitting in front of me really is. I’m wondering if we’re more alike in the fact that we mold ourselves in pursuit of self-gratification and manipulation.