Twisted Little Games

by Dee Palmer

  “And I said I don’t have it.” She stands, indignation and fury flushing her skin red with righteous outrage. She squares her body to mine, which is comical since she’s five foot nothing and I’m holding the only weapon in the room. I push her back into the chair, catching her off balance and dismissing her claim like the one before.

  “And I don’t believe you.”

  “Cass, please.” She sounds exasperated enough I might actually believe her. Still we’ve come this far on a mountain of lies and secrets, and I need to be sure. Several purposeful strides cover the distance until I am back beside Logan.

  I flip the dagger in my hand, spinning the blade high, and without hesitation, plunge it deep into Logan’s side. Only the sound of his guttural pain is enough to block out her shrill scream. It fills the room, ricocheting off the ancient oak beams, rattling the ribcage of the room and leaving only the sound of desperation in its wake.

  “Noooooo!” She scrambles away from the desk and sprints to his side. Rivers of garnet-red blood ooze around the edges of the blade. His eyes have already started to roll back, and his head lops heavily to one side. “No, no, no, no. What have you done?” She sobs hysterically, her hands replace mine on the blade and she’s smart enough to keep it there, keep the pressure on. I walk back to the laptop, wiping the blood down my jeans to clean my fingertips.

  “You want to tell me where my money is now?”

  “I told you I don’t have it, you fucking lunatic!” She yells and sobs. “It’s still in your fucking company, hidden. I just don’t have the codes to find it.”

  “Well, who does?”

  “I give you two guesses but you might only need one, you piece of shit.” She sniffs, her eyes narrowed to tiny slits, and I feel the full force along with the untimely enlightenment.

  “Shit! Really? Logan has the codes?” Not what I was expecting, not what I was expecting at all. Shit.

  “Yes, and if you don’t call an ambulance, he’s going to fucking die!” she screeches, and the piercing pitch of her voice is not helping me think.

  “Shit!”

  “Atticus! Call a fucking ambulance!”

  “Give me the code for the safe.” I walk over to the wall.

  “What!” Her jaw drops. “What the fuck, Cass!”

  “I’m going to need those diamonds if I can’t find the money Tia.” I state this with as much patience as I can muster. She hesitates, worry and heartache draining the colour from her face. “You’re wasting precious time here, Tia, time your lover-boy doesn’t have.”

  “Twenty-six right, six left, twenty left and eleven right. The date I went to jail. The date your fucking family ruined my life.” Her accusatory tone hits the mark, but I don’t have time to dwell. I have to fix this fucking mess, and I have to get out of here quickly or that arsehole she loves is really going to die. I spin the dial and wait for the cogs to release, turn the handle, and the safe opens. I rummage inside and push the back until it falls into my hand. I reach in and grab the soft velvet bag. It’s heavy enough to know very little, if anything, has been removed. I shake it and let the weight settle in my palm.

  “It’s all there,” she quips with no humour.

  “I believe you.” I slip the phone from my pocket and walk over to her.

  “You’re not taking the Will?” She cranes her neck to see past me, the small folder containing Grandfather’s Will is very much where she left it.

  “It’s about time you get what’s rightfully yours, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t think it’s going to be easy even with a Will.” She shakes her head.

  “I’m not going to be around to fight it, princess, and I’ll make sure Mother doesn’t contest.”

  “What? Why? I don’t understand.” She looks up as I look down. She doesn’t move away when I twist a lock of her soft chestnut hair away from her face.

  “I have to make this mess go away, but I’ll be back, and I’ll be back for you.” My knuckles graze her jawline, and I take the explosion of heat in my chest that she hasn’t moved from my touch. She may still be in shock, but I have to hope it’s more. These next few months are going to be tough enough. If I can’t hold on to that hope, I may as well take the dagger and—

  “You think I want anything to do with you after this?” she asks before I draw my own morbid conclusion.

  “You will, princess, because at the end of the day, you’re mine.” I flick the lock on the collar she is still wearing and grab the back of her head, pulling her in for a final, brutally honest, breath-stealing kiss. I slip my phone into her hand.

  “You have one call. You can call the police for me, or you can call the ambulance for him. Your choice, princess.” I stand and watch her swipe the screen, the phone starts to ring out loud in the quite of the room.

  “Ambulance. I need an ambulance!” Her voice waivers with emotion, and I turn and exit the wreckage without a backward glance. The hatred in her eyes I can handle; however, her bent and broken over that motherfucker is too much for me to stomach.

  Clarke has the car running, and I jump in the passenger seat. My laptop is tucked under my arm.

  “Drive.” The door slams, and I let out a sharp, heavy breath I’m not sure is filled with relief or regret. Either way, I don’t have time to process right now.

  “Where to?”

  “The airport.”

  He floors the gas and we leave a wake of gravel and dust kicking up into the air as we pull away for Tartarus, from Tia. I don’t look back.

  We slow down on the outskirts of the village. The windy roads make it difficult to hit anything above twenty miles an hour, and the last thing I need is to be pulled over for a speeding ticket when I really need to not be in this country for the foreseeable future.

  “Stop the car!” I point to the pub car park where my mother’s Range Rover is fucking parked. “What the fuck is she still doing here?” It’s a rhetorical question, and Clarke dignifies me with his silence on the subject and pulls into the space beside my mother’s car. I jump out and head inside the quiet country pub. There are a few patrons, finishing up their late lunches, and several elderly locals at the bar. My mother is holding court in the corner of the Line Bar area, next to the open fireplace where a stack of dry logs is ready for burning when the weather turns.

  I recognise the old Chief Inspector, his partner, and the landlord, all laughing and seemingly enjoying their trip down memory lane. My mother stiffens when she see me approach. Her smile freezes, her glossy, bright red lips sticking on her perfect white teeth. It takes a moment to regain her composure. Her hands absently drift to her scarf-covered neck, and I wonder if I really left a mark the last time we met. It’s possible; she made me fucking mad enough, and frankly, it’s the least she deserves, considering the shit-storm she created.

  “Atticus,” She gushes. “I didn’t know you would be joining us.”

  “I’m not. Why are you here?” I snap with open hostility.

  “I was waiting to hear you had left the Hall before I followed you back to town. Still, now you are here, why don’t you join me for a celebratory drink and we can head off together.” She eases herself along the cushioned bench and pats at the space she’s just created.

  “It’s a little premature for a celebration, don’t you think?” I ignore the offer to take a seat. My derisive response has little effect.

  “Not at all.” She continues to lightly pat the seat beside her, and giggling, she turns to wink at the Chief Inspector. She actually winks. What the hell?

  “A moment alone with my mother, gentlemen.” I demand and watch as they all stiffen and reluctantly edge away from their idol. It’s pathetic. My mother would no more give them the time of day than she would a tramp on the street if she wasn’t getting something in return. That in itself makes my blood boil.

  “I said I would handle this.” I grit out through my increasingly tight jaw once the room is cleared.

  “I know, darling, only I had a genius i
dea and just went with it.” She claps her fingertips together lightly with giddy excitement.

  “Fucking hell.” I run my hand through my hair, tension spiking in my blood, and an unnerving twist in my guts makes me snap. “Your last genius idea is why we’re in this fucking mess, Mother. What have you done?”

  “The Hall is heavily insured and The Chief Inspector knows just the right person to—”

  “Stop. Don’t say another fucking word. You’re not burning Tartarus to the ground for the insurance.” I can’t fucking believe this woman.

  “Not just Tartarus.” She winks at me and I feel the blood drain from my face. I can’t speak but that doesn’t stop her. “You did leave Tia there didn’t you? Two birds, one stone…or one very old, very leaky heating system should I say.” Her smile could freeze ice, and I feel its chill in my bones.

  “What have you done? How did you know I left Tia there? It was five fucking minutes ago.” The volume rises in direct proportion to a rocketing rage I can’t control.

  “Keep your voice down. I have my sources,” she whispers, her hand cupping the side of her mouth like we are sharing some juicy secret. She’s fucking insane.

  “Angus, the groundskeeper, he must have seen me leave.” I wrack my brains because I didn’t see a soul.

  “Not the groundskeeper; he’s on holiday, but I do have my spies.” She glances at her watch and grins like the fucking Cheshire cat on Christmas morning, clapping her hands together with glee. “It’s done,” she squeals

  “What? What’s done?” I ask but the faint sound of sirens screeching outside distracts me. There’s a thunderous boom in the distance. I rush to the window. In the sky above the tree-line, there’s a dark cloud mushrooming. I think I feel the ground shake, but looking down, I can see it’s my legs trembling. I grab the windowsill to stop myself from collapsing. My fingertips hang on to the glossy black wood with a vice-like grip. It’s futile; I buckle and fall to my knees. My head drops to my empty hands, and I mouth one more rhetorical question.

  “What have we done?”

  My hands are shaking; sweat drips from my brow, and my fingers slip against the silver handle of the dagger. I try to keep the pressure on, but the blood is gushing now. I manage to work my t-shirt over my head and scrunch it into a ball, pressing against the deep, life-draining wound Atticus inflicted. I can’t believe he did that.

  “Logan, I’m so sorry.” With my free hand, I pull the gag loose and try to unknot his restraints, but it’s impossible with the one free, yet useless hand that won’t stop trembling. The knots are too damn tight. I need a knife. I’m well aware of the irony. I have a perfectly good knife in my hand, but if I remove it, Logan will die much quicker than he is already.

  “Please don’t die, please don’t die.” My head drops and tears drench my cheeks as I whisper my plea to a God I struggled to believe in. Now’s your chance.

  “You gave him the money. You shouldn’t have given him shit.” Logan growls, raising his head and my hopes. I thought he was unconscious, with his massive frame slumped limp in the chair, his chest barely moving with shallow breaths, and the only colour left clinging to his skin is the blood, slick, thick and glossy, pouring from what I thought was his lifeless body. I could squeal with joy and would if he didn’t look so deathly pale. I mouth a silent thank you.

  “I couldn’t let him hurt you.” My words falter at my ridiculous reasoning given the situation we’re in.

  “Thank you.” He cracks a weirdly wide smile that makes my heart ache. “But you shouldn’t have given him the money. He was always going to kill me.”

  “No…no, I don’t think that’s true. He—” I shake my head when Logan strains to speak. Tears cloud my vision. My heart is breaking. I can’t believe Atticus meant to kill Logan. I saw the way he played the room, staged the props. This was an elaborate game to him, but I don’t believe his objective was murder.

  His goal was to retrieve his money, take the diamonds, and get out.

  If he wanted Logan dead why not slit his throat? I’m not being naïve. I know he’s capable of murder, I just don’t believe that was his intent, not today at least.

  “He loves you and you love me. Tia, trust me, the bastard wants me dead.” He groans, his face contorted with unbearable pain. I’m not going to argue that Atticus gave me his phone so I could get help. Frankly, that’s going to be irrelevant if they don’t get here soon.

  “Don’t talk, save your strength. Please just hang on, Logan. The ambulance is coming.” I sob, my nose streaming a sticky mess, which coats my upper lip, and tears are falling in rivers down my cheeks. I try and dry the excess on my shoulder, which would only work if I could stop fucking crying for a single second. I suck in a calming breath. This isn’t helping. He doesn’t need me falling apart, the pathetic wreck I am, wailing helplessly.

  He needs me strong, to keep him awake, focused, and alive. I got him into this mess, and I will not let him die.

  “Hey, no sleeping Logan! Stay with me, okay?” His chin has dropped to his chest. I cup it in my free hand and lift his head, giving him a light, and somewhat sharp shake in lieu of a slap.

  “I didn’t give him the money.” I can’t fight the smile tipping the worry from my face. “I learnt from the best remember?” He blinks, his dark brown eyes, glossy with pain, sparkle with recognition as I elaborate.

  “That transaction was a ghost transfer. I actually sent it directly to a separate pension account that no one can touch, except the pension fund panel. I mean, they can access it, but it’s their money.” I roll my eyes at my fumbling attempt to explain something Logan will understand way better than I ever could. The effort it takes for him to speak is agonising, and I raise my hand to try and stop him when a deep grumble rumbles from his chest.

  “Smart.” He sucks in sharp breath, making me wince. The spread of warmth trickles through my veins when his big hand covers mine in a tender squeeze and pride flashes in his eyes.

  “Like I said…the best.”

  “Do you mean me or my sister?” he chokes out, and I deflate with devastation at the broken expression before me, tearing me apart.

  “Logan I—” He groans, and there’s a fresh surge of blood pouring from the wound. “Oh god, please, please don’t die. Please don’t die! I love you, Logan. I love you so much.” I heave stuttered sobs back into my lungs, in an effort to hold the impending flood at bay. This hurts so fucking much I can’t bear it.

  “Did you tell my sister that?” His heavy head flops onto his shoulder; my hand cups his chin, but it’s too much weight to carry. His breathing is so fucking soft I can barely hear his whispered words.

  “What? Um, I don’t know,” My mind races, I can’t think. All I can see is the man I love slipping through my fucking fingers. His steely gaze fixes on me, waiting for my answer. “Yes, probably…I don’t know, Logan.” I don’t care about any of that. I drop my head back yelling to the heavens. “Fucking hell, where’s the fucking ambulance?” He closes his eyes for the longest time; it actually scares the shit out of me when he finally opens them.

  “That’s a problem.” The chill running the length of my spine matches the icy coldness in his eyes, only I don’t have time to dwell on what that might mean. An almighty ear piercing explosion shakes the very foundation beneath us, plaster cracks and crashes from above, a strong smell of gasoline and gas fills my nostrils. Glass in every pane of the eight massive windows shatters instantaneously and flies across the room as a ball of fire bursts through the double doors, blowing them off their hinges. The oak panels over the fireplace catch first, the books, shelves and rugs are incinerated in a flash of unstoppable flames, and the curtains light like a touch paper. Flames lick the length of the material with a river of fire, rippling up the heavy fabric and scorching the walls. There’s so much wood in here, it’s like a tinderbox. Flames skip and dance from surface to surface, racing to destroy everything its path, racing to devour us.

  “Logan, Logan, can you hear m
e? Logan, speak to me! Are you still with me?” I cough, choking back in the smoke filling the room. His eyes are closed, and I can’t see if he’s breathing. The panic in my voice is juxtaposed to the humour in Logan’s response.

  “I’ve had better days.” He splutters, wincing at the pain.

  “Oh god, thank god!” I exhale with a relief-filled nervous laugh, trying to clear my throat without sucking in too much of the toxic air surrounding us.

  “You need to get out.” He’s emphatic, and I would laugh again, but I don’t have time to play around.

  “No!” My eyes burn with the fumes, and my throat claws unbearably with the need to cough and my lungs feel as if they are shredded raw from just trying to breathe.

  “Tia, this whole place is going to burn to the ground.” He scowls and grips my hand too tight, as if the sudden shooting pain in my fingers will make me see sense. I feel like my skin is bubbling with the intense heat surrounding us, so a little hand cramp isn’t going to cut it.

  “Then I’ll burn with it. I’m not leaving you.” I speak calmly. This is a non-negotiable matter of fact.

  “Tia, be realistic. I’m bleeding out. I won’t even make it to the window, but you will.” He chokes and coughs and pleads. “Please, if you love me at all, you’ll do as I say.” It’s a low blow, and my chest cleaves in agony.

  “And if you loved me at all, you wouldn’t ask,” I retaliate.

  “I don’t love you. Now will you leave?” He forces his retort through angry, tight lips and a pulsing clenched jaw.

  “I don’t believe you.” I search his eyes for the truth, only the smoke and rapidly encroaching fire make it hard to see past the fear. His words hit me as hard as the knife in his side, and I buckle with the possibility of what he’s saying and the probability of it actually being true.

  Is he just trying to get me to leave or do people actually have a rare moment of clarity when faced with imminent death?

  I know what I feel is true, regardless of this being the last few minutes of my life. I love him; it’s beautifully simple for me. Is it the same for him? Is he telling the truth? Does he really not love me? No, I refuse to believe that, I know he loves me. I felt it long before a life and death situation forced him to take a corner. I come out fighting. “Why are you here if you don’t love me?”