by Mary
I spin on my heel and race for the door but the heels I’m wearing slow me down. A hard yank on the back of my head jerks me off my feet. I crash hard on my back, the air knocked out of my lungs.
Natalie stands over me.
“I wish there was another way. This is my last chance to search. I really wish you hadn’t lost your job. Then you wouldn’t be here and none of this would be happening.”
Like this is my fault?
Bitch.
I can’t talk yet, still struggling to get air in my lungs. She has something in her hands and my eyes flick to it. It’s the lamp.
Oh no.
Chapter Twenty-One
If you make every game a life and death thing, you’re going to have problems. You’ll be dead a lot.
–Dean Smith
Brent
I move through my life on autopilot. Numb. Exhausted.
Even spilling my guts at the press conference was a fog. I simply read a script Roger gave me. Roger spins it in a very effective “woe is me” way, garnering sympathy from everyone. A flood of well-wishes and emails came in right away. Now the entire world knows. About my heart, my mom, the surgery . . . my impotence. The fact that I won’t be signing a contract with the New York Sharks. The fact that I won’t be playing ball in the foreseeable future at all.
The press immediately asks questions about Bethany and Angela.
I can’t even fake a smile.
No comment.
In the days following the conference I finally call my brother and leave him a message, then he calls me back when I’m busy with doctors’ appointments.
Apparently, Bethany and Gwen talked.
“Dude. We’re in the middle of Nepal and I won’t be able to call you again until tomorrow.” Marc releases a gusty sigh. “Answer your phone. We need to talk. I love you. I want to kill you for keeping something like this from me.” He yells something in another language into the background before coming back on the line. “Just, please answer your phone if you can.” Pause. The sound of wind in the background. “Gwen talked to Bethany. She might have to move. She was a mess. She wouldn’t tell us everything. Just . . . call me. Okay? I’ll talk to you soon.”
I’ve let Roger handle all the fallout. I’ve been avoiding everyone and everything. Again. The thing I swore I wouldn’t do anymore? I’m doing it.
It’s time to man up and be the one to reach out.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Brent.” His voice is cool.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
He must be in the car. Honking and the hum of traffic echo in the background.
But I don’t hear what I want. Words, from him. Not that I should have expected anything. He’s never been the best fatherly figure. Marc was more of a dad than he ever was.
Still. He’s family.
“I’m sorry about the deal and Angela and everything. I had to make a decision for my health and future. I’m going to live my life the way I choose and you can be a part of it or not. I hope you choose me. I love you, Dad. Marc does, too. We both wish you would love us more than the company. When you figure out what’s really important, if you ever do, please call me. Until then, I can’t be a part of your life.”
He’s still not speaking. I wouldn’t even know he heard me if not for the small hitch in his breathing.
“I’m having surgery in two weeks. I’ll be at Mount Sinai. I’ll . . . text you the details.” I hang up and take a deep breath.
I would be shocked if he cared enough to be there.
I’ll never understand my father. But it’s okay. I don’t need to cater to his whims anymore and the relief is instant, overwhelming, and . . . sad.
Sad for him, for me, for everything.
And there’s only one person I want to share it all with. I scroll through my contacts, thumb hovering over Bethany’s name. She must have gotten ahold of my phone at some point. She put “Bethany Nacho Beyotch Connell” as her contact name. I smile and shake my head.
Before I can click the button, the phone rings.
Roger.
“Hey, Roger.”
“We got some information on the person who sent your details to the press.”
“And?”
“The money was transferred to an account for Natasha Furmeyer. It might be an alias but do you recognize the name?”
I sit up, blood rushing from my head.
“Furmeyer?”
Steven’s girlfriend.
Natalie.
Natasha? I rub my head. This doesn’t make any sense.
Why would Natalie be selling my secrets to the press and how would she . . . ?
The intruder. The strange noises. The fact that someone had access to Bethany’s walls. Was it her this whole time? Did she overhear my conversation with Bethany at her apartment?
And that means Bethany . . .
“Shit.”
“What’s going on, Brent?”
“I don’t know. Hopefully nothing. I have to go.”
I hang up with him and call Bethany.
It goes to voicemail.
My stomach is churning.
I pull up the camera app.
There she is. At B’s door. I check out the time stamp. Two hours ago. No movement in or out since.
“Fuck!”
I run.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Pepper spray first, apologize later.
–Georgia Hardstark
My Favorite Murder episode 44
Bethany
My head hurts.
So does my neck. And my arms. And my legs. Also my wrists. I hurt everywhere. Even my nose hairs are aching.
Something is banging.
Not this again.
I blink my eyes open against brightness. All of the lights in the apartment are on.
Natalie is down the hall, ripping the wall next to the closet to shreds with a sledgehammer.
I can’t move my arms. I’m sitting in one of the wooden dining room chairs, arms strapped behind me and held together by something I can’t see. My hands are numb. I wiggle them and test the restraints but I can’t tell if I’m making any progress.
“What are you looking for?” I ask.
She ignores me and keeps wrenching.
“If you’re searching for something specific, maybe I can help you.”
“Shut up. This isn’t a movie. I’m not telling you anything.” She goes back to pulling apart the drywall.
Dammit. What am I supposed to do with an atypical villain?
Think, Bethany, think!
I’m obsessed with true crime. I’m practically an expert on how to get out of untenable situations.
I wrench against the restraints more. They’re too tight. I can’t get out of them. But the chair is pretty flimsy. Maybe I can get her distracted enough to stand and fall backward, break the chair.
What the hell is she doing here? How can I distract her?
Sam said an old Mafia dude lived here and hid something.
It’s worth a shot.
“Are you looking for that old lockbox?”
Banging stops. Natalie leans out of the wall, eyes locked on mine. “Box?”
“Yeah. I found it in the cranny in the closet when I first moved in.”
Her eyes narrow.
She grips the hammer tighter in her hand and stalks toward me. “Where is it?”
I’ve hit a nerve. Jackpot.
“Untie me and I’ll show you.”
“No. Tell me where it is, then I’ll leave and send Steven to untie you when I’m out of the country.”
Damn her. I have to get her out of the apartment long enough to try and break out of this shit.
Time. I need time.
“I put it down in storage. I thought maybe it belonged to the person I’m renting from.”
“Where’s your storage key?”
“In my pur
se.”
Before she leaves, she grabs a roll of duct tape and approaches me with a determined stride.
“No.” I try to avoid it, twisting my head from one side to another, then back and forth until she basically crawls in my lap and forces me to stay still long enough to slap the tape on.
Bitch.
As soon as she leaves, I’m wiggling. I have to get out of this chair. I need to break out of these bonds before she realizes I’m lying and comes back with something worse than tape.
I strain and huff against my bonds. This bitch is good at tying knots. Fuck her.
It takes about two minutes to get down to the basement. Maybe another five to find the locker and discover there ain’t shit in there but some old boxes of clothes Gwen left behind.
Then another two minutes to come back up and murder me. Probably less because she’s gonna be pissed and running.
That’s nine minutes.
I jerk against the bonds.
Tears of frustration fill my eyes and I blink them away. I don’t have time for emotions right now. I need to get out of here. There’s still so much I need to do with my life. I can’t let it all be taken away by a seemingly nice brunette with a sledgehammer. I want to see my mother get sober. I want to see my friends . . . and Brent at least one more time. I want to get an awesome job and tell Mr. Crawford to shove his misogyny up his ass.
Someone stomps down the hall.
How much time has passed? I have no idea.
Oh shit.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Always make a total effort, even when the odds are against you.
–Arnold Palmer
Brent
For more than a year now, I’ve been tempting the fates, knowing my heart could stop, just like that. Snap. Gone in a blink.
I haven’t cared that the exertion of playing out on the field or in practice could be exacerbating my condition. I’ve been a professional at denial. But not once in all this time have I been actually scared my heart would stop in my chest.
Until now.
I can’t get to Bethany’s apartment fast enough.
My heart is racing, breaking away every time I think about the fact she’s in trouble and I let her down.
I call the police on the way, asking for someone to go because she could be in danger.
Could be in danger?
There’s no time to explain the whole story. I hang up and park illegally because I don’t care about getting towed, not when the woman I love is in trouble.
I don’t even pause to examine that life-changing thought.
I love her.
It isn’t really a thought at all, but a fact, a truth I sense down to my bones.
No one’s buzzing me in and goddammit the super fixed the knob so I can’t even break in. This is what I get for being demanding and overprotective. I buzz various apartment numbers until someone finally hits the buzzer.
Bypassing the elevator, I run up the stairs like her life depends on it.
The door is locked. I knock frantically. There are noises. Muffled voices. I don’t have a key. I’ll have to pay for a new door because nothing is going to stop me from getting into this apartment.
I brace myself on the other side of the hall and run, shoulder first into the door.
“Ughhgnnfdhdhsd.” It hurts. They make it look so easy in the movies. I can’t believe they lied to me.
I pull out my phone. It’s been six minutes since I called the cops. They’ve got to be here soon. I have to think clearly. I need to figure out the best way to knock down a door. Feeling slightly ridiculous, but not wanting to keep ramming the door and break my shoulder for no reason, I google how to break down a door. It takes less than fifteen seconds to find the answer. A well-placed kick near the lock should do it.
It takes more than one kick, but finally there’s a crack and the door busts open, the lock breaking out of the frame.
Bethany’s there, tied to a chair, tape over her lips.
I immediately run to her, kneeling in front of the chair and reaching for the tape.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe before I rip the tape off.
“Motherfucker!”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. Hurry, untie me. She’s coming back any second now.”
I move behind the chair to wrestle with the ties at her wrist. “It’s Natalie, right?”
“Yes. How did you know to come?”
“I saw her on the video. And Roger traced where the money went from the article—into an account owned by Natasha Furmeyer.”
I move to her front and help her as she unties the knots at her feet.
“That name, why wouldn’t she change it?”
Before I have a chance to answer, there’s a voice at the door.
“I didn’t have time.” She’s here. In the doorway, gun pointed in our direction. “I didn’t think it would be this hard to find my uncle’s stash.”
“The cops are on their way,” I say.
“I’ll be gone before they get up here. Give me all the money you have on you.”
“I don’t have—”
“Empty your pockets!” she yells, moving into the living room, closer and closer.
“Okay, okay.” I lift my hands before slowly reaching into my pocket for my wallet.
“Move faster!” The gun twitches and then she’s pointing at Bethany. “Move faster or I shoot her.”
She’s shaking. Losing control.
My heart is pounding. I have to distract her from Bethany.
“I’m moving faster. Keep the gun on me, Natalie. Or should I call you Natasha?”
“Fuck you.” The sound of the gun cocking makes my heart beat triple time.
It’s still pointed at B.
Putting both hands up, I nudge Bethany with an elbow, hoping she’ll be able to follow my lead.
I need to distract Natalie long enough for the cops to get here.
I gasp and stumble forward. “Pain,” I grunt.
Natalie/Natasha watches me with narrowed eyes, a frown tilting at her lips. “Are you . . . faking a heart attack?”
“Not . . . faking.” I fall to my knees, clutching my right arm. Shit. Wrong side. I switch my grip to the other arm.
Bethany lets loose an inelegant snort.
I glance over at her while falling to the floor.
She’s laughing at me.
How can she be laughing at a time like this?
I collapse in a heap and slit my eyes up at Natalie. She’s got one brow lifted.
This clearly isn’t working.
A loud, strange sound fills the room.
Oo-eek, oo-eek.
“What the—” Natalie turns toward the door and Bethany uses the distraction to grab her wrist, tilting the gun at the ceiling.
The sound of the gun discharging thunders in the small space, making my ears ring and everything go whomp whomp whomp.
I have to help Bethany. I jump up to help her get the gun, but Steven’s already there, yanking the firearm and immediately popping the magazine out and dropping the bullets to the floor like a pro.
You go, birdman. There’s blood covering the side of his face from a gash near his hairline.
I move toward Bethany to help her restrain Natalie/Natasha but before I make it a step, the cops are in the doorway, guns drawn, all pointed at Steven.
Chapter Twenty-Four
You fail all of the time. But you aren’t a failure until you start blaming someone else.
–Bum Phillips
Bethany
Two hours later, we’re still talking to the police—who didn’t shoot Steven, incidentally—but there was lots of shouting and gun pointing and mass confusion until someone recognized Brent as the tight end for the Sharks.
Then things immediately calmed. It’s amazing what celebrity status can do.
It took a while for them to figure out what happened
, but the video from the front door helps verify our story.
They still give Steven suspicious looks and I can’t blame them. I mean, that mustache.
The weird oo-eek sound was a birdcall, which Steven used to distract Natalie. Apparently he’s also been in a gun club, which is how he knew how to disarm the weapon.
Over the course of the police’s questioning, we put together the rest of the story and pieces from the past couple of months.
Natalie’s mobbed-up uncle had left his stash somewhere in the apartment building. He’d also left some debts to some real bad people and Natalie needed to pay them off or they would break her thumbs or do whatever it is mobsters do to people who don’t pay up.
Natalie had obviously been using the dumbwaiter entrance for access to my apartment. She’d also been using Steven for access to the building. She’d originally thought the loot was stashed at Martha’s but then realized it may have actually been in the neighbor’s. A.k.a., mine.
The other night when I ran into them coming off the elevator and they left to stay at Natalie’s, she waited until Steven was sleeping to sneak back and break in, knowing I was here alone and knowing Steven sleeps like the dead. The goal was to scare me away so she could have more time to search in my apartment without me present and calling the cops.
She was in the walls and heard Brent and I talking—she even recorded bits of the conversation. She was getting more and more desperate for money ever since the super had blocked off the dumbwaiter entrance and I had a camera installed.
She used her recording to get money from Stylz, enough to hold off the people after her, but it wasn’t enough to keep them away for good.
Desperation made her a bit crazy. She tied up Martha, conked Steven over the head, and left them in Martha’s apartment before coming over and tying me up.
The cops do a thorough search of my closet and walls where Natalie was digging, but there’s nothing.
