by T. K. Leigh
But when the door opened after what seemed like weeks and Brock’s frame loomed in the doorway, a smug look on his face, my muscles tightened, my heart pounding as chills ran through me. I should have been relieved to see a familiar face in this situation, even if it belonged to Brock. But the expression he wore — the coldness in his eyes, the hardness in his stare, the hatred as he glowered at me — told me everything I needed to know. He was involved in this, and not in a helpful way.
“Good evening, Ellie.” He smoothed the lines of his dark pants, ensuring his suit jacket was buttoned, his tie perfectly straight. Some people with OCD obsessively checked locks, made sure everything was in its precise place, or avoided cracks on the sidewalk. Brock’s obsession was all about appearance and order. Appearance was everything to him.
Licking his lips in a sinister manner, he slowly made his way to the bed, my limbs trembling more with each drawn-out step. I fought against my restraints, looking around the room for something, anything, that could help me out of this situation.
“Oh, come now, Ellie. Do you really think we’d go through all this effort just to have you get away?” He ran a finger down my leg, and I attempted to squirm away from him, to no avail. Then he stepped back and retrieved his sanitizer from his pocket, squirting some into his hands and rubbing it around vigorously.
“What do you want?” I bit out, glaring.
He reached back into his pocket and produced a small key, dangling it in front of me. “It’s time for dinner.” He eyed me, his nose turning up in disgust. “But you certainly can’t go looking like that.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I spat out.
“Oh yes, you are,” he shot back, leaning toward me. His voice deepened almost into a growl, his eyes on fire. “You are to shower, put on the dress hanging in the bathroom, and join us for a little celebration.”
“Celebration?” I blinked repeatedly.
“Yes.” He smiled, stepping back, smoothing the lines of his suit once more. “Didn’t you hear?” He cocked his head. “Oh, I suppose you wouldn’t have, would you? Your father and I both won our races earlier this week.”
“The election?” I swallowed hard at his confirmation I’d been locked up here for days, perhaps longer. I wondered if anyone knew I was missing. If Mila was looking for me. If Dante was okay. Surely, he would have grown concerned when he tried to call. I did the math in my head. He’d gone off the grid on Friday and wouldn’t be back in a major city with access to his phone until Sunday. Even if reports of my disappearance did reach him and he hopped on the first flight out, with the time difference and the length of the flight, he wouldn’t have been able to get to LAX until probably Wednesday. But where was I? Was I even in California? What day was it? Would Bradley have fooled him like he fooled me?
“We’ll both be returning to Washington to continue to serve the great state of California and its people.” He slowly leaned toward me once more, his breath like knives on my skin. “Actually, your father won’t be returning, but he doesn’t know that yet.” Then he pulled back, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “He’s been a very bad boy, hasn’t he, Ellie?”
I stared at him, disgust covering my expression. I wanted to tear into him at the realization that he’d played me, that he knew exactly what to do in order to make me think my father was a corrupt, repugnant human being instead of believing him, instead of trusting him.
“At least that’s what I wanted you to think.” He winked, and the synapses in my brain began firing for the first time in days. The past six months flashed in front of my eyes, little snippets of information standing out. The phone call between Dante and Bradley. The alleged emails. The file conveniently left sticking out of a drawer in Brock’s normally meticulous office. Mila was right.
“It was all fake, wasn’t it?” I said in a low voice, struggling to breathe at how naïve I’d been. “The emails?”
“It was pure dumb luck that you overheard Bradley’s conversation with my darling brother and even knew about those. But yes, if you’d like to know the truth, I sent those emails threatening Cynthia Edelman.”
“What about the footage Bradley had from the libraries?” The instant the words left my mouth, I knew what his answer would be.
“You’ve forgotten whose side Bradley’s on, haven’t you? Regardless, I wanted to make sure there was actual physical evidence, so there are surveillance videos. You just can’t exactly see the face of the man most would think to be your father.”
“Wasn’t there exterior footage of the parking lot showing my father’s car?”
Brock’s smile turned more conniving. “Remember that car trouble I had for a little while? Your father was so nice to lend me his car to use, wasn’t he?”
My hands formed into fists, my jaw clenching as heat rose in my face. “You monster,” I hissed. “He trusted you. He treated you like a son. He took you under his wing when you approached him with the possibility of running for the open seat in the House. And this is how you repay him?”
“I’m a monster? Me? You were so quick to blame your father for everything, especially after you found those doctored photos of him walking into Barnes Pharmaceuticals on the night Cynthia decided to take the easy way out and commit suicide. You did this to yourself. Your hatred and animosity toward your parents clouded all your rationale. You made the leap into blaming your father for killing Cynthia. Not me.”
I formed my lips into a tight line, my nostrils flaring. I was on the brink of telling him that my father outsmarted him, outsmarted all of them, that Cynthia wasn’t dead. But my father taught me never to reveal my hand until the end. I had a feeling this was just the beginning.
“Is this why you’ve been mysteriously absent the past few months? To do all of this?”
He cocked his head at me, his expression eerily calm. “After our little interlude in Rome, I was advised it was in my best interests to give you a little space, to make you believe I no longer posed any sort of threat.” He paused, his lips curling into a smile. “It worked.”
“Why, Brock? Why are you vilifying him like this?”
He grabbed one of my wrists, unlocking the restraint around it. “The oldest reason in the book, Ellie.”
He moved toward the foot of the bed, his hand squeezing around my leg as he went. I cringed, closing my eyes. The feeling of this man, one who I once knew so intimately, touching me made my stomach roll. I wondered if any of it was real. Had he simply dated me to have better access to my father?
When he reached the restraints around my ankles, he met my eyes. “Power.”
A chill washed over me as that word lingered in the air. I was speechless, feeling like this man I’d given ten years of my life to was a complete stranger. Until he found me in Rome, I’d always thought he was relatively harmless, that he was this charismatic guy who was born to be a politician. I couldn’t believe I never saw how black his soul was, how little regard he had for human life.
After freeing my legs, he returned to the head of the bed, unlocking the restraint around my other wrist. Then he clamped his hand around my bicep, tugging me off the bed. My legs gave out, my muscles weak from being drugged up and mostly bedridden for days, and I slumped to the floor.
“Get up!” he yelled, grabbing my hair and forcefully yanking me back to my feet. I howled as pain shot through me, doing my best to remain steady on my trembling limbs. “What’s the matter, Ellie?” He pulled my body against his, my back to his front. His hand covered my throat and he squeezed, cutting off my oxygen. “I thought you liked it rough.”
“Not with you,” I managed to choke out. “You disgust me.”
His hold on me tightened, then he shoved me into the bathroom. “You disgust me.”
I fell to the tiled floor, grunting in pain. I lifted my eyes toward his, glowering, wishing I could kill him with the amount of hatred I had toward him.
“You have fifteen minutes.” He glared at me. “Not a second more.” He slamm
ed the door, the loud sound making me jump.
I remained completely still for several long moments, wondering if this were a trick. Once I heard the door to what had become my prison open and shut, I blew out a breath I’d been holding. Crawling toward the vanity, I gripped the ledge, using it to pull myself to my feet.
As I struggled to regain my strength, I caught my appearance in the mirror. My hair was matted from being bound to a bed for who knew how long. I tried to run my fingers through it, to no avail. I peered into my eyes. They were bloodshot, my complexion gaunt. I was always relatively slim, but the dress I wore to work the day everything fell apart was no longer as tight as it had been.
I hesitantly walked toward the small bathtub, turning on the water for the shower, my hands still shaking. I knew I needed to do everything in my power to keep my composure, but the uncertainty, the unknown, the likelihood I probably wouldn’t be walking out of this place filled me with despair and apprehension. Would I ever see Dante again? Regardless of whether he knew the truth and kept it from me, I prayed he hadn’t heard about my disappearance, that he was still safe in whatever country he was currently in. I feared Bradley had used the trust Dante put in him to lure him here, too.
Once the water reached the temperature I preferred, I stepped under the spray, releasing a long sigh as it hit my body, trying to stop from imagining the worst. My limbs were still a bit shaky from not having been used for such a long period of time, but I did my best to swallow down any pain that shot through me from my sore and inert muscles.
Knowing I didn’t have much more time, I finished my shower relatively quickly, then stepped out, reaching to grab a towel off the counter. I wrapped it around my body, then used a second one to dry my hair. It took a while to run a brush through my tangled locks, but I was finally able to smooth it all out.
“Come on, Ellie!” Brock’s voice called from the other side of the door, followed by a relentless knocking. “Your fifteen minutes are up. You have ten seconds to get out here, or I’ll come in there and drag you out. I don’t care if you’re naked. In fact, I think that would make this a lot more entertaining.”
“Okay, okay!” I answered hurriedly, ripping the black A-line dress off its hanger and hastily throwing it over my head. There was no bra or underwear, but it was better than nothing.
Drawing in a deep breath, I slowly opened the door. The instant I did, Brock’s fingers wrapped around my bicep and he tugged me from the room. His strides were long and purposeful as he pulled me along a narrow hallway without any regard for my weak state. I frantically looked at the walls as he yanked me toward a staircase, down the creaky steps, and into a formal dining room, hoping something about my surroundings would look familiar. But nothing did. This place was as much a mystery to me now as it was when I first opened my eyes here.
He pushed me toward a long dining table, then forced me to come to a stop by one of the four chairs. My eyes floated around the room, the furniture and décor giving off the impression it hadn’t been updated in several decades — dark drapes, wood paneling, dingy carpet. It was a stark contrast to the expensive-looking place settings arranged in front of the four chairs at the table…place settings I recognized.
“Oh, there she is.” A familiar shrill voice tore through the strained silence.
I flung my eyes to the head of the table, watching as the woman I thought was my mother sauntered in from a swinging door that apparently led to the kitchen. My stomach rolled when I saw my father being pushed into the room by Bradley, much in the same manner as I’d been yanked in here by Brock. He was dressed in his “lucky suit”, as he called it — the navy blue pinstripe suit he wore during election night or important votes in the Senate. Despite how clean and pressed it was, it was in stark contrast to the welts and bruises marring his face.
“I’m so glad you could join our little victory party,” my mother finished with a smile. The truth hit me like a ton of bricks. She was behind this. She was behind all of it.
“Ellie,” my father breathed, relief and worry crossing his brow when his eyes fell on me. He attempted to step toward me, but was held back by Bradley. “You’re alive.”
“For now,” my mother sneered.
Brock placed a hand on my shoulder, forcing me into one of the chairs, just as Bradley did the same to my father. We sat across the table from one another, staring into each other’s eyes. I didn’t know what was going on, but a sinking feeling formed in the pit of my stomach that neither one of us would be walking out of this room.
“I remember,” I said to him in a low voice. “She was the angel I thought I dreamed about, the one who came at night.”
Tears trickled down his cheeks as he slowly nodded. “I should have told you years ago, Ellie.”
“But you didn’t,” my mother interjected, her voice smug. “And it’s a good thing. I imagine Merriweather wouldn’t have been happy if you did. And if there’s anyone you don’t want to upset, it’s Lucas Merriweather. Everyone knows that. Especially you, Francis.”
I blinked repeatedly as I listened to her words. How did I not consider the likelihood that Lucas Merriweather was the driving force behind the decades of secrets and lies? Yes, he was my father’s campaign manager and trusted advisor, but I’d heard the rumors about his knack for making any potential problems disappear. And I must have been a problem.
“It was you all along, wasn’t it?” My father shook his head, the vein in his neck throbbing. “When I walked in and saw the bewilderment in your eyes as you held Ellie the first time, I believed you. I honestly thought you weren’t given a choice, that this was all Merriweather’s doing.” He briefly closed his eyes. I could sense his frustration at not realizing the truth years ago. “I thought you were just a pawn in their game, too,” he sneered. “But you never were. This was all your idea from the beginning, wasn’t it?”
“Do you think I wanted to raise a baby? Do you think it was my idea that I be forced to stay at home and listen to her incessant crying? I did it because I didn’t have a choice. I thought if I played his game—”
“They’d finally take you seriously and back you for a potential run.”
Her silence was all the confirmation he needed.
“Then why are you doing this now, Marjorie? Don’t you realize he just used you, too?”
“Why?” She straightened her spine, snapping out of her thoughts. She appeared taken aback, like it was a ridiculous question, like it was completely normal to keep your husband and supposed daughter locked up. Her cold eyes narrowed and she gripped the edge of the table, leaning into him. “Because I’m done playing along. With Merriweather and with you, Francis. Because you don’t get to win anymore. I do. You don’t get to have everything that was supposed to be mine,” she continued, her voice becoming louder and more irate.
“You don’t get to go off to Washington and fall in love with someone else. You don’t get to have the job that should have been mine! Not yours! Mine! I was the one who went to my father and Merriweather about securing the party’s nomination for the open Senate seat. I was the one who developed a viable campaign platform. And what happened? They backed you for the nomination. And you won based on a platform I wrote! Me! Not you! Me! Everything you have should be mine!” She stepped back, drawing a deep breath as she smoothed the lines of her light pink suit. “Now your Senate seat finally will be.”
“Wait a minute!” Brock interjected. I flung my gaze to him. His brows were furrowed, his face turning red. He glowered at my mother with fiery eyes. “You told me if I helped, I’d be a shoo-in for his Senate seat and you’d run for my open seat in the House.”
A sly smile built on her lips as she sauntered toward him. “I know that’s what I said, but…I lied.” Before anyone could react, she pulled a gun out of the back of her skirt and pressed it against his chest, firing.
I shrieked, the sound of the gunshot filling the small space. A chill washed over me, my heartbeat pounding in my ears, spots seeming to o
bscure my vision as I watched Brock clutch his chest, the red of his blood in stark contrast to the white of his crisp shirt. I wanted to pinch myself to wake up from this dream, but I knew it wasn’t a dream. If it were, I wouldn’t smell the odor of metal, gunpowder, and death.
“Ellie,” my father breathed. “Don’t watch. Please. Look at me. I don’t want you to have to see this.” Tears streamed from his eyes. “I don’t want you to have to see any of this.”
My chin quivering, I turned my eyes back to my father, every sound in the room seemingly amplified. The floor creaked as my mother walked behind me. Her perfume wafted into my nostrils, making my stomach roll. She ran the barrel of the gun along my exposed shoulder blades, pausing. I winced, the hot barrel scalding my flesh. I took several deep breaths, my lungs constricted, keeping my gaze focused on my father. His own expression reddened, anger making the veins in his neck pop.
Finally, when I thought my father was about to jump out of his chair and wrap his hands around her throat, she stepped away, leisurely making her way back to the other side of the table.
“Well,” she began, her voice chipper, in stark contrast to the anger that filled it just minutes ago. “Now that that is taken care of, time to move on to the next order of business…” She shoved the gun back into her skirt, slowly walking around the table toward my father. “Tying up the other loose end.”
“Which is?” he asked, swallowing hard.
She placed her hands on the table as she leaned toward him. “Cynthia Edelman. Or, as you knew her so intimately, Lauren Hall.”
His expression remained unchanged. “She committed suicide in March, Marjorie.”
“You see, that’s what I thought, too. I must admit, I really believed she killed herself. We all did, including Lucas. Those autopsy photos you had the medical examiner fake were amazingly realistic. So imagine my surprise when the bug Bradley planted in Ellie’s car picked up her conversation with the investigator she’d hired to look into you.”
