Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 41105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 206(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 206(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
“Sir, please…”
“If I hadn’t caught on to what you did, they could’ve followed her to New York. They could’ve found my daughter.”
“Daughter?”
“There were condoms in the trunk.” I grit my teeth. “Duct tape. Weapons. Rope… They lied to you like you lied to me.”
It takes everything in me not to snap his neck on the spot.
“How much did they pay you for the intel? Was it more than the money you stole from me?” I step closer. His mouth moves, but no words fall.
“Tick-tock, Austin. The longer you stall, the worse this ends.”
“Five hundred thousand.”
“I would’ve given you that.”
“I’ll work it all back for the rest of my life to show you how sorry I really am… Please just let me go.”
“Come again?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Please let me go,” he pleads. “I won’t tell Rush Banks anything else, and I’ll never contact him again.”
“Cross your heart and hope to die?”
“I swear.”
“Well, since you’ve presented me with such an amazing offer, I guess I have no choice but to agree to your terms.”
My men shoot me a confused look.
“Let’s go,” I say, motioning to the door. “You heard what the man said.”
“Sir, he stole—”
“I know that.” I check my watch. “And since he insists on being let go—meaning, us leaving him here, we’ll do that. Until he crosses my mind again, which—given how I treat betrayal—could be six months. Or never.”
“No, wait.” Austin’s eyes widen. “That wasn’t what I meant.”
“Has to be,” I say. “You can’t be stupid enough to think I’d let you out of here alive.”
“I didn’t spend a dime of your money, and I didn’t know you had a daughter. If I did, I would’ve never…”
I walk away amid his failed pleas and they lock the warehouse behind me.
“Does he have any family or friends who may ask questions?” I ask.
“An ex-girlfriend he owes money to.”
“Remind me of that three months from now when we return,” I say. “Give me the key.”
“Wait…” One of my men hesitates. “We’re just going to leave him in there?”
“Is someone asking me a question?” I turn to look at the man who asked it, certain I’m mishearing things.
“I, uh…” He swallows. “No, I just wanted clarification on whether we were leaving him or if we needed to do something else.”
I glance at Chester, confused.
“He didn’t mean to ask you anything,” Chester says. “It’s his first day at this new promoted position.”
“It’ll be his last if he thinks about asking another one.” I narrow my eyes at the guy. “Give me the fucking key.”
He obliges, and I run my finger along its edge. Then I toss it over the bridge.
“Nine days from now, call 9-1-1 about his body,” I say.
A chorus of “Yes, sir” follows, and I wait for them to return to their cars—to get away from me and Chester.
“Your father would be extremely proud of you,” he says. “Actually, he might also be quite terrified of you if he were here.”
“Is that a good or a bad thing?”
“It’s both.” He checks his watch. “If you’re going to handle the rest of your list, there’s a window tomorrow—but it depends.”
“On what?”
“How serious you are about giving Miss Jane a full two weeks off.”
“I’m still considering it.”
“Well, you might want to speed up that process because she might be out of your reach by then.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Check your phone.”
I pull it out and unlock the screen, seeing a new alert glowing.
One-way flight confirmation: Autumn Jane.
For this Friday.
End of Episode 11
The Train Never Leaves The Station
EPISODE 12
Autumn
The spa air is thick with lavender and eucalyptus, steeping the room in heat and silence. Tucked into the hills, this suite feels worlds away from Ryde and his men, from the chaos still pulsing in my head.
I let the tension drain from my limbs, but the literal weight on my chest stays right where it is. The binder Kylie gave me.
I lift it again—this time, I force myself to flip through the pages.
The first few pages are littered with lists of addresses and coordinates in tiny print. By the fifth page, I realize these are all residences and businesses suspected to belong to Ryder. In the margins, there are scrawled notes—LLCs, cryptic names of people I know I’ll never meet.
I flip again.
A new tab catches my breath: Suspected Involvement in Mass Murder. I brace myself for details about the mansion fire, but instead I’m hit with something far stranger.
Sixteen faces.
They all bear his stunning blue eyes. His jawline. His impossible calm.
They have to be his family…
On the next page, the same faces appear again—this time arranged neatly, with birthdates and death dates listed beside them. There are no names, but one thing unites them all: the same date of death.
There’s no listed cause.
I stare at the page, heart thudding. Why didn’t he die with them? Why was he spared when no one else was?