Since I’d met her at the mental health clinic, I assumed she had demons. I just had no clue what I’d said to set them off.
But I would learn.
Watching her go inside, I drove home to plan my next step.
Because there would be one.
There was no other option.
Chapter Twelve
Escape
Him
I USED TO wonder if I was a psychopath.
Or maybe sociopath.
But I had enough experience with psychos to know I wasn’t like them. If there’d still been a doubt in my mind, my feelings for Briar made it clear I wasn’t cold and unemotional. I cared about her. I worried about her. I needed her to be happy.
I was obsessed with it.
And her.
I switched my focus to the night ahead as I drove to the rundown, by-the-hour motel. One with no security, no cameras, and no witnesses.
My favorite kind.
Parking around the corner, I waited.
I watched.
And, thanks to the lingering thoughts of my broken girl, I grew hard.
I’m a sick fuck.
When it was time, I got out and made the casual stroll to the last door of the motel strip. I positioned myself out of view of the peephole and used a gloved fist to softly knock.
It was overkill. He wouldn’t have the patience to pause to check.
I was right.
The door immediately flung open to reveal a man in his forties. Even stripped out of his suit jacket, his showy clothes screamed wealth. Old money and too much power wafted from him.
“Who’re you?” he asked, sweat beading on his forehead as his eager eyes darted around.
“Don’t you recognize me? I’m your date.”
It wasn’t a lie. I may not have been the girl he was expecting, but I was the one who’d arranged this little tête-à-tête.
His face paled. When he scanned the area again, I knew it wasn’t in search of the pretty young thing he was waiting for. He was looking for the flashing lights of a cop car or the rolling camera of a gotcha news special. Seeing neither, relief replaced his fear. “You’ve got the wrong room.”
When he tried to slam the door in my face, I blocked it with my foot. “Rude. What’s the problem?” I shoved the cheap wood, knocking him off balance as I let myself in. “Is it because I’m a man? Or because I’m twenty years older than you expected?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied, but the renewed panic in his tone said differently.
“Big, powerful Mr. Danielson doesn’t know something?”
The remaining color drained from his face as stark terror slackened his features.
“Isn’t that what you like little Madison to tell you? That you’re so strong. So powerful. That she needs you because everyone else in your life knows you’re worthless.”
“Shut up! I’m calling the cops.”
“Good idea, I’ll wait here. They’d probably love to talk to,” I lifted my fingers to count off each name, “Madison. Elli. Sofia. Nichole.”
Running a shaking hand down his face, he inhaled deeply. “What do you want?”
“I don’t want anything. I’m here for them.”
“They want money?”
I studied him, trying to understand his thought process. Since I wasn’t a pathetic piece of shit, I couldn’t shove my head that far up my own ass to see things from his point of view.
“You think they can put cash on their wounds and it’ll heal them?” I asked. “That it’ll restore the innocence you stole?”
“Enough money can do anything.”
That was true and exactly how men like Alfred Danielson came to be. Rich, bored men who needed bigger thrills to feel something. They thought the rules didn’t apply to them.
And they were right.
Wealth allowed them to simply buy and sell their way out of the consequences of their actions.
“I’m not admitting a single thing.” He pulled out his wallet. “But to avoid the hassle and bad press, I’ll cut you a check right now if everyone drops these ludicrous fabrications.”
“They don’t want a check. They want all of it,” I lied.
They didn’t ask for any of his money, but I was going to make sure they got it.
It was the very least he could do.
“All?” he cried through a laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding. No. They have no proof of anything because there is nothing. I was willing to be generous to spare these troubled people, but that’s just insane.”
Pulling my cell from my pocket, I turned it so he could see the screen. “And there are more.”
“Who else has seen that?”
“No one… yet.” I took out an index card and handed it to him. “You need to wire everything in your accounts to those numbers. Every last cent from every last account.”
“No, I…” His words trailed off as I zoomed in on the picture. “Fine.”
Sweating and shifty, he worked his way through the list before sitting back. “Done. Now delete everything.”
I chuckled, but there was no humor in the cruel, cold sound. “You didn’t keep your end of the bargain.”
Not that it would’ve mattered.
“I did. Check my accounts,” he blustered.
“I said from every account.” I shrugged. “It’s too late anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“Silence can only be bought for so long.” I checked my watch. “And since you decided keeping the money from your offshore accounts was more important, your time just… ran… out.”
Perfectly timed—because I was just that good and meticulous—his phone dinged. And dinged again. And again.
Grabbing it off the chipped side table, he swiped across the screen.
These are the times I wish I wore a hidden camera.
In slow motion, I savored the way his nervous fear morphed into horror.
I knew what he was seeing.
Screenshot after obscene screenshot after nauseating dick pic.
“How… How did you get all these…” he choked out.
“Victims seek help. Healing. And sharing their trauma is part of the process.”
“I’ll say I was hacked. That this is fake. Photoshop is capable of anything. Like that deepfake shit. It’s the work of an enemy out to get me. I’ll make it go away.”
I, I, I.
“This is your fault, you son of a bitch. You’ve ruined my life. You did this
