Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
“Dr. Fairweather, what did you give my wife?”
“Nothing that would hurt her. I swear.”
I smile, then let him go. “Stand up.”
“I swear. It was nothing that would hurt her. I swear!”
“Hard of hearing, this one,” I say to Val who comes over, grabs Fairweather by the shoulders and pulls him up to his feet. He’s about my height, not quite my build and soft in the middle, but that’s not my problem. I draw my arm back and punch him in the gut. He wheezes, doubles over, stumbling backward and knocking the chair on its side.
“Sit,” I tell him as Val rights his chair.
He tries, I’ll give him that. I nod to Val who, with one hand on his shoulder, plants him back in the chair.
“What. Did. You. Give. My. Wife?”
“A… fer… fertility injection.”
My world goes sideways. My brain literally slams up against my skull and makes the world fucking tilt on its axis.
“Up,” I tell him, somehow managing to sound calm.
He shakes his head, holding his hands up in surrender but again, Val assists him, and I land a second hit to his gut. I call out his name and he looks up at me and when he does, I punch him. His head snaps back and again, he stumbles backward. This time, he falls on top of the chair, getting his legs tangled with it.
“Up.”
He stutters something as Val hauls him up, rights the chair, and sits him down.
“On whose order? Cummings or my mother?”
He opens his mouth, pushing a tooth out into the palm of his hand. He looks horrified, and I don’t mention that I haven’t gotten started yet. This one won’t get a line carved into my skin when I’m done with him. This one is guilty as hell.
I lean down, fist his hair, and tug his head backward. He whimpers, holds his hands up, tears streaming down his face.
“Please,” he begs.
“Cummings or my mother?” Because if Cummings ordered it, he’s a dead man.
He shakes his head. Well, he tries to. He blubbers and Val, ever helpful, walks over to the small, glass front refrigerator and brings him a bottle of water, even opening it for him. I let go of his hair and he drinks a sip, spilling some down his chin and shirt front.
I lean against his desk and watch the son of a bitch. “I’ll ask once more, then I’ll get down to business. Cummings or my mother?”
“Your mother. Cummings… He… I told him I was going to see the house. I’ve always loved that house.” He begins weeping, and it’s fucking pathetic. “Mrs. Augustine, she said… she said…” He shakes his head.
“How much did you get paid?”
At that, he stops his sobbing and looks up at me, real worry making him look older.
I raise my eyebrows. “I hate repeating myself.”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
I whistle. “Let me ask you something. Do you need that money? Because if I look around, you seem to be doing all right. Your house is nice enough. Is it the wife? Does she like expensive things?”
He just sobs like a pathetic coward.
“You don’t have kids. A sick sibling maybe? Older parents? Nothing I found when I looked into who you were. So why did you need that money?”
“I just… I’m sorry, Mr. Augustine. I’m sorry.”
“Tell me why you needed that money.”
“I… I…”
“You want me to tell you? Would that be easier? All right. It’s the same fucking thing everyone in this aptly named godforsaken town is obsessed with. You’re no different. That was my fault. I should have gone out of Avarice.”
“Please, I—”
I cut him off and continue, “Greed, Dr. Fairweather. Greed. That’s why you took the money, and you did something that will irrevocably change a young woman’s life.” I gesture to Val, who stands him up one more time. “A young woman I happen to care about. And so, now, you pay. And I’m going to extract every single cent of that ten grand and then some, you mother fucking bastard.”
28
MADELENA
It’s late when Santos finally gets home. I go to him as he and Val walk in. Val gives me a nod and disappears. Santos’s forehead is creased with worry, his eyes dark. But when I see the splatters of red on his shirt, I stop.
“Santos?”
He closes the space between us. I take his hands, ignore the brown paper bag he’s holding and look at his swollen, red knuckles, the blood on his cuffs.
“What happened? Where were you?”
“Come, Madelena.” He shifts a hand to my lower back in an effort to guide me toward the stairs.
“Why are you bloody?”
“Upstairs. Let’s go.”
I study his eyes, the green dark like a forest in shadows. I let him lead me upstairs. Once we’re in the bedroom and the door is closed, he takes my hands and looks at me with something I don’t see often in him. Something like remorse.