That stroll down memory lane makes me pissed, which should be a good thing since I need a little energy boost for the fight. But pissed leads me only one direction, and that’s Priscilla’s. All I want to do now is smash my own reflection in the mirror.
My fist curls, and I come so close to doing just that, I have to go sit on the bench beside the shower and start taping up my hands. A shrink once explained to me the concept of mindfulness. It’s been useful before, and I try it now—paying attention to the stickiness of the sports tape. To the shape of my fingers as I wrap each one. I even give some thought to the scalding pain on my back, telling myself it hurts like hell, but I’m not dead or anything. Just keep breathing.
And I do.
But with every breath, I want to punch that fucking mirror.
How could I be so stupid?
How could I let her get so close?
Even before I thought I was being set up to take the fall for—for whatever the fuck is going on, I knew she was trying to blackmail me for sex. Why did I ever go along with it?
You know why.
Rita’s face follows me as I pace.
I check the clock on the counter: twenty minutes till show time. I inhale deeply, and I remember Marchant’s reaction after the gala the other night, when I first told him Priscilla and Lockwood were trying to frame me. I remember the pity. He knows how much I loathe her, and he has to know there must be something more to my fucking her. Something sick and twisted.
And he’s right—he just has no idea about the details.
I start jumping jacks. It’s mundane and makes me dizzy from the horrible pain in my back, but it clears my head out for a minute. When I feel like I’m going to fall over, I return to the bench beside the shower. I close my eyes and try to be still.
I wonder for the dozenth time about motive. Why me? And how far back does this shit go? Did Priscilla find out about my mother and decide in advance that I would be the perfect man to take the fall for kidnapping an escort? Is that why she told Marchant she wanted me there that night while they were filming?
Did Sarabelle get snatched simply because she was with me? Or was it just chance? Did Priscilla drug me out of spite, because I’d chosen Sarabelle over her, and Lockwood went for Sarabelle out of simple opportunism? Maybe that’s why Priscilla fired him. He snatched Sarabelle, and when he did, he dragged Priscilla into it with him.
I think about the governor’s mistress going missing a year and a half ago, right before he started fucking Priscilla. Right around the time Lockwood stopped working security for him and started doing cameras for Priscilla. I wonder how likely it is that Lockwood kidnapped her and disposed of her for the governor. Maybe that’s how he got his taste for kidnapping.
I feel sick, because Sarabelle is alive somewhere, being forced into God knows what. I want to go get her right now. And tonight in this fight, I want to bathe in Michael Lockwood’s blood.
I slide thin gloves over my taped knuckles and remind myself that I can’t. First, because the sight of blood makes me sick. But more importantly, because he could be our only route to Sarabelle.
Ted Burts and Roberto are scouring San Luis at this very moment—starting with MIGHTY’S bar, the only lead we really have—and Julie and Dave are with Lay1a visiting Priscilla and Lockwood’s homes while they’re out. We think we’re close.
I’ve decided we’ve got three days more. Three more days to find Sarabelle or I’m going to the FBI myself. Priscilla can say whatever she wants.
I stare at myself in the mirror again, hoping I won’t have to take that risk. Just the thought of it has me vibrating with rage. I check the clock. Marchant will be here in two minutes. I inhale deeply, trying to find the chill zone before we have to walk upstairs.
There’s not enough time. I swing at the mirror, shattering it—and maybe my knuckles—in one mighty punch that sends glass raining all around me. The pain in my fist is good, blazing like fire.
I let myself drink it up. Inhale it. I take it inside and turn it into fuel.
I don’t have time to clean this mess, so I meet March outside in the hall. He’s got an envelope containing the name of my match-up: Lockwood.
Elizabeth
THE JOSEPH CLUB is like nothing I’ve ever seen. As far as arenas go, it’s fairly ordinary. The yellow circus-tent exterior, with its sparkling, blood-red sign and showgirl ticket-punchers remind me we’re in Vegas, but it’s the crowd inside that widens my eyes and makes my palms sweat.