The Monster (Boston Belles 3)

I had a miscarriage after what went down between us yesterday. That was your plan, wasn’t it? To beat him out of me? Well, it worked.

I bled and bled and bled until I had to run to the hospital, where they told me I lost him.

I was five months pregnant, Gerald. Which meant I had to go through a still birth. Did you know I was three months sober? Had been since I found out we were pregnant.

I wanted to give this baby a new, fresh start. To raise Jacob and Samuel together, and give them the opportunity to fulfill their potential. To turn over a new leaf.

To atone for all my sins.

Now all of that is gone. I am back to square one, confused and lost as ever.

And you, of course, are still not answering. You got what you wanted. My complete destruction so I won’t be a threat to you anymore.

As I’m writing this to you, I’ve found the bag of crack you left at my doorstep. I know it was you who asked the drugs to be delivered. You always loved me more when I was high, even if it meant I wasn’t there for Sam.

Fuck Sam, right? If push comes to shove, we can always give him a little something to subdue him, too. That was your idea. To drug him so he would be quiet. So we could talk on the phone. Well, it stopped working once he was old enough to fight back, and we all know how that turned out. He’d almost bit my skin off the last time I tried to drug him.

Don’t worry, Gerald, I’ll take the drugs. I’ll fall down the rabbit hole. I’ll become a useless body, an empty container that’s only good for one thing—giving you pleasure.

And again, the cycle goes.

Drugs. Alcohol. Rehab. Rock bottom. Repeat.

This is all your fault, and if they ever take Sam away from me, I hope you know it’ll be on your conscience.

Forever not yours,

—Cat.

Gerald,

As I said on our phone call yesterday, I am not going to leave you alone until you pay me for my silence.

You made me miscarry our unborn son. The media is going to know who you really are and what you’re capable of unless you pay up.

And no, I am definitely not going to take your measly 50k and move away, especially as you and I both know that’ll mean having to leave Sam behind. No way am I going to be able to raise him on my own, and it’s not like Troy and Sparrow are going to let me take him away anyway.

300k will allow us a fresh start. A good rehab center. An apartment in a decent school district. Do the right thing, Gerald. I have people I know in California who could help me. Pay up and make this nightmare disappear.

With hate,

—Cat.

Gerald,

Fine. 150k it is.

When I pointed out 300k would mean I could take Sam with me, you laughed in my face and said the boy wasn’t your problem. It’s on you that I left my son behind, not me.

You have plans for him, don’t you? You said so yourself. Broken, impressionable men from the wrong side of the tracks make good soldiers. The rich thrive on the poor. Well, think again, because Troy Brennan took him under his wing, and if there is one person in Boston who is stronger than you, it’s Troy. I trust he would protect Sam from you, although I don’t entirely trust you not to get your claws on Sam anyway. Use him and drain him of anything good and worthy he possesses, like you did to me.

I don’t know how far 150k is going to get me, but I know it’s not going to be far enough away from you.

I will never forgive you.

For throwing me back into the arms of drugs.

For making me miscarry Jacob.

For making me leave Sam.

You are a monster, Gerald. And monsters are born to be slayed.

You tore my family apart, and one day, the same will be done to you.

Samuel has Troy now, and Troy is the one man you cannot push around.

For the last time,

—Cat.

I dropped the last of the letters on the floor, raking my fingers through my hair.

Apparently, Cat and Gerald had had an affair. Not only that, but that affair had resulted in a child. An unborn son named Jacob. Gerald objected to Jacob’s birth so badly that when he realized Cat was keeping him, he’d decided to beat him out of her.

He got her hooked back on drugs then paid her off to move away and leave me behind.

There were holes the size of the fucking White House in this story.

For one thing, the woman in the letters sounded nothing like Cat. Catalina was cynical, ill-tempered, and about as motherly as a studded dildo. Either she put on one hell of an Oscar-worthy act for Gerry Fitzpatrick or she really had been on the brink of changing. My bet was on the former.