“I would be more than happy to do that, but…” His voice trails off and he lets out a sigh. “Your wife never made it here, sir.”
“Come again?”
“She never came. I called the driver and the resort you mentioned that she would be checking into when she arrived,” he said. “I don’t think she ever got across the lazy river, sir.”
“Are you sure?” My blood runs cold. “Can you double check?”
“I’ve triple checked. I’m five hundred percent sure, sir.”
I end the call and immediately charter a flight.
Fuck.
Meredith
Now
NYPD Crime Watch Tip Submission Form
I would like to report a malicious murder for hire plot that involves my soon to be ex-husband, Michael Anderson (owner of the Fahrenheit 900 Club) and Leonardo Thatchwood, billionaire CEO, i.e., my father.
My father hired the former to murder me, but Mr. Anderson took it upon himself to hold me captive, in an isolated house, for what he claimed was my “best interest.” He lied to the media and reporters, along with Mr. Thatchwood, and I would like the truth to come to the light A-fucking-SAP.
Although I am clearly still alive and in another country, I seem to have misplaced my passport, so I’m unable to return to the United States of America at this time.
I truly believe that both of these men belong in prison, and I am willing to testify at both of their trials.
I have a prepaid phone and a number where I can be reached once you receive this tip.
Sincerely,
Meredith A. Thatchwood
555-786-5019
I stare at my words on the submission form, waiting for the alcohol that’s currently coursing through my veins to give me the courage to hit send. This is the seventh day in a row that I’ve come into the resort’s computer lab and typed these same words.
My incessant stalling is due to the fact that my mind and my heart are playing on opposite sides of the field: Emotions on offense, thoughts on defense. And every night, when the tears soak my pillow, I suffer through a never-ending tug of war between the two. There’s never a clear-cut winner; no referee to be found.
To make matters worse, I still wake up from time to time, in the middle of the night, and rub my clit to the thoughts of Michael’s face, unable to ever think of another man who can dominate me in the bedroom like he does. Whenever I’m on the edge of an orgasm, I can’t help but think about the way his mouth always knew the right way to pleasure me for hours. The way he filled me with his cock and owned my body with every stroke.
Stay focused, Meredith. Stay focused on the goddamn crime report and hit send…
My finger hovers over the return key, but my heart steps in for an unexpected block. It still beats a different tempo for Michael, still doesn’t understand how I could ever lump him into the same category with my father.
Sighing, I lean back and open a new browsing tab for YouTube, typing the words, “Initial Police Presser for Meredith Thatchwood.”
Not a day has gone by that I haven’t watched and re-watched all of my father’s press conferences about my disappearance, wondering why the hell no one has nominated him for a real-life Academy Award. I’ve tried posting anonymous threads on their public tip site to report what he’s done, and they’ve finally blocked my fake email address after sending me twenty of their standard “Submitting false reports to the police department can be considered a crime,” in return, every time.
For whatever reason, I can’t bring myself to call anyone—not even Gillian, but it’s not by choice. Anytime I even think about using the phone in my suite, I remember the short, curt note that Michael stuffed at the bottom of my duffle bag.
Meredith,
It’s in your best interest that you follow my instructions.
Do not make any phone calls while you’re in Mexico.
Do not talk to anyone while you’re in Mexico.
Do not fucking trust anyone.
You’re welcome for saving your life.
–M
Shaking my head, I delete my words from the Crime Submission form and log out of the computer. My heart wins this round again, but I know logic will have its chance sooner or later.
I make my way to the resort’s luxury bar/gift shop and make a mental note to grab one of the “I love Mexico” vibrators that I’ve been eyeing for the past few weeks.
“Welcome to the Agua Bar.” A man in all white steps in front of me. He hands me a menu as I take a seat at a booth.
“Tell me whatever you want when you’re ready,” he says, setting a bright pink margarita in front of me. “This one is on me.”
“No, it’s on me.” A guy in a black polo shirt and inked sleeves suddenly takes a seat next to me. “You mind if I join you?”