Page 8 of Wanted 3

"You little bitch. You don't know anything."

"I know Don won't be helping you anymore." I was careful to choose my words so they couldn't be used against me.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked.

I laughed again. "You're in over your head, old man. Give it up and go back to your bottle."

And with that I hung up, euphoric and full of my own venom. I would not be knocked down by small weak men again.

In fact, it was time to end this. I needed to get dirt on my dad so I could gain legal custody of Jeremy once and for all. Then, when I had Jeremy, we would finally be free.

I found a pen and paper and quickly scrawled a note to Vlad, then went upstairs to check on Jeremy. He was still tucked into bed, his fireplace burning bright. He and Leonard must have been up all night playing the board game. I kissed his head and left.

I went to Don's house first. I needed to see… what I wasn't sure, but I just needed the closure, I guess. And besides, if he had any kind of blackmail evidence against me, like the kind he’d claimed he’d had, I supposed I should get my hands on it first.

And wasn’t there that bog troll who’d been trapped in that room with me? Was he still locked up?

I parked my car and walked to the front door. Just what would I see inside? Evidence of his final minutes? I tried the knob, my palms slick with sweat. The door swung open easily, and steeling myself, I stepped inside.

The living room looked perfectly ordinary, a sagging brown plaid couch, empty containers of cheap takeout, buzzing flies. A mess, but Don’s usual mess. Not a drop of blood to be found. Vlad must have taken him somewhere else for the actual beheading.

I expanded my search of the house but found nothing unusual. Then, I paused at the final door, the room where Don had held me prisoner. Where he drugged me.

Panic swelled, but I pushed it down, clinging to the memory of his head rolling on the kitchen floor. He was dead. He couldn't hurt me anymore.

The room was even a worse mess than the rest of the house, and there were iron shackles secured to a brick wall, but the troll was gone. Had someone rescued him? Maybe, he’d managed to escape on his own.

Suddenly, I was eager to get out of that house, but I had one thing left to do first. I went back to Don's bedroom, to the safe I knew he had there. I'd watched him open it once, memorizing the code, which I used now.

And within I found what I wanted. I pushed aside the cash and grabbed the camera. I quickly scanned the pictures and videos, rage growing in me as image after image reminded me of what he'd done to me, until finally, I couldn’t look anymore.

At least I had everything now. The question was, had he sent the material to my father yet? My gut said he hadn't. This wasn't a cell phone. He’d have had to download and send them, and last night, he’d been pretty busy losing his head.

Camera in hand, I darted out of Don’s house and made a beeline to my car.

The next stop would be harder: home. But after looking at Don’s pics, I needed a defense, and that meant it was time to collect dirt on dear ol’ dad. At the very least, proof of his excessive alcoholism would help my case.

I parked around the block so he wouldn’t see my car and walked the rest of the way home, sticking to the shadows to avoid detection.

Keeping my phone camera ready, I crept around the side of the house to the backyard and my bedroom window. It was the easiest way to sneak in and out. As quietly as I could, I pried the window open and crawled through.

Once inside, I held my breath and listened to the house. It was silent. Relieved, I crept to the hallway, on the alert for any indication that my father was home, but he wasn’t. So much for getting a shot of him passed out in an alcoholic stupor. Disappointed, I decided to focus on looking for evidence Don had, in fact, sent him the blackmail photos.

My father kept an old computer in his bedroom, it was an ancient machine, one with a monitor nearly the size of a mini fridge. Even then, it was hard to find, half buried by six-packs of Bud Light and criminal case files. He liked to pretend he was still relevant to the force, but my words hadn't been too far off target. There’d been rumors about him even when he was still on active duty. He was never as respected as he fancied himself to be. His god-like status in the community was largely a product of his own mind.

The computer came to life slowly, and it wasn't even password protected. I checked all the desktop files and found nothing but questionable porn. I opened his search engine and looked at his history. More porn. Some news sites. And Yahoo. A quick search of his email showed Don’s email address at the top of his inbox. They’d been in contact quite a bit. After scanning the first few messages, it was clear my father was working with him. One even blatantly spelled out their plan. God, they were both idiots. I snapped pictures of the emails, then forwarded them to myself and deleted the forward.

I didn't find any of the pictures Don took, though there was an outgoing email from my dad asking about them. Reading it left no doubt: he desperately wanted to get rid of me.

I knew I shouldn't be bothered by that. After all, he was an asshole of the highest order, but still, my gut wrenched at the evidence of just how expendable he considered me.

Swiping at a traitorous tear, I hardened myself against my childhood emotions. I was a goddamn woman who didn't need Daddy. Particularly nothistype of daddy-figure.

I wouldn’t let him control me. No. I would end his terror on our family, once and for all.

I jammed the power switch on his computer and just as I prepared to leave, I heard the front door open.

In a panic, I climbed over his bed and skittered into his closet. With the doors off their tracks, I couldn’t close them, so I hid behind an old musty ironing board instead and held my breath, staying as still as possible.

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