Page 62 of Imprisoned

How soon?

A cold sweat breaks across my forehead as I type.

Days. Not weeks.

I call Mom’s number, pressing the phone to my ear. She answers on the second ring.

“Sweetie! I was just thinking about you.”

“Mom, remember how you always wanted to see Brazil?” I keep my voice light and casual.

“Oh, the rainforest! And those beautiful beaches.” She sighs dreamily. “Why?”

“What if I told you I found amazing last-minute deals? Two weeks, all-inclusive.” I pull up the fake itinerary I’d prepared weeks ago. “You could leave tomorrow. The only rule is you have to leave behind all devices. You can take a simple phone with no mobile data, which I’ll get for you on the way home. Still, it’s an exclusive no-technology retreat,” I lie, knowing if she takes her cell phone or laptop, she’d be easily trackable once everything blows up.

“This weekend? But my garden?—”

“Please, Mom.” My voice cracks. “I need this. Work’s been... intense. And I want to spend time with you, just us. You will fly out two days before me, then I’ll join you once I finish Saturday morning.”

A pause. “Are you okay, honey? You sound strange.”

“I’m fine.” I swallow hard. “Better than fine. Life’s too short to keep putting things off, right?”

“Well...” She hesitates. “I suppose I could ask Sarah next door to water the plants.”

“Perfect. I’ll email you the details. Pack light, okay? We can shop there.”

After hanging up, I text Axel again.

My mom’s in. Bringing plans forward.

His reply chills me.

Good girl. Remember—no paper trail.

I open my laptop and move prison funds through the series of offshore accounts I’ve set up. Each transaction is carefully timed and carefully masked. The rehabilitation fund was just the beginning.

My hands are steady as I work, methodically checking off items from my mental list. The preparations for Mom have been the most challenging—and the biggest gamble. Last week, I contacted a discreet real estate agent specializing in quick, private sales. Mom’s house already has a buyer willing to wire the payment directly to one of my offshore accounts in exchange for a significant discount.

I’ve already transferred most of her savings to Brazil, leaving just enough in her accounts to avoid suspicion. I’ve arranged for a private charter flight that won’t appear in any database the FBI can access. Tickets were purchased with cash through an intermediary, and the flight plan was filed under a shell company.

Brazil is the perfect place to disappear and lie low. Until they stop looking.

I glance at Mom’s photo again. She’ll understand eventually. She has to. I’m gambling everything on her love for me—that when I explain when she sees how happy I am with Axel, she’ll forgive me for upending her life without warning.

I stare at my laptop screen, the glow casting shadows across my office. The transfer confirmations stare back at me, each one another nail in the coffin of my career. My life.

What am I doing?

My fingers freeze over the keyboard. The numbers blur as reality crashes over me like ice water. I’m stealing money. Planning an escape. Endangering my mother. All for a man who kills people.

Not just kills—tortures. The crime scene photos from his file flash through my mind. The cuts. The blood.

My stomach lurches. I grip the edge of my desk, trying to steady myself.

“He’s different with me,” I whisper to my empty office. But the words ring hollow.

Hadn’t every victim of a psychopath thought the same thing? That they were special? That they alone could see the real person beneath the monster?

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