Page 1 of The River of Hatred

Prologue – Jessica

Detroit, Four Years Ago

“They’ll be ready by Saturday,” I tell the smiling couple whose newborn baby just had her first photoshoot. She’s now sleeping like a, well, baby, as my satisfied customers thank me and shuffle out of my studio.

I’m in a good mood – babies and pets are my favorite models. I guess I just like cute things. I sing along to the Pink song playing on the radio while I turn off the lights in the backdrop area. The Bennets asked for a later shooting time since Mr. Bennet had to work the afternoon shift. Happy hour has come and gone and it’s dark outside, but I don’t mind. Most of my friends are busy these days, spending time with their significant others, a few even with their kids – some of my best customers – and I had just broken up with my latest disappointment of a boyfriend last week.

Well, I say broke up. What I really mean is that I found out he’s been sleeping with his secretary for months andIwas the other woman. How someone who has sex like he’s running a sprint and aiming to set a new record gets to string not one, but two women along like that is beyond me.

But anyway, I don’t have anywhere I need to be and no one is waiting for me. And after Owen, I’m not in a hurry to put myself back out there. I’ve been thinking about getting a dog, though. I just can’t decide if I want a nice cuddly Retriever or something spunky and protective like a Doberman. I could go crazy and get both. I wonder if they’d get along…

My train of thought is interrupted by the ringing of my phone. I look at my smartwatch and sigh. There’s only one person who would call me at this hour on a Friday evening. It’s like he waits for everyone else to be done calling their loved ones, so he’s alone in the room. I answer and put it on speaker, waiting for the spiel to end.

"This is a collect call from… Sterling Calloway… an inmate at the Federal Correctional Institution Milan. This call is subject to monitoring and recording. To accept, press one."

I tap the number one on my screen, having already pulled up the keypad. Years of practice – years my parents have spent in prison after defrauding millions from investors.

“Hi, pumpkin,” my dad’s voice fills my studio, just like his presence used to fill a boardroom. I take a second to thank the Fates or whatever gods were looking after me that I wasn’t interning at my parents’ company when they got arrested. They were mad at me for deviating from their plan and using the money Grandma left me to buy my own apartment and open a photography business. Once they got arrested and a brief investigation into me was over, the authorities found me not to be liable and I could move on with my life.

“Hi, Dad,” I reply without enthusiasm. I hate the generic nicknames he comes up with and I know why he’s calling. It’s been the same conversation for years now, ever since everything my parents owned got taken away from them half a decade ago.

“I haven’t heard from you for a while,” he continues despite my lukewarm greeting.

Yeah, since the last time you ran out of money,I think, but I let my silence speak for itself.

When I don’t reply, Dad chuckles awkwardly. “I was wondering if you might have something for your father. I’m sure you know how miserable the food here is.”

Yup. I’ve heard all about it. From you and from Mom.

I don’t think I’m a bad person. I just can’t help being fed up with this. My mom and dad have always treated me like an accessory to their reputation. I had to be the best at everything, turn into their carefully curated legacy. Once I rebelled and went on my own, they cut me off without mercy. It was only after they lost everything that the calls started. Though, Mom’s come less and less often. Maybe she roped some guard into doing her bidding.

I clear my suddenly narrowed throat. “I’ll send something to your commissary,” I promise. Before he can ask for more than last time, like he always does, I speak again: “Have you heard from Mom? How is she?”

Silence from the other side, then the sound of a heavy door closing, but nothing from the man who named me after his mother.

“Ah, no, I have not,” he finally says, speaking quieter than before. He doesn’t ask when I spoke with her last. Instead, he ends the conversation: “I have to go, pumpkin. Don’t forget to send those funds.”

He hangs up before I can get another word in and I’m left with a pit in my stomach, one that’s always there after one of these phone calls.

“Yeah, love you too, Dad,” I murmur.

My good mood now evaporated, I rush through the last of my closing routine, then lock the door behind me. I’m glad my apartment isn’t too far away and I don’t have to walk alone in the dark for long.

I’m just a couple of buildings away from mine when a dark shadow steps in front of me.

“Sorry,” I say with a giggle, even though they were the one stepping into my path and not the other way around. When I take a step back, I see they’re wearing a hooded cloak, combat boots peeking out from under the hem. Judging by the size of their shoulders, I’d say that it’s a man and not a woman under the heavy fabric.

Okay, creepy much?A shiver skitters down my spine.

I try to sidestep him and carry on, but his hand shoots out to wrap around my arm, stopping me in place. My heartbeat picks up and I get lightheaded. This is not the time for a panic attack.

“Don’t scream,” a sensual male voice sounds from the darkness under the hood. “I won’t hurt you. Come with me, everything will be explained.”

“N–no,” I stutter. I don’t want to have my kidney being taken away rationally explained to me, thank you very much.

“Sorry,pumpkin.” The way he says the nickname my father just used turns my stomach. Has he been watching me? “You don’t have a choice,” the stranger finishes with a finality.

With that, he wraps an arm around me and covers my mouth with a gloved hand. I kick and scream as he pulls me into the darkness away from the street lights, but it’s useless. He’s just too strong.

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