Page 45 of Dead Man's Wish
Nicky and Brent, August 17th.
“Andy, what’s today’s date?”
“Technically, it’s the eighteenth, sir. Reports will note that Bexley disappeared on the seventeenth however.”
“Last night. It’s an anniversary. That’s what Bexley’s dates were about on the notepad. She pulled everything related to various years on the seventeenth.” Dread filled me. My hands shook as I demanded them to turn the photo over. Fear gripped me over what I could potentially see.
Stunned into silence, I felt Andy lean around me to look.
“Andy, we need to go. Immediately.”
Twenty-One
August 18, 2025
Bexley Wells
The darkness throbbedand prodded at my unconsciousness. Something was wrong, very wrong. Trauma lived in my marrow, and all signals fired and told me we’d been here before. Determined to not have it end that way, I clawed at the faintest feelings of awareness. I latched onto the early morning songs of birds and focused on that soft pastel sunrise. It felt like drowning and treading water to reach the surface. I was going to wake up. I had no choice.
A soft glow scattered around my feet. Nothing was distinguishable, my vision hazy, and my eyelids felt so heavy. It’d be too easily to give in and go back to sleep. A nagging voice desperately tried to convince me that it would be fine—nothing could happen to us if we were asleep.
But she was a weak bitch. I wasn’t built to back down and give in. That determination and headstrong mindset rocked my childhood world—a mother who didn’t know how to control a rebellious daughter, a society that wasn’t equipped to handle women who fought against mindless subordination.
No, I wasn’t giving in.
I’d dish out my own hell and walk away.
My blurred vision started to subside. Shapes took on a more defined form and I determined, at the very least, I was in someone’s home—a living room by the layout. Thudding footsteps echoed from my right. A blob of dark fabric stepped through the open doorway. I gritted my teeth, willing my vision to return so I could see the fucker who dared to do this to me. A hand gripped my jaw. Slim, cold fingers dug into the flesh of my cheeks and held my face steady. They leaned in, graciously helping me see their face clearly. The clarity didn’t come without vertigo and echoing. One person overlayed the other until I pulled them into focus.
“Nicky.” My whispered accusation caused the blurred, pale face to pull a grin, a wicked sight. With that, my head was thrown back, and the footsteps retreated. The motion rocked the fog and my mind swam. My head felt like it weighed tons as I pulled my chin down. I closed my eyes, telling myself I was fine. It was worse than a case of spins after a night of drinking. I used the short moment of solitude to assess my predicament.
My hands were bound behind a wooden chair. They were free to swing, and my feet were as well. I wasn’t entirely stuck. I flexed my wrists. The binding was corded rope. Not the best, not the worst, but it was doable. There was hope in every small crevice I inspected. The more I twisted, the more it rubbed and burned my skin. I didn’t care. Raw wrists were favorable to my death. I worked them more, over and under until I felt the knot give enough slack that my arms lifted from the sides.
Allowed that space, I scooted my ass to the back and pulled my feet onto the stabilizing bar between the chair legs. Pushing slightly, I worked my way into a squatting position and slid myself off the chair.
Nicky is an incompetent twat.
After freeing my arms, I sat back down and pulled my bound wrists under my ass and over my legs. My vision cleared and the room came into focus. A tattered couch was pushed against the wall to my right with an older, Victorian-style coffee table in the center. It wasn’t a real antique though; the craftsmanship was shoddy and the intricate carvings looked rudimentary, likely a project from whoever owned the place. Looking behind me, I saw an unlit fireplace with brickwork occupied the middle and windows that were painted shut framed it. A bookcase occupied the other wall, and everything else was barren.
A creak in the floorboards came from the same doorway Nicky walked through earlier. No footsteps preceded it. My attention went to the sound, but a fist sailed into my cheekbone before I fully looked up. It was a weak throw with hardly any follow-through. I’d been hit harder on accident in training sessions with my instructor. The taste of copper trickled across my tongue, but it wasn’t enough to have knocked me out of the chair. I spit the bloody saliva onto the floor and looked up at the bitch who sucker punched me.
“Peters?” The scraggly dumbass stood in front of me with a smug ass expression twisted on his features. Only, I saw the underlying fear that traced his brow. He lacked confidence in all areas of his life, which was also why he was a shitty lawyer. Confidence could win you a case, and in Peters’s professional history, that was a rarity.
“Surprised . . . What is it he calls you?” His finger tapped his chin in mock thought. “Little Swallow.” He looked back at me with a psychotic grin and glint in his beady eyes and leaned in closer. Peters might have lacked a general sense of confidence, but his cockiness was on par with his psychopathy.
I threw my head forward, connecting with his nose and hearing the satisfying crunch of bone and broken cartilage. He wailed like the bitch he truly was as blood poured in strong rivulets down his mouth and chin. I stood then, ready to unleash the cunt he’d underestimated since day one.
“That’s not for you to call me.” I squared my shoulders and braced for his next failure.
“Youbitch!” His screamed insult lit a fire of satisfaction in my veins.
“That’s acceptable.” I grinned back at him, and the scrunch of his brow told me he saw the darkness behind my usual charm. It wasn’t always there but, at the very least, the potential that everyone possessed was. My darkness was nurtured by the trauma of Brent and being forced into a situation few would experience. I welcomed it again and without hesitation. The twist of his face rocked the wound, and he doubled over in pain. Blood dripped onto the hardwood floors rather than his black shirt.
I stepped forward. In this situation, despite the unskilled moron before me, surprise and aggression would be the only key to my survival. I swung my foot into his jaw. I didn’t hit that sweet button to knock his ass out, though, because I wanted to have some vengeful fun.
“You know, Peters, I enjoy my job a little too much when it comes to whittling down men like you to absolutely nothing using your own psychology. But let me tell you,” I taunted, swinging another kick into his ribs, “kicking your bitch asses is far more enjoyable.”
Peters lunged from his crouched position on the floor. His hand slipped in the pooled blood, so he lost momentum, and I side-stepped the weak, uncoordinated attack. He fumbled as a result, planting his hands onto the hardwood again. I raised my bound fists, throwing them down with everything I had onto the back of his neck. The force stunned his system and he dropped to the floor in a daze. Not knowing when to give up, he tried to push himself up again.
