Page 87 of Dirty Little Secrets
I send another message to Tony. This request might be a bit more complex than breaking into a multimillion-dollar security system. I know my routing numbers. I’ve managed Mr. Kenneth’s books for five years. I know when something is offshore. But I need a name. A full name. The name of the account holder.
They reply back.
This one will cost you. Bitcoin. 2 grand. Once I get your payment, I’ll get to work. Seven days max. Maybe sooner.
They send me their crypto wallet account number, and I stare at it. What the fuck am I doing? Jesus, this is all so illegal. In the last ten minutes I’ve committed so many federal offenses, I could be jailed for decades. Prison. I could go to fucking prison. And for what? For the truth? So I can see if Damon lied to me? To verify what I already know? I’ve lost it. I’ve… I’ve lost it.
And I continue losing it as I transfer two thousand dollars worth of Bitcoin to Tony’s account. I feel like I’m on autopilot. Like I’m in zero control of my actions. This isn’t logical. This isn’t rational. This isn’t something I would ever have done. It’s him. This is his fault. He’s making me act unhinged.
Got it. I’ll message you when I find something. Talk soon, Emery Jones. And stop frowning so much. Your secret is safe with me.
Another message pops up, and I gasp.
Smile for the camera, bella.
My heart batters against my ribs as I look up at the webcam attached to the top of my monitor and tilt my head. No… Are they…? I frantically reach for the camera cord and unplug it. Another text.
You’re no fun.
I send a message.
How do you know my name?
They reply.
It’s always important to know the people you get into bed with, no? Ciao for now.
Panic washes over me. This was a horrible mistake. Oh, God, I fucked up. What was I thinking? Placing a hand over my chest, I take several deep breaths, hoping to calm myself down. Who am I? Who does this?Nosy bitch.Why? This is bad. This is?—
I gasp as my cell phone rings, physically jolting in my seat. With a shaky hand, I flip over my phone, wincing before reading the caller ID.Quinton. My shoulders relax. Not the FBI. It’s fine. I’m fine. Clearing my throat, I answer.
“Hello?”
“Why are you whispering, darling?” he asks, cheeky. “Is the warden present?”
Was I whispering? “No,” I say louder, more confident. “He’s not. I’m in my office. Alone.”
“Mmm,” he hums. “I see. Well, how are you?”
I swallow. “Fine. You?”
“No, little Emery,how are you?” he asks again, emphasizing each word. “How are you feeling?”
Anxious? Worried? Scared? Those are all honest answers. But he’s not asking about what just unfolded. He’s asking about my appointment. My health. It’s funny. I suppose the answer is the same for both.
“No news is good news, right?” I sigh. “My cardiologist hasn’t reached out, so I assume I’m not in anyimmediatedanger of dropping dead.”
“That’s not very funny, darling,” he says, tone low and strained.
“I wasn’t trying to be funny,” I say with a shrug. “There’s a high probability that I could form a blood clot any moment. That clot could travel up to my brain. I could have a stroke, and I could die. It’s a fact, Quin. Can’t be mad at facts.”
“True,” he hums. “But you could also live. Have you thought of that?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re a doctor. I’m sure you know that the stats aren’t really in my favor.”
“Iama doctor,” he says, “and I know for a fact that a positive mindset has just as much an effect on a patient’s diagnosis as any drug or treatment.”
“If positive thinking is all it took,DoctorMarquis,” I jeer, “you’d be out of business in a day. You make money off false hope, and I don’t want to buy it.”
