Page 54 of Broken Surrender
This wasn’t how it should happen. I had to be careful. Waiting for the right time.
But all of them—John Dalton, even Kate—they would die.
“Let me into the room, Kate,” I said. She stumbled to her feet, punching in a code to the door. The pressure lock hissed. I ran to Corinne, swooping her in my arms. The bruises tainted her neck like jewelry. Saliva was crusted in the corners of her mouth.
Later, I told the research team that my sister had committed suicide, perhaps from a reaction to the medication they had tested on her. Then I waited a month to officially resign and take over Universal Medical Industries. I let time pass, hoping that they had forgotten us.
Then I showed up at Kate’s house.
She scratched her eyes. It was late.
“It’s been a while,” she said.
“You weren’t at the funeral.”
It had been a closed casket. It was easy to find a body once my men dug around the laboratory.
“I know,” Kate said. “I’m so sorry about what happened.” Tears welled up in her eyes, and I lowered my head, both of us pretending to be sorry. She threw her arms around me and I reluctantly hugged her, my blood simmering. “If I had known, I would have never—”
I tilted my head, and she stopped, reading my expression. Her facade dropped, her eyes cold. This was the real Kate. Calculating. Manipulative.
And I had let her in.
I glared down at her. “How many?”
“How many, what?”
I narrowed my eyes. “How many people used my sister?”
She laughed, then crossed her arms.
“No one ‘used’ your sister.” She rolled her eyes. “We were testing her. With your approval.”
I pulled the knife out of my pocket, flicking it open, then stepped closer to Kate. She gulped down a breath, stepping back quickly.
“Admit it,” I said. “They fucked my sister. They raped her. Abused her.”
“Desmond, I—”
“She was eleven years old.”
I whipped her around, holding her quivering body against me, putting the knife against her throat.
“Admit it, Kate,” I said. “This isn’t for helping other women. This is about making your brother money. For gaining power.” I slit her cheek, a thin, superficial cut, and she screamed. “I’m going to ask you one last time. How many were there?”
“Six,” she stammered. “My brother. Vaughn. Flores. Wilson. Thompson. Young.” I dropped the knife to the ground, then stepped back, letting her catch herself.
“Write their names. Their addresses. Everything about them.”
“And then you’ll let me go?” she whispered.
I smiled. “Sure.”
She scribbled on a piece of paper:Dalton. Vaughn. Flores. Wilson. Thompson. Young.
“That’s all six of them?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, her voice quiet. She stepped back, raising her hands in surrender. “All six. Right there.”
