Page 208 of The Perfect Wrong

My stomach churnsbefore I even click the link.

When I do, I have to cover my mouth, holding my breath as the whole world spins.

Chris’ face is front and center. It’s an old photo, along with a few other men I don’t recognize, a brief list of their pre-Enguard military ranks under their names.

My eyes jump the article, skimming but not understanding.

Details are scarce.

There’s just a few words about a hazy operation with Federal approval, a cartel, a statement from the security company by a man named Landon Strauss, vowing he’ll bring his men home.

“Oh, no. No, no, no, no.”

After that, I completely lose my voice.

The phone slips from my hand.

A few minutes ago, it would’ve been insanely hard, but I might’ve kept it together.

I had hope.

I had a cause.

I was ready to fight tooth and nail to stay with him, even if I had to skip the next semester.

Now, I feel the sky caving in, and with it goes any hope of ever reaching heaven.

How could I forget what those sick men in Vegas almost did to me?

What Chris implied they do to women, helpless girls, so many times?

What will they do to grown men who tried to serve them justice?

I can’t breathe.

Especially not when the doorbell rings, reverberating through the house, and I drag myself to the top of the stairs so I can listen in.

It looks like it takes all of Dad’s effort to keep standing while Evie rubs his shoulders.

A tall, older man who looks more like a movie star than any CEO—Strauss, I guess—tells them Chris is missing in action. Likely still alive in cartel hands.

Likely.

I barely stumble back to my room after a few more hurried words float up, crawling along the wall for support.

Maybe I really do need therapy.

For the first time in my life, I think I’m going crazy.

20

White Terror (Chris)

If I had a wish for every fracture in my body, I’d be king of the universe.

It’s dark.

So fucking dark, even if I’m sure my eyes are wide open.

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