My husband had me locked in a windowless subterranean holding room beneath our Chicago estate, claiming I had suffered a severe psychotic break.
The thud of the fire axe handle against the electronic strike plate resonated through the concrete hallway. The heavy inner hallway door groaned, then swung open. Felix had done his part.
I moved through the opening, the axe still clutched in my hand, my leg irons clanking with every step. The emergency lights, dim and infrequent, cast long, shifting shadows.
Then I saw him. Julian Montgomery, sprinting towards the subterranean motor pool, his tailored suit rumpled. In his hand, a metallic briefcase, no doubt full of hard drives—his desperate attempt to erase evidence.
“Julian!” I shouted, my voice echoing.
He froze, spinning around. His eyes widened, a flicker of pure terror crossing his face as he saw me, axe in hand, no longer restrained. The image of the “madwoman” was replaced by a predator.
He turned to run, but I was faster. I leveraged the axe handle against the concrete floor, pushing myself forward. The heavy leg irons made it clumsy, but I slammed into him in the fuel-storage corridor, driving my shoulder into his back.
He stumbled, dropping the briefcase with a loud clatter. Hard drives spilled out, spinning across the floor.
“You really thought you could get away with it?” I spat, pressing him against the cold, metallic wall of a fuel tank. The smell of gasoline was heavy in the air.
His breath hitched. “Maya, please! You’re clearly still unwell! Let’s talk this through.”
His words, meant to gaslight me, sounded pathetic now.
I raised the encrypted receiver. The small screen glowed, displaying SMS message #114. I shoved it close to his face, making him read it.
It was sent from his number to Evelyn’s. The timestamp: yesterday, 2:14 PM. The message: “The pit in Gary is ready. She won’t feel a thing after the third dose.”
His eyes darted from the message to my face, then back again. All color drained from his cheeks. His carefully constructed facade shattered, leaving only raw, desperate fear.
“No, that’s… that’s a fabrication! A hack!” he stammered, trying to twist away. “My phone was stolen!”
“Don’t lie to me,” I snarled, pushing him harder against the fuel tank. “Not now. Not when you’re about to face the consequences.”
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