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Well, here I am. Treading.
I’ve been treading since college. My senior year was when I knew I was more like my father than I realized. He was calculative and he hated mistakes. He also didn’t allow anyone to walk all over him and had raised me to be the same way. There was a reason he had a man like Boaz around. Boaz wasn’t just a bodyguard or security. He was much more. And not only did Winton Hart use him to handle situations, so did I.
I grew up a fat girl. I loved food. I loved sweets. I had a therapist once who told me I associate food with happiness, and this is true. There is one specific memory I love when I was twelve and my dad took an entire week off of work to spend it with me. I’d been complaining about the lack of father-daughter time to him for months, so he moved some things around on his schedule and made the effort.
And during that week, oh goodness, did we eat. He took me to Cape Cod where we soaked up some sun and rotated through new restaurants every morning and noon. Then we’d pop by a bakery, or an ice cream shop and he’d let me get whatever I wanted. I’d grab brownies, cookies, cakes, and the likes and I’d eat it all in our hotel room while watching Family Matters reruns. This, to me, was joy. But I didn’t realize then how loving something so much could ruin my life. I packed on the pounds. I looked puffy and swollen. I didn’t notice how much my weight played a factor until I was in high school and tried out for the cheerleading squad.
All throughout high school, I was bullied for my weight. And in college, I thought things would get better and that people wouldn’t care so much, but I was wrong.
There was a girl named Michelle Dawson. She was a cheerleader on campus, and she had a crew—three other girls who followed her around like abandoned puppies. Michelle would make snorting pig-like noses whenever I walked by, and she’d laugh and throw fries at me in the library when I studied. I was upset about her behavior—stressed, even. Daphne told me often not to worry about it, but I took it to heart. Even more so when I attended a party and my pants ripped when I bent over. One of Michelle’s friends took a picture and Michelle blasted it on one of the student forums. I was embarrassed, devasted, and I hated myself. I remember calling my dad and sobbing so he flew me to Texas for the weekend and Boaz dropped by.
Boaz had always frightened me. I wasn’t sure what it was about him, but he had a scary look that made you not want to even peek his way. He saw me sulking on one of the living room sofas as he passed by to meet my dad in another room. And while they chatted, it hit me that Boaz worked for us. He did unspeakable things for my dad. He cleared situations for us, and especially my mom. So, before he left, I caught him outside and asked if he’d take care of Michelle. I didn’t care how he did it, but I wanted him to teach her a lesson—to get her to stop messing with me.
Boaz didn’t ask for anything but her full name.
That following Wednesday, I didn’t realize the snorting noises and fries in my hair had come to an end until Daphne burst into our dorm and said, “Did you hear about Michelle?”
My heart immediately dropped because deep down I knew. I knew something bad had happened and it was Boaz. “What are you talking about? What happened to her?”
“She got hit by a car,” Daphne breathed. “Someone ran right into her.”
The breath dwindled in my lungs. And when Daphne left to take a shower, I couldn’t help the smile that swept across my lips.
Michelle lived. It was fine. She was still breathing and living life now, according to her Instagram, but she had to have one of her legs amputated due to the injuries. The police never did find out who hit her, and though I smiled with relief, I was still worried someone would find out I was the one who wanted her to get hurt, so I avoided Boaz as much as possible after that.
I wish I could say that was the last I’d have to worry about that bullying broad Michelle Dawson, but it’s not. Because even though I’d arranged for her to get off my back, she still went on with the last laugh and I’ve only just found out.
But it won’t last long.
SIXTY-ONE
DOMINIC
Dominic grips the steering wheel of his SUV as he stares at the dark cabin ahead of him. Something’s wrong. All of the lights are off inside. When he left over an hour ago, they were on, and now Boaz’s pickup truck is gone. Something doesn’t feel right. He can sense it in his gut.
The trees lurk over the house, the branches scraping the roof like talons. His pulse is in his ears as he reaches into the glove compartment and withdraws a black and silver handgun. Jolene said she was on the way. He isn’t sure if she’s left home already, but she cannot come to this cabin with Boaz and Shavonne inside it.
Pushing the car door open, he steps out and shuts it as quietly as he can. He’s parked close to the bushes west of the house and passes an unorderly thorny bush. He remembers when this particular bush was small, and he’d gotten himself tangled up in it after climbing a tree and falling. He had cuts on him for days. This was back when his mother was normal—when she’d tended to his scars with antiseptic, Band-Aids, and a homemade sweet tea.
Dominic walks along the footpath on the side of the house. He won’t enter from the front. If this is some kind of setup from Boaz, he’ll be prepared. He’s not sure why he ever trusted Boaz with any of this. Since the beginning, when he showed up at the door and took the body out, he had a bad feeling about it, but he was desperate and willing to do whatever it took to get Brynn’s body out of the way.
And speaking of Brynn, if she’s still alive, where is she? She must be in on this scheme with her friend. Perhaps she knows where he is. Maybe she’s already here. With that thought hammering in his mind, Dominic raises his gun and rounds the back of the house, and that’s when he spots a puddle of fresh blood.
“What the . . .” He draws in a breath and shakily releases it through parted lips. Something is definitely wrong. Did Boaz kill Shavonne? That wasn’t in the plans. He walks slowly to the door, careful to avoid the streaks of blood running toward it. When he’s facing the door, he grips the doorknob, and twists it open.
He’s inside, breathing in the stale, dank air, the stench of wet wood and mold. Blood is still on the floor, a long thick streak leading toward the main room. He should’ve burned the house down while Boaz and Shavonne were inside it and gotten rid of them. But that still left Brynn. She was out there somewhere, and he was sure she’d come for him. If he can find her and kill her for real this time, he can end this.
Dominic stands in the dark kitchen, peering around the front half of the cabin. Shavonne is no longer wrapped in the chair and there’s no sign of Boaz. His heart races when he notices the streak of blood disappears at the corner of the kitchen counter. Brynn might have come here already and saved Shavonne. She must’ve followed him here right after he took her and waited for the perfect time to strike. Or, as he assumes, Boaz is helping them? But why? For more money?
He takes a step forward and the floorboards creak beneath his weight. His eyes follow the bloody, smeared trail around the kitchen counter that carries to the sofa and fireplace. And that’s when he notices the body. The person is flat on their stomach, head turned at an odd angle. It only takes several seconds for Dominic to realize it’s Boaz. He rushes to him, bending down and grunting as he flips him over.
A sharp breath escapes him when he sees the blood all over Boaz’s shirt and his eyes wide open. The whites of his eyes are bright in the dark. Dominic scrambles away, landing flat on his ass as he stares at Boaz’s dead body. Whoever did this, they’re going to do it to him too.
It’s Brynn. It has to be Brynn.
He hurries to stand, ready to leave the cabin and escape the mess he’s created, but then he stops when he hears the floor creak. Footsteps come from the back of the house, and a familiar silhouette appears.
Jolene.
