Page 55 of Protected from Torment

Just as I get to her desk, the elevator dings again. The doors open, and Indy and Webb rush out. As soon as they see the six cops behind me, they pull to an abrupt stop. “Shit,” Webb mutters. “I’d better call Rafe.”

“Someone,” I tell them, “framed Melissa. For a terrorist act.” I shoot Jordan a furious glare. “Making fraudulent calls to the police is a crime,” I inform her. “So is planting evidence.”

As I look at her guilty expression, the rest of the puzzle pieces fit together. “I bet you had something to do with the flat tires. And the missing files. And the damn druggie who beat the shit out of Melissa.”

By the end of it, my face is hot and I’m close to shouting. “Why?” I demand. “Why would you do that to her?”

I can tell she’s debating whether to deny it. But a beat later, her face crumbles, and she bleats, “It wasn’t just me! Michelle’s the one who posted about the drugs! And Julie’s the one who came up with the game to start with.”

“Jordan!” The older receptionist looks aghast. “You’re not supposed to tell. You promised!”

“What, so I can go to jail and while you get off scot-free, Michelle?” Then Jordan glares at a blonde sitting at a desk on the other side of the room. “And Julie. You’re the one who picked Melissa as a target. You’re as much a part of this as we are!”

Julie’s face goes beet red. “I didn’t send a druggie after her! Or plant a gun in her desk!”

“You said we needed to end the game,” Jordan snaps. “Step it up, you said. This is taking too long.”

Fed up with their bullshit, I order, “Stop arguing. Now.”

“What game are you talking about?” the White Plains officer asks. “And what drugs?”

“Don’t say anything!” Michelle calls out. “You don’t⁠—”

“Shut up, Michelle!” Jordan snaps. “I’m not taking the blame for all of this! If I’m going down, I’m not doing it alone.”

“Then I suggest you start talking,” Officer Stockwell says coldly. “I want to know about this game. And why you planted a loaded gun in this woman’s desk.”

So she does. And the longer she talks, the angrier I get.

Because everything that happened to Melissa—starting with the small pranks, then escalating to the setup with the drugs and the call to the police—was all a part of an elaborate game intended to mess with people the women deemed weaker than them.

Apparently, it all started a year ago when Jordan, Michelle, and Julie were at happy hour, bitching about one of their coworkers they didn’t like. Jordan was pissed that the coworker had just gotten a promotion over her, and she wanted to do something to get even with her.

“Tina was such a goody goody,” Jordan explains. “She thought she was so perfect. But she was boring as shit. And she wasn’t even pretty. I was mad about the promotion, and then Julie got this idea from a movie she’d seen. We would mess with Tina to see how long it would take her to quit. And it worked. She quit after a month. And I got the promotion.”

From there, we hear about the specifics of the rules—the pranks had to be small at first, sort of testing the waters, so to speak. Then the three women would try to one-up each other with better ones, like letting the air out of all Melissa’s tires, and then the post about Melissa allegedly selling drugs.

“I didn’t think she’d get hurt,” Michelle whines. “I just thought it would scare her. I thought she’d get so freaked out, she’d move out of town.”

But Mel did get hurt. Badly. And she didn’t leave town. She called me.

As Jordan, Michelle, and Julie talk over each other, suddenly eager to throw each other under the bus, Melissa speaks up for the first time since the confession started.

“Why me?” she asks quietly. “I never did anything to you. I didn’t get a promotion. I barely talked to any of you. I don’t understand why you targeted me.”

Julie looks at Melissa without a hint of remorse in her expression. “Because you were an easy target. And even if you caught on, no one would believe you.” She smirks, oblivious to the trouble she’s in. “I heard about what you did upstate. Losing your shit after your husband died and shooting that guy. I figured there’s no way you’d go to the police after that. And I was right.”

Hurt washes over Melissa’s face. Her chin wobbles. The officer standing next to her, who long ago released her arm, mutters, “Fuck, that’s cold.”

Mel ducks her head so no one can see her eyes. But not before I see the devastation in them. The defeat.

As I look at Mel, hunched into herself, small and vulnerable and hurting, my heart aches so badly I instinctively press my hand to my chest.

I’m beyond furious at the three heartless women who thought nothing of tormenting their unknowing victims.

But Mel.

She’s alone. And she needs me.