Page 72 of Payback

“Try anything funny, and I’ll throttle you.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Henry’s text said he was on the road with Blake, tracking me through my phone. There was no mention of Mr. Jenkins, Henry’s head wound, or whether Edward was alive or dead.

I replied with, C thinks Mrs C abducted. Will confront R in Elfwynn Hse.

“Did you find it?”

“There are two bed and breakfasts with that name. I’m just going to Google Maps to make sure I call the one closest to the academy.”

He snarled. “It’s the one in Mercia, you daft bint.”

“Ah… Sorry.” I entered the name into Google. “Found the number.”

It took a lot of half-truths and wrangling for the receptionist to put me through to Rudolph’s room. By the time she agreed, the muscles of my neck and shoulders cramped with tension. The phone rang again, and I exhaled a long breath.

“R-Rudolph?”

“Who is this?” asked another male voice.

“Emilia Hobson, his stepdaughter.”

After a long moment of silence, Rudolph’s voice purred, “Emilia, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I thought about what you said, and I want to meet.”

“Tomorrow at eight for breakfast—”

“No!” I blurted. “It’s urgent. You were right about my nymphomania. I just had sex with three boys and I almost had anal with a fourth. P-please… I need help.”

Rudolph’s low chuckle filled my belly with revulsion. “You naughty girl,” he said in the same tone he had used in Charlotte’s honey trap. “I’ll send a car.”

“A-actually, I’m on my way. Will you meet me in the lobby? Please don’t tell Mom. I can’t let her see me in this state.”

He paused. “I’ll book a room, so we can discuss the matter in private. Ask for Rudy Prong.” He laughed at his own joke. “It’s more subtle than Rudy Ramrod, don’t you think?”

Nausea battled with self-disgust, and I forced out the words, “Y-yes, sir.”

Rudolph hung up, and I slipped my phone into the pocket of my jeans.

“Did he agree to meet you?”

“He’s booking a private room.”

Mr. Carbuncle dumped his pickup truck in an overgrown field, where a red jeep waited. Swigging from a huge bottle of booze, he dragged me out, shoved me into the passenger seat and drove off. Every ounce of hope drained from my body. The police would be looking out for a white truck, not a red jeep. Tears filled my eyes and dread filled my belly as I pictured Mr. Carbuncle’s face when Rudolph convinced him that he hadn’t stolen his mother.

We reached the gates of Elfwynn House after sunset. Iron lamps lit a long driveway that led to a massive, timber-framed mansion with white-washed walls and paneled windows. I scanned the vehicles parked next to the courtyard and found no police cars. Why wasn’t that a surprise?

He pulled up outside the double doors, downed the rest of his bottle, and slurred, “I’ll keep the shotgun trained on your back. Walk inside, find Rudolph Trommel’s room, and don’t try anything dumb.”

The decorative wooden interior of the venue faded into a blur. Over the next few minutes, I struggled to stay upright, struggled to retain my composure, and struggled to find the room in the name of Rudy Prong. Even walking up the stairs was a struggle with a lunatic’s hot, alcoholic breath on my back. I eventually located the room and knocked on the door.

The voice behind it purred, “Come in.”

“You first,” whispered Mr. Carbuncle.

Sucking in a deep, fortifying breath, I prayed to whoever was listening that Rudolph had brought his bodyguards and that they would shoot at the first sight of the shotgun. I pushed the door open to find Rudolph lounging on the bed clad in a crimson satin robe with gold lapels. My eyes skipped to the corner of the room, where a camera stood on a tripod, and a bottle of champagne sat in a bucket.