Page 17 of Ricochet

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Detroit Riverside Hospital came into view. A cylindrical structure made of glass, sliced at an angle, extending from the brick building and stood lit with a soft, orangey glow.

“Darling, you look delectable.” With his hand resting on my thigh, Michael sat beside me in the back of the limo.

I didn’t bother to turn and face him. Fighting off the tremors in my hands had consumed me most of the ride, since, less than a half-hour earlier, he’d caught me inside his office. His office. In five years, I’d never ventured inside his office without invitation from him. Michael’s office was off limits and, under normal circumstances, locked down during the day.

The night before was the first time we’d ever fucked in his office, which allowed me the perfect opportunity to cover up the true reason I’d risked my life to venture where I’d been warned never to go. In his hasty and disheveled state, he’d forgotten to lock the door before finishing me off in my bed.

And with what I guessed was important information on that chip, I’d lied to his face, to my very soul, and told him I couldn’t think of anything else but fucking him against his desk again.

It seemed he bought it, but I’d come to know a frightening realization about Michael—what seemed to be rarely ever was.

“Thank you, Michael,” I said in the most robotic voice I could muster. My shoulder flinched at the wisp of breath against my neck, the desperation to push him away drumming at my muscles.

“I look forward to ripping this dress off of you later. Perhaps I’ll make you come all over the executive summary I’ve been working on.”

At that sickening thought, an urgency tugged at me—the same urgency I got on the rare occasions he took me out of the mansion to accompany him to some event.

Escape.

If I were to succeed, I’d be hunted.

If I failed, I’d be killed.

I knew, because it wasn’t the first time I’d given thought to running. I’d actually acted on it, and each time I’d been caught, Michael had upped the punishment. I was confined to my bed for a week the last time, not as punishment, but as a medical recommendation for the wounds I’d suffered. Stupid move. That’s what you get when you don’t have a game plan. Didn’t matter, though. The tight stretch of my dress confining my legs served as a reminder that I wouldn’t get far. The dresses he chose for me were, themselves, a form of shackles.

Michael knew people and would pay a ridiculous amount of money to find me, so that he could kill me properly. He controlled the police department through his self-appointed, bastardly corrupt police chief. Between them, they could cover up my death with such finesse, it’d be like I never existed to begin.

Still, instincts had my stomach clenching, and my hand balled into a fist. If he found out I’d taken the chip, he’d know I rifled through his desk. No one ventured inside of Michael’s office, aside from Renata.

Going back to the mansion meant punishment , the likes of which I’d probably never seen in my life. The charity was my one and only chance—that single moment I’d surely regret not taking advantage of. Who knew when he’d take me out of the mansion’s confines again? He’d probably bury me alive in the cellar for taking that chip. I wouldn’t pass up the opportunity. I would try to escape Michael, no matter how dangerous it might be.

The limo arrived to a stop at the front entrance, where valet approached. I tugged down the hem of my dress, and noticed the frantic bouncing of my knee, the dead cold stiffness of my fingers inside the gloves.

“Relax, it’s just party. I’m right here.” His clammy hand covered mine.

I’d once told him that such affairs made me a nervous wreck, that I hated having to dress up and leave the mansion—a confession that’d secured my ability to accompany him on more occasions.

I mustered a fake smile, every bit of the exchange with him lending no insight into the thoughts running through his head. Did he suspect that I’d betrayed him? Would he take the opportunity later in the evening to investigate what I’d done? If he’d found the chip missing, I couldn’t even say what fate would hold for me, because I’d never so blatantly defied Michael, aside from a few escape attempts. No doubt, it would all end in some grotesque death that would make The Black Dahlia look like a mercy kill. “I’ll be fine.”

I couldn’t go back with him later. I had to find a way out, a means of escape. I didn’t regret stealing the chip—after all, it had to end —but returning to the mansion with him could be the end of me. I’d seen him murder a man as casually as if he’d read the morning paper and tossed it afterward. No conscience. No remorse. I couldn’t live a lifetime fearing that I’d be killed and discarded, though.

“That’s my brave girl.” He gave my thigh a squeeze and trailed his hand up my body, over my breasts, to the back of my neck. “In my sights at all times, is that clear?”

Gaze glued to my folded hands, trembling in my lap, I gave a sharp nod. Fuck you.

CHAPTER 7

Nick

I stood outside the dilapidated building that sat about five hundred yards from the brand new hospital. At one time, it’d housed the nursing students, who used the underground tunnels to move back and forth between the buildings.

I slipped the large duffle over my shoulder, pulled my hoodie over my head, and wedged the crowbar beneath the particleboard covering the window. With two sharp yanks, it pulled free. Grit and gravel hit the bottom of my boot as I climbed inside the broken window, and I flipped on the flashlight, cutting a wide circle of light through the dark.

A desk sat off to the right, a wall of mailboxes behind it. A sweep over the garbage and grime caked to the floor revealed a door to the left. I stepped over debris to reach it and with one good heave, it opened, and the distinct squeal of rats echoed from inside. Flights of stairs extended up and down, and I pointed the flashlight over the railing to peer below. A good two flights beneath was where it ended, and I descended the stairs quickly, jumping to round each landing, careful not to hit anything sharp that I couldn’t see in the faint light.

At the bottom of the stairs, an old sign hung above a cracked door, rusted with faded letters that read To The Hospital. A kick of the door nearly threw it off its hinges, and I entered the mouth of the murky tunnel.