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I peer into the large walk-in space and see that the dresser drawers have been rifled through, as if someone had dressed very quickly. There are hangers on the floor, and Abby’s favorite Converse Chucks are nowhere to be seen.
She took the only thing she had in her possession when she arrived on the yacht. What does that mean? Was she going someplace familiar?
Like Miami?
Nanette picks up Abby’s sketch pad, the one she was teaching herself to draw with, and turns it over to the open page it was left on. There’s one word scrawled in Abby’s signature red lipstick.
HELP.
Nanette crashes to her knees, and while I remain standing, it takes a lot of effort. My morning coffee turns into churning acid, and I wonder if I’m going to get sick.
Because I am pissed. Fucking over-the-top pissed.
I clench my fists, willing someone to look at me the wrong way so I can rip their head off. Hoping someone would walk through the door and say the one thing that would give me permission to drag them into the deep end of our pool and hold them down until the last bit of life is snuffed out of their lungs.
I am exploding with a rage I don’t think I’ve ever experienced, and I’m inches from losing my shit.
First, there was Abby’s dad trying to do her in. Then, when the amateur he hired failed, he convinced Karol to betray us and do the job.
And now she’s gone. That fucker Madden somehow got through our defenses. That’s never happened. I’m not happy about it.
And I can see the guys aren’t, either.
I can’t believe I doubted our girl for a moment. That I thought she might had left of her own volition. She might want out, but she wouldn’t do this to us.
No, it was someone else. And that someone is going to pay.
Sooner rather than later.
* * *
19
ABBY
“Happy birthday, baby girl.”
Funny. My father is using the same endearment the guys use for me, only in a different language. Regardless, it doesn’t have the same meaning. How could it?
The man wants me dead.
I stare at him over his massive designed-to-impress desk. I’d always thought it was a work of art, the intricate carvings in the wood, the massive heaviness of it.
Today all I can think is how it’s just a hollow piece of shit, a veneer that unsuccessfully shields the lame excuse of a man who sits behind it, pulling the strings of all his little puppets, like he’s some sort of god.
Oh, do I hate him right now. The streak of grey in his hair that I always teased him about only ages him now. The crinkles in the corners of his eyes, which I thought were distinguishing, are vulgar given his cold stare. And his overly-whitened, capped teeth are so fake-looking I want to ask him what the fuck his dentist had been thinking.
“My birthday wasyesterday. Not that I’d expect you to remember that, given how intent you’ve been on killing me.”
Yup. My birthday was spent on a private plane traveling from Spain to Miami. What a way to start the year.
His grin falters, but only for a moment. Even though he wants my money more than me, I guess he still feels some sort of fatherly attachment. But do I have any sort of familial feeling for him?
Fuck no.
“So clever,” —I nearly slip and call himDad— “how your minions snagged me, peacefully dozing by the pool as the sun came up.”
Wearing only a towel, I might add.
