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“Of course.” Dr. Barnard doesn’t need to ask who I’m talking about. “You can check the feed.”
“I just did. All right, then. He’s not giving you any problems?”
“No more than usual.”
Cursing, I hang up. I almost wish he’d escaped. Almost. If he escapes, it will be my personal Hell on Earth, but at least it would make sense. I have no fucking idea who could be texting me and how much they know about me, and this is making me angry.
I use a special software program of my own design to run a trace on the phone, but I’m not surprised when it doesn’t lead me anywhere. The phone call is pinging all over the place.
For a brief moment, it occurs to me that Tamara is a complication. If somebody is starting to pry around into my business, I should get rid of her.
I push that thought aside. This house, bought by a shell company and completely untraceable, is deep, deep in the country. Nobody knows I’m here. Do they?
Does the person who’s taunting me on the burner phone know where I live? I don’t see how, but then again, I bought these burner phones with cash, at two different stores, yet somebody has very likely gotten the number twice. That phone call that went to voice mail…it can’t be a coincidence. It’s got to be the same person.
It is absolutely impossible for anyone even to come near the house without me being alerted. If the police came here, I’d know, and I’d deal with it then.
When my regular phone rings, I’m relieved to see it’s the president of Morton Media calling me.
Mr. Morton pleads for more time to consider my offer.
I laugh. “Now you’ve pissed me off, so I’m dropping my offer by ten percent. You have forty-eight hours to respond with a signed acceptance letter, or my offer drops by thirty percent.” And given that I’ve scared off all his other potential buyers, I’m all he’s got.
His sad blubbering, his ridiculous attempts to plead for the jobs of hundreds of employees, amuse me. I know the scoop. I’ve been listening in on his increasingly desperate attempts to find a better buyer. He’s got nothing.
But my elation fades as soon as I hang up, and I set about trying to figure out who the hell could be sending those texts. I’ll have to go over all my security measures, find the holes, and plug them.
In the end, though, my very healthy self-confidence and ego save the day. Whatever the threat is, I’ll defeat it. Of course I will. I always do. I haven’t had a truly worthy opponent in a long, long time. There was an MMA fighter who beat his wife to death in front of their toddler and skated on the charges—that came close. But that was a year ago.
This will be good for me. First, fate rewarded me with Tamara, and now this.
Life is good. I always get what I deserve.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
TAMARA
Dinner is a silent affair. It’s lobster and risotto, utterly delicious as always, but these days it’s hard for me to appreciate the endless series of gourmet meals. I’m using all my mental energy to keep my mind as blank as possible. I start to play Top 40 hits in my head, but that just makes me start to cry, because I realize I may never hear another new song, and I love music. My tears drip onto the plate, but Master doesn’t say a word.
When he sets his fork and knife down, I follow suit, my aching muscles tensing up. Now what?
But he just looks at me, his eyes gone glacial.
“You’re going to make a decision for me,” he says. And he proceeds to describe two horrible men—a judge who takes money to betray children, and an evil man who’s sexually attracted to little girls and who will get full custody of his children very soon. He wants to know which one he should kill.
“Both of them, Master,” I say, surprised he’d even ask.
He looks thoughtful. “Why?”
“Child molesters have an extremely high recidivism rate, so even if this pervert doesn’t get custody of his children, he’ll molest someone else. And the judge will keep on giving custody to abusive men, and the children and their mothers will suffer, Master.”
“And you have no moral qualms about the killing whatsoever?” He looks interested, not angry. Good. This is a good thing.
“These men are monsters who prey on innocent victims and ruin lives. So no, Master,” I say with complete conviction. “I believe in the death penalty under some circumstances, and both these men fit the criteria for those who I think deserve it.”
Master frowns, tenting his fingers. “It’s a toss-up, but I believe that Mr. Hamilton ultimately makes the better choice. He’s in better physical condition than the judge.”
I look at him in confusion.
