Read Die for You for Free Online Page B

to me suddenly that I didn’t have to just sit here and obey like a good little girl. What if Marcus was in FBI custody? I’d asked but hadn’t received an answer. What if that’s why he hadn’t come home or been able to call? I felt a little lift of hope, a blast of adrenaline. Even if that wasn’t exactly an ideal scenario, at least it would mean he was all right. That I could help him. I realized it was time to call in the troops—Linda and Erik, my mother and Fred, Jack. And I needed to get us a lawyer. Fast.
    I caught sight of my own reflection in the glass wall of Marc’s office. I looked slouched over, like an old woman, pale and harried. I wore a long black wool skirt and black leather ankle-high boots, a bulky sweater and wrap. My hair, long, past my shoulders, a black mass of unmanageable curls, was more chaotic than usual. I needed to pull myself together and take control of the situation.
    I lifted the phone from the receiver and found the line dead. I looked up at the federal agents who were all still engaged in dissecting the office Marcus had worked so hard to build—months of renovation, hundreds of thousands of dollars in loans and our own money. I walked over to the door and found it locked from the outside. My mouth and throat went dry with the debut of panic in my chest as I tried the knob again. They couldn’t do that, could they? Hold me here like that without charge, arrest, without letting me call anyone?
    I started pounding on the door, moved over to the glass and started banging on that so that they could see me. But no one even looked up. I started to look at each of the people individually. One man had a deep red scar that ran from the corner of his right eye and disappeared into the collar of his black vest. He was stocky, had longish hair that hung, unwashed, to his collar. Another man had tattoos on his hands. There was a woman with a bright purple streak dyed into her white hair which she’d tried to hide under a stocking cap but which kept snaking out, dropping in front of her eyes.
    I had a terrible moment of cold dawning, dread a lump in my abdomen, as I turned to see that the tall blond woman had entered the office. These people were not FBI agents. She had an ugly sneer on her face, held a large gun. It was more like a caricature of a gun, it was so dark and menacing, and yet it almost didn’t register with me. I found myself moving closer to her.
    “What’s going on here?” I said, surprised at how steady my voice sounded.
    “Marcus is wrong about you,” she said. “You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?” The words landed like a spit in the face. She wasn’t even trying to hide her accent anymore. I recognized it right away.
    “What did you say?” I asked. My voice came out in an incredulous whisper. “Who are you?” Though she was taller than me by about three inches, broader at the shoulders, stronger, I could see, at the legs and hips, I wasn’t afraid of her. In fact, I was overcome by the urge to put my hands on her long, white throat—gun or no gun. She seemed to register this; I saw her eyes widen just slightly. Then she raised her hand quickly and brought the gun across hard on my temple. I didn’t have time to ward off the blow, didn’t even really feel it. I just heard a loud, private thud inside my head. A curtain of red fell before my eyes and the next thing I saw were her thick black boots as the floor rose up fast to greet me, then a blue light. Then black.



4
    S omeone yelling, Help me! For the love of Christ, please help me! There was the stench of urine, over that a heavy odor of antiseptic. And something else, something sweet and metallic. Blood. The soft sound of busy footfalls racing back and forth. A phone ringing. Harsh white light, too bright. That phone kept ringing, like a lance through my brain. I tried to move and felt bottle rockets of pain behind my brow and down my neck. When I finally adjusted to the light, I saw Linda’s