Legacy of Lies (Empire of Lies #3) - Whitney G. Page 0,4
family.”
“Tell me about it.” He shrugs.
“Do you still have the video of her asking for the hit?”
“Only if you promise not to get mad at me for keeping it.”
“I won’t.” I lean back. “I think it’s one of the smartest things you’ve ever done.”
He nods, sighing. “Where’d you leave Meredith?”
“Mexico.”
“Do you miss her?”
“Not at all.”
He smiles. “Do you have a backup plan to get her where she needs to be for the rest of her life?”
“I do.”
“Good.” He nods, orders another round of beer. His cell phone rings, and he tells me that he needs to step outside.
To prevent myself from thinking about everything he’s just said about Meredith’s mother, I look up at the television and try to immerse myself in the real-world. The images onscreen are of people rushing on the streets, of protestors committing utter anarchy.
As the ticker flashes on screen, I squint and read the words.
Drug Cartels Wreak Havoc on Mexican Resorts; Sixty Injured. Seventy Dead.
I immediately stand up and walk closer to the screen, noticing that the resorts in question are twenty miles away from the one where I left Meredith. But if the reporters’ words hold any weight, her resort could be a target, too.
Pulling out my phone, I call my contact at the airport.
“Yes, Mr. Anderson?” a deep voice answers on the first ring. “How may I help you today?”
“I need you to tell me which flight my wife took to Switzerland,” I say. “Flight number and date, please.”
“I would be more than happy to do that, but…” His voice trails off and he lets out a sigh. “Your wife never made it here, sir.”
“Come again?”
“She never came. I called the driver and the resort you mentioned that she would be checking into when she arrived,” he said. “I don’t think she ever got across the lazy river, sir.”
“Are you sure?” My blood runs cold. “Can you double check?”
“I’ve triple checked. I’m five hundred percent sure, sir.”
I end the call and immediately charter a flight.
Fuck.
Meredith
Now
NYPD Crime Watch Tip Submission Form
I would like to report a malicious murder for hire plot that involves my soon to be ex-husband, Michael Anderson (owner of the Fahrenheit 900 Club) and Leonardo Thatchwood, billionaire CEO, i.e., my father.
My father hired the former to murder me, but Mr. Anderson took it upon himself to hold me captive, in an isolated house, for what he claimed was my “best interest.” He lied to the media and reporters, along with Mr. Thatchwood, and I would like the truth to come to the light A-fucking-SAP.
Although I am clearly still alive and in another country, I seem to have misplaced my passport, so I’m unable to return to the United States of America at this time.
I truly believe that both of these men belong in prison, and I am willing to testify at both of their trials.
I have a prepaid phone and a number where I can be reached once you receive this tip.
Sincerely,
Meredith A. Thatchwood
555-786-5019
I stare at my words on the submission form, waiting for the alcohol that’s currently coursing through my veins to give me the courage to hit send. This is the seventh day in a row that I’ve come into the resort’s computer lab and typed these same words.
My incessant stalling is due to the fact that my mind and my heart are playing on opposite sides of the field: Emotions on offense, thoughts on defense. And every night, when the tears soak my pillow, I suffer through a never-ending tug of war between the two. There’s never a clear-cut winner; no referee to be found.
To make matters worse, I still wake up from time to time, in the middle of the night, and rub my clit to the thoughts of Michael’s face, unable to ever think of another man who can dominate me in the bedroom like he does. Whenever I’m on the edge of an orgasm, I can’t help but think about the way his mouth always knew the right way to pleasure me for hours. The way he filled me with his cock and owned my body with every stroke.
Stay focused, Meredith. Stay focused on the goddamn crime report and hit send…
My finger hovers over the return key, but my heart steps in for an unexpected block. It still beats a different tempo for Michael, still doesn’t understand how I could ever lump him into the same category with my father.
Sighing, I lean back and open a new browsing tab for YouTube, typing the words, “Initial