Chapter 1 - The Wrong Woman
My husband threw me into a marble wall, then asked the room if anyone else wanted to teach me some manners.
Three men laughed.
Nobody helped me up.
I tasted blood before I felt the pain.
Across the ballroom, a woman wearing enough diamonds to buy a house quietly moved her champagne away from the splash on the floor.
That was what bothered her.
The mess.
Grant Mercer straightened his cufflinks.
“Now,” he said, “are we finished embarrassing ourselves?”
I pushed myself upright.
My left side burned.
The sleeve of my navy dress hung open at the shoulder.
Above us, crystal chandeliers turned everything beautiful except the people beneath them.
Two hundred guests had come to the Mercer Foundation’s annual gala to celebrate generosity.
They had just watched its chairman hurt his wife.
A few studied the floor.
Most went back to pretending.
Grant held out his hand.
“The phone, Nora.”
I reached into my purse.
His mouth softened into a satisfied smile.
He thought I was finally learning.
Instead, I called my father.
“Dad.”
Grant rolled his eyes.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Lock every exit.”
His smile disappeared for half a second.
Then his friend Blake laughed.
“Isn’t her father some maintenance guy?”
Grant took a glass from a passing tray.
“Security,” he corrected.
“He used to work in security.”
I kept my eyes on him.
“Deploy the unit.
Lock down the estate.”
A familiar voice answered through the phone.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Grant raised his drink.
“To dramatic women.”
Someone clapped.
I ended the call and looked toward the black security camera above the main entrance.
Then the first barrier fell.
The crash shook the champagne tower.
A second steel panel slammed down across the east doorway.
The orchestra stopped.
By the third impact, people were screaming.
Grant turned toward the entrance.
“What the hell?”
Guests rushed past him.
A man in a tuxedo grabbed the handles and yanked hard enough to tear a nail.
Someone demanded the manager.
Someone else demanded the mayor.
Grant looked back at me.
“What did you do?”
I took one slow step forward.
He stepped back.
“You thought I called him to get me out.”
The last locking mechanism struck home.
“I called him to keep you here.”
For the first time in seven years, my husband looked afraid.
Then his phone vibrated.
He glanced at the screen.
Whatever he saw frightened him more than the doors.
He reached for me.
I moved away.
A message lit up my own phone from a number I didn’t recognize.
YOU LOCKED THE WRONG PEOPLE INSIDE.
Below it was a photograph.
A young woman sat bound to a chair in the estate’s basement.
Her name was Leah Brooks.
May you like
She had called me that morning.
And I had promised her she would be safe.
