Roman-1(Lane Brothers, Book 5)(116)

I think of the unborn child she’s carrying and the devastation that my family—Justin—will go through if this maniac manages to kill not only me, but Bee and that innocent little life she’s carrying.

And then, inevitably, I think of Vincent and the stark regret I feel that he’ll never know just how much I regret abandoning him and that I’ll never have the chance to tell him that I’ve never stopped loving him.

And then, I think of the babies I wanted to have, little boys with midnight black hair and mischievous eyes the color of mint leaves.

I breathe deeply, harshly, fighting the tears as he shoves me into the straight-backed wooden chair from the desk and pulls a length of rope from what I now recognize as overalls emblazoned with the building’s crest.

Henson’s words jump out at me, and I grind my teeth when I squint at his name tag and see ‘Tony” embroidered in off white stitching over his left breast pocket.

“You’ve been watching me this whole time? You’ve been this close since I moved in?” I ask, flinching when he grabs my wrist in a steel-tight grip and starts winding the rope, binding me to the chair with a final length, crushing my ribs and looping to the back.

Obviously a boy scout.

Stop joking around, Cecelia, this guy’s just tied you to a freaking chair and he’s got a gun. Think of something!

When he’s finally done securing me to the chair he flops down onto the sofa and stares at me, an eerily joyful smile curling his lips. It gives me the freaking creeps because it reminds me of that Joker guy from one of the Batman instalments.

“I’ve been so close at times I could smell your perfume, Sis,” he chuckles, waving the gun loosely. “Just had to wait for you to finally stop inviting that bodyguard of yours up here so regularly. See, I’m a lot smarter than you think.”

“Vincent will kill you.”

Not the best thing to say in this situation, but I’m helpless at this point, and there’s no getting out of this alive. Hopefully I can give Bee enough time to wake up, if she’s still alive—please, Jesus, let her be okay—and get out of here in one piece.

The chair I’m sitting in is facing the door, leaving Eric on the sofa facing me with his back toward it. If Bee’s okay, I can keep him distracted long enough to get out before he loses what little marbles he’s still got.

“Ha! I was listening at the door when you kicked the schmuck out last night. That ship has sailed, thanks to you. It’s not like Mr Moneybags’ll come running to your rescue now, is it?” he asks, laughing loudly. “And just think! If you’d listened to him last night you’d be behind the walls of his fortress and I wouldn’t have gotten to you. And you even did me a favor by getting that little bitch over here.”

My stomach churns at that statement, and I work a little harder when he scowls suddenly and turns towards the bathroom, his finger tightening on the trigger.

“You’re so fucking pathetic,” I hiss, lunging against the ropes, while rubbing my wrists raw to get loose. “Is this all you’ve done since trying to kill me? Running around playing James fucking Bond and rubbing your hands at the thought of killing two defenseless women?”

He turns back to me and lunges, planting his hands and getting right in my face with so much aggression I rear back and focus over his shoulder.

“You know nothing about what I’ve been through! I spent weeks recovering from broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder after that animal attacked me! I’ve spent my nights sleeping on piss-soaked mattresses and eating ramen noodles just to stay alive. You ruined me!” he shouts, splashing strings of spittle across my cheek.

The bathroom door handle wiggles, inching down slowly, and a minute later I see Bee’s face peeping out, a long line of blood trickling from her temple down to her chin and onto her neck.

That one glance is all I need to release the tight band of tension in my gut, and I laugh, a manic-sounding shriek that scares the daylights out of me. It’s one thing to accept death and all of the regrets that come along with it, but it’s quite another to be so actively playing a part in it, forcing my murderer to go psycho on me in an attempt to save another.

“I didn’t ruin you, you piece of shit! You mentally and physically abused the woman who loved you. You made her feel worthless and ugly and took delight in it. You were fired for sexually harassing female colleagues and for just being a generally pathetic excuse for a human being!”

“Shut up!” he yells, backhanding me with the gun so hard my head snaps back and starts spinning. “That English prick blackballed me. I’m the man I am now because of you.”