Always ready to say something positive, Nell can't finish because nothing good can come out of whatever is bleeding all over my pristine hotel comforter.
The police arrive while I sit in Mom and Nell's hotel room. One officer after another asks me questions, but I don't know the answers. The detectives who arrive an hour later straight out ask if the bloody gift is a publicity stunt to promote my new autobiography. They clearly believe I'm a Hollywood idiot pulling a ploy to increase buzz about my tell-all.
I learn later a human heart is in the box. The police suddenly take me seriously. Not that I care what they think. The authorities have proven useless in the past.
When two cultists abducted me from a Hollywood party, the police blew off my disappearance. They told reporters I was off partying, and my mom/manager was too protective.
Unable to separate my character from reality, the cultists believed I was the half-breed son of a demon. They intended to sacrifice me and bring forth their demon god. One of them even went so far as to carve arcane symbols into my back. All while I bled and suffered, I waited for the police to arrive.
When reality caught up with me, I chose to save myself. In the process of gaining my free-dom, I took the life of the male cultist. The police didn't find me, even after I used the cultist's phone. Instead, a nice old couple took me into their home and finally found me help. Hell, even when the police stumbled upon the woman cultist injured by the side of the road, they failed to get information from her. She hung herself in her cell without telling them a single thing.
Now in Houston, I realize we're on our own again. Looking at Mom and Nell, they've hidden away with me at our ranch for over a decade. We've lived safely until I decided to write a book about what happened those years ago. An author named Marx Hearton emailed me for over a year before I agreed to meet him. His persistence paid off when I agreed to work on the book. My long time therapist even thought the process might be cathartic.
"We need to hire someone," I tell Mom when the police leave us alone in her room. "I walked into that room without even fucking checking. I've forgotten how to be afraid. Someone could have been waiting for me, and I was standing there like an idiot."
"I'll ask around," Nell mumbles, and I see genuine fear in her hazel eyes.
I stare into my mother's soft gray eyes. She's a strong woman, and I rely on her too much. We've been in this place before. A decade ago, I left Hollywood and my new career. We bought the ranch and kept to ourselves. Soon the world forgot about me. After a few years, I returned to writing songs for country musicians. I used a pseudonym, wanting to remain hidden from the world and the leftover cultists.
No longer hidden, I need a way to end the threat. Ten years and they're still waiting.
"I heard of a security firm capable of handling a situation like this one," Mom says, and I instantly think of the neighbors gossiping about a recent high-profile case. "I don't know if they'll take the job, but I can track down their info."
"No," Nell whispers. "That firm is full of killers."
"Those are just rumors."
"Why take the chance?"
"Because the rumors might be true," Mom says, giving me a steely gaze.
Nell says nothing, fearing the solution is worse than the problem. Mom and I understand, though. The cultists don't play by anyone's rules. They don't fear the law or society. They think a demon is on their side. How can the law argue with such insanity?
When faced with a group unwilling to follow society's laws, we need a weapon just as pre-pared to step over the line. Ramsey Security promises to be just such a weapon.
2
Saskia
All I Need is Comfort
Wealth feeds weakness. Hoarders buy too many things. Substance addicts snort, shoot up or swallow their fortune. Wealth makes weak people feel strong. Losing wealth can make the powerful fall to their knees.
These are the reasons I only want comfort. My money goes to keep a roof over my head, food in my stomach, and clothes on my back. My only indulgences are weapons and security systems. These keep me safe, and safety makes me comfortable.
I've visited many wealthy homes in my life. Most are cold, meant more to impress than to comfort. Brad Sloane's home is big, yet homey. A man's house says more about him than his car or clothes. If he rests his head in a sterile home, he'll likely provide no warmth to those around him.
All I know about Sloane is what I find on Google including plenty of pictures of him from his time on a hit paranormal show. He possessed a boyish grin and floppy blond hair back then. I can see why women drooled over the twenty-year-old, but he isn't my type. Scrawny men overcompensate, and I already have enough trouble with them trying to put me in my place.