“Well, Reid, didn’t you play the part of a scared and sad husband well on television this morning? Boohoo. Pfft! I didn’t buy a minute of it," he says, eerily calm and minus a British accent and a mechanical machine. He doesn’t appear to be disguising his voice anymore. “We all know Morgan wasn’t treating you right, don’t we?”
I hiss at him without thought. “What the hell would you know about my family and my wife? You know nothing—you’ve got this all wrong. I love her, and she loves me, always has and always will. I know who you are, arsehole, and Morgan didn’t love you, so why would you have wanted her to stay?”
“Morgan promised to love and she didn’t, so for that, she'll pay. You were never any better.” He snaps.
The line goes dead.
And right there, in a nutshell, we have the answer. I eye Gleaton, who’s shaking his head. “No trace. He didn’t stay on the line long enough.”
I twist my neck and look into Detective West’s dark-ringed ash grey eyes. “It’s him you heard, right? It’s her ex, Falcon; you’ve got proof now, so go find him.”
"Reid, it didn't prove anything. It only showed us that the person who’s taken Morgan seems to know you both well. But regardless, we have officers hunting down Falcon and his brother as people of interest." He pauses, placing one hand on his hip. "Reid, where do you think your brother might be? Does he have any property he wouldn't want others to know about except maybe you?"
What is he getting at here? Cruise? Not a chance. Cruise has no reason to hurt Morgan or me. It's not my brother.
Ring, ring, ring.
I grasp the handset. I take a short breath. I don’t get a chance to say anything before a high-pitched scream barrels through the line, and It’s so piercing it causes pain to shoot through my ear. I hold the phone at a distance. West rips the headset plugged into the laptop from his ears as I stare at him with fear leaching into my heart.
The screaming stops. I bring the handset close to my cheek.
“She’s a dead bitch now.” His words are laced with poison.
The line goes dead.
Morgan
There’s red paint on a blackboard on the opposite side of the rose. How I made it this far, how I walked over the skeletal remains, I’ll never know, but I did. Every step I took had me crying for those who lay here. Every breath I took shook. I just knew I needed to continue so I could go home. I can’t be buried here with them. Nobody will ever find me. Nobody will ever take these women back to their families if I don’t get out.
WHO AM I, RED?
His ultimate question, and the first line on this board, is written in capital lettering. I trace my fingertips over the painted lettering; it's dry. Is this paint, or is this blood? I cringe at the thought and snatch my hand back. I try not to think about it being anything other than paint. I work so hard, but my mind screams. You’ve touched their blood. Run away from the blood.
I stumble backwards, trying to escape my own panic. This man is beyond sick in the head. He’s my worst nightmare, and he has me trapped in his graveyard. Is this where the game ends? Is this where he kills me?
A light flickers, just as a fluorescent does when first turned on. Who turned on a light? The lettering appears larger, thicker, sharper than before the light shone upon it.
WHO AM I, RED?
The glow is beaming down from above the words, and that’s when I see a long tube fixed to the top of the board. I fall to my bottom and slide my arse backwards before cowering, waiting for his return.
“Please, please, please. Let me go.” It’s an automatic begging.
There’s no answer.
“Please, Cullum. I know it’s you.” Do I though? Was this even a well-thought-out assumption. He smelt like bubble gum. He frisked me the same way Cullum did on my hen’s night before I fled. It can’t be anyone else. "Cullum, please," I cry.
There’s no answer. No whistling. No nothing. Where is he?
Time passes, and I believe I’ve searched as much as I can. I’ve looked for a way out, a door, anything, but there was nothing to be found. I’m not sure how much time continues to pass, but it feels like an eternity, and as I sit cowering, waiting like an animal ready for slaughter, I whimper.
“How does he get in?” I mumble under my breath. There is no way the wolf could ever fit through the hole I managed to. He’s much too broad-shouldered and far too tall, so how does he get into his graveyard? There needs to be another way in and out.
The skin on my hands is raw, bleeding, and even though they shake I don’t stop scratching the compacted dirt walls with my nails and the scissors as I resume my search. I couldn’t just sit there. I had to try again. I’m not sure how much time I have until the wolf comes, but I’m going to do what I can to get the fuck out of here before he arrives and overpowers me. At this point in the game, only a fool would think they’d be able to challenge him physically. All I have as my armour is my mind and this one pair of surgical scissors. I need to work out how he gets in.
Rattle, rattle, rattle.
It’s a chain, and it’s coming from underneath the hole I climbed through after taking the maze of tunnels he forced me into. Fuck. He’s here. My mind races with the same pace as my thrumming heart. I wasn’t quick enough. I wasn't smart enough to figure this out earlier.
I run towards the sound. I fall. I get back up. I hobble. I trip. I get back up. I run until I can reach my arms out and touch the wall beside where I heard the noise coming from. Can I slip out as he comes in? It’s my only hope.
Pressing my body flush against the dirt wall, I hold my breath and bite down on my lip to muffle the cries I can feel being summoned to my tongue. The dirt folds inwards and then opens like a door. I hold the scissors in my clenched tight fist by the side of my face, ready to strike if I need to. I don’t make a sound.
He whistles his eerie tune, and although I jolt from the fear creeping through me, I still don’t make a sound.
“Red, I’m home. Did you miss me?”
I bite down harder on my lip. The wolf’s back is quickly in my view. There's a black T-shirt covering his muscular frame. His head slowly shifts from left to right, and in this one split second, I realise he's not aware I’m behind him yet. With the door still open wide enough for me to escape through, I hold the scissors in my now trembling hand and launch myself forwards.
“Fuuuuuccck!” He makes a loud yelp after I swing my arm wildly and then continue to plunge my weapon into every bit of his flesh I can. I’m frenzied. I need to escape. The smell of metal coats the fine hairs in my nostrils, and as the smell grows stronger I scream, a high-pitched sound, releasing all my anguish with the noise. I no longer feel the handle of the scissors when I try to pull them back. My hand is slippery, sticky ... It’s coated with his blood.
I dip down and scoop an item from the ground that catches my eye as it falls from the wolf’s possession. I run. I run like the wind, and I don’t look back, not once after I make it through the door. I don’t dare to even risk searching for him. And although I don’t hear him following me, I’ve learnt not to expect to. The wolf makes no sound when he moves because he’s a ghost.
I can’t stop running. I need to find a place to hide. Do I have a chance at freedom?
Home. It’s a place I’d run to even if I had no skin left on the soles of my feet to protect my flesh. I won’t stop trying to go home to my family. I won’t stop running, regardless of my pain.
The wolf
That fucking bitch. That fucking piece of shit. I’ll find her, and when I do, there will be no second chance. Morgan Banks is a dead bitch the moment I can wrap my hands around her neck. Fuck the game, and fuck her.
Reaching my hand over my shoulder, I run my fingers down my soaking shirt until I locate the object she attacked me with poking out of my skin.