Chapter Thirty-Two

TREY STARED DOWN at Miranda. He felt nothing other than numb. All at once, it was as though she were a stranger, someone with whom he’d had only the most passing of acquaintances. He didn’t see her as a nemesis or an annoyance or a nuisance.

He didn’t see her as anything at all.

Not a daughter.

Not a woman.

Not a student.

Not a would-be writer, following in her father’s footsteps.

Not a human being.

This distance was necessary, he supposed, because of his plans. Soon, Miranda, looking close to death on the boat’s grimy floor, legs splayed, sundress hiked up near her waist, would actually be lifeless.

She was an obstacle that, once removed, would clear a way for him to reunite with his man, his husband, and the life that should finally, and rightfully, be his.

He had yet to figure out how he would end her life and what to do with her body once her spirit had left it, but those were the kinds of details he was good at figuring out. He’d had more than a little practice. Usually, he thought, murderers worked too hard to hide the evidence of their transgressions. What worked better than getting dirty and sweaty digging a grave in the middle of nowhere or dumping a weighted body in water (which never seemed to stay where one wanted it to) was hiding the corpse in plain sight. For example, a fire with one’s parents in it was actually less suspicious if their blackened hulks were there to be found, rather than missing. A middle-aged gay man with his throat slit? As long as one cleaned up after oneself, the authorities would assume (rightly, in Steve’s case) that he’d been careless inviting an online trick over.

And so on.

He might just toss her in the lake, let her float. The injury to the back of her head could have occurred when she slipped off the deck.

He’d attend to her in a moment.

But first, he wanted to get Connor’s attention even more. He visualized him at the Westin, with the burner phone and his cryptic message, worried sick and feeling oh-so-helpless. Of course, Trey knew he’d assume it was Trey himself behind all this, but he’d prove to him it wasn’t, not at all, when he arrived downtown to save the day.

Connor was famous. Rich.

And people like Connor sometimes had their loved ones abducted for ransom. That’s what would happen today.

He picked up the burner phone and texted:

She’s safe. But not for long. To keep her in one piece, meet me in two hours (I will advise you of the location when it’s time). I require $100,000 dollars in cash, small, unmarked, nonsequential bills. Brown paper bag. You can do it. You will do it if you want to see Miranda alive again.

He hit Send. There, that should do it.

He set the phone down and turned to finish Miranda off. This was almost too easy—but Trey was always careful not to leave any tracks. Any fool with patience and a smidgen of forethought could get away with just about anything without much effort.

His phone sounded. He pressed the screen, smiling, and brought up Connor’s text.

I’ll be wherever you say. Just let me know. Send me a picture, or better yet, a video with her holding something, like today’s newspaper.

Trey typed:

You don’t call the shots here. I do. Do not, I repeat, do NOT involve the authorities. Do NOT try to put yourself in charge here. You’re being watched. If I see anything suspicious or get so much as a whiff of anyone else’s involvement, I’ll kill the bitch. And I’ll make it hurt. Now, go get the funds together. You have two hours. I don’t want to hear from you again. I will text you at the end of that time with an address.

He sent the message and closed his eyes for a moment, savoring.

Now it’s time to kill the bitch, so to speak. Kidnappers often weren’t the most ethical and truthful people on the planet. It would be a shame Miranda’s life was snuffed out, so young, filled with so much promise.

But it was the only way.

He turned to make sure she wouldn’t ever breathe again, anticipating the moment when her heart ceased to beat.

But she was gone.