The Game by L.P. Lovell

13

Tobias and Preston have been gone for nearly an hour, and I've paced the length of this room at least a hundred times wondering what terrible things they are plotting.

Last night Tobias told Preston that “they” never last past day three. Perhaps I should be worried about my fate today, but when I close my eyes, all I can see is Maria. I did what I was asked to do, and Tobias and Preston didn't hold up their end of the deal. I can't help but wonder if I hadn’t signed that contract, would Maria still be alive?

I may need the money—desperately—but I can no longer do this. They killed someone. Because of me. I can’t handle the guilt.

Taking a deep breath, I grab my purse and head for the bedroom door. The hinges creak when it swings open into the empty hall, and I pause, listening for Tobias and Preston. When I find the penthouse silent, I take off in a full sprint for the elevator. I repeatedly slam my palm over the button, praying that when the doors open, Tobias and Preston aren’t waiting inside. I need to get out of here. Away from them. Away from this madness.

The elevator opens and I rush into the empty space. It seems like it takes an eternity to reach the bottom floor, and the second I set foot in the lobby, I run outside and into the cyclone of Manhattan activity. My stomach knots as I quickly make my way to the nearest subway, and it’s only once I’m on the train that I take a full breath.

What the hell was I doing with them?

* * *

I pauseoutside my apartment door, fumbling with my keys as fear creeps through my veins. What if they come after me? After all, they have access to so much. It seems like the entire city has a secret side that Tobias and Preston control. They know how utterly alone I am. They know that if they killed me, there’s no one to miss me. No one to care. No one who loves me...

Tears sting my eyes as I shove the key into the lock, but it won’t turn. I try again, but it doesn’t budge. The landlord couldn’t have changed the lock. I still have a few days left before the eviction date… Frustrated, I rest my head against the door, and the lull of voices drifts through the wood. Someone’s inside.

I knock without thinking it through. What if it’s Tobias and Preston in there, waiting. I take a step back, but before I can take another, the door swings open, and my heart plummets to the pit of my stomach. “Saw… Sawyer?”

His chiseled expression falls flat. On a groan, he swipes a hand over his face, the way he always does when he's annoyed. “You have some nerve turning up here, Ella.”

“I live here. What are you—”

“Jesus Christ.” He scrubs over his jaw. “You don’t live here, and you’re fucking crazy.”

He’s lost his mind. I’m certain of that until my gaze slides past him to the inside of the apartment. The walls are beige, not Serenity Blue like I left them. His painting is back over the couch. But it's only been a few days since I left. There should still be a dirty coffee cup in the sink. My unfolded laundry should be on the couch—a couch that has somehow since been replaced. How could he have done this? Why would he do this? I open my mouth to speak, halting when I catch movement to the side of the room.

Maria—oh my god, Maria—is to the side of the room, a cold stare on her face as she peers around the corner of the kitchen wall.

Confusion clouds my mind as Sawyer crosses the threshold and softly shuts the door behind him. Frowning, he pulls his phone from the pocket of his slacks, dials a number, then holds it to his ear. “Yes. My name is Sawyer Levine, I made a call last night about the kidnapping of my fiancé.”

His fiancé? My gaze darts back to the closed door. Maria is his fiancé? Kidnapped… Panic fires through me, spiking my adrenaline and telling me to run. I go to turn, but Sawyer snatches my wrist. “I have the suspect here,” he says into the phone, eyes narrowing. “She came to my apartment.”

Hisapartment. It’s not his. It’s mine! I attempt to jerk free of his hold, but his grip only tightens.

“Yes, yes. Thank you,” he says, then hangs up.

There’s a moment where we stare at each other, a moment where I try to make sense of this all. “What is going on?”

“What do you mean, what is going on?” His jaw tics, his deep voice booming off the walls. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I don't know what you're—”

“You paid two men to kidnap Maria.” He’s in my face, cheeks reddening, and nostrils flaring. “You made her fuck you! You’re sick, Ella.”

“I don't...” My head spins. Nothing makes sense. I glance at the door again, 3B. That's my door. Complete with the dent I made in it when I moved the couch in. I look back at Sawyer, his face rippling with anger. “I...” But I can't finish that sentence because I don't know what to say.

“I've tried to be understanding, Ella. I really have, but you've gone too far this time.”

This time? “Sawyer, I haven't even spoken to you since you left.”

He tosses his head back on a laugh that fills the small corridor. “I feel sorry for you. You're a fucking basket case. Where did you get the money to pay those pieces of trash, huh? Did you fuck them for it, you little whore?”

I fight back the tears. I'm disoriented— terrified of what is happening to me. The past few days flip through my head like a tattered movie reel, and then, suddenly the anxiety and fear are replaced with anger. Anger. Regardless of whether I’ve lost my mind or not; regardless of whose apartment this now is, it at one time was ours. Why would he want to build his and Maria's life in the same place we were meant to build ours? “Why would you move back here?” I whisper.

“I didn't, Ella.” He squeezes my wrist. “You’re the one who left. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

I shake my head. This is insane. I didn’t leave. He did. I pull against his hold and when he doesn’t let go this time, I scream. I thrash around, kneeing Sawyer between the legs. On a grunt, he drops my hand and doubles over, and I run.

I clamor down the stairs and outside of the building, freezing when I notice the two police cars stopping at the curb.

My heart bangs out an uneven rhythm as I attempt to catch my breath. I want to take off in a sprint, but the one thing I don’t need to do is draw attention to myself. Although a nervous sweat pricks its way over my skin, I walk as casually as I can in the opposite direction of the squad cars. The door to the apartment building bangs open behind me. “Ella!” Sawyer shouts. “Officers! She's right there.”

And now I do take off in a sprint. The cops shout at me as I dash through groups of window shoppers and dart around bicycles. People scramble out of the way of the fleeing criminal, and I push myself harder, running as fast as I can, but soon enough, someone grabs me. I’m slammed to the ground seconds before the cool metal of the handcuffs closes around my wrists.