I just need more time to craft an explanation that they’ll be satisfied with. I need time to think of what I can say to convince them that I’m not just the latest victim of Stockholm Syndrome.
ME: Hey! Just wanted to update you so you don’t have to worry, haha. Work is good. I’m gonna be super busy prepping for a big thing coming up, so don’t freak out if you don’t hear from me. Love you xo.
I copy-paste the message to both Freya and Chris, then change my status to unavailable.
I’ve just set my phone down when it buzzes again. It's a text, not a call, but I’m still nervous to pick it up.
Will it be Chris asking me to stop pretending like everything’s okay?
Will it be Freya telling me that some forms of control are subtle and entirely too convincing?
But when I finally glance at the screen, the message isn't from either one of them. The number is unknown. And it isn't a message, but a video.
Curiosity wins out. I click play.
The video is grainy. Still, I’ve been around Anton enough now to recognize him when I see him. His size and physique are easy to spot.
I should turn it off. I trust Anton. Or at least, I should. We’re having a baby and I’m happy for the first time in so long.
But the video is already playing, and I can’t look away.
Anton is in some sort of meeting. There are other blurry-faced men sitting around a rectangular table. Everything is relatively calm.
And then someone bursts through the door.
She’s a blonde blur as she rushes into the room. There’s no sound, but based on her body language and the way the room turns to her in alarm, I think she’s screaming.
The men file out of the room, leaving behind Anton and… Marina.
It has to be her. There’s no one else it could be.
I flinch when she hits Anton, but I freeze when he roars back in her face. When he grabs her by the hair and drags her across the floor, I have to look away.
When I finally look back at the video, Marina is laid out on the table and Anton is between her legs. It’s a position that could be misconstrued as intimate… if it weren’t for the fact that Anton’s hands are wrapped around her throat.
He’s strangling her—and the look in his eyes says he intends to finish it.
And then the video ends.
“Oh God…” I gasp, feeling as though I’m the one who’s just escaped a strangling attempt. I can’t breathe. Air is wheezing in and out of my lungs. “Oh God…”
Before I can process what I’ve just watched, my phone pings again. It’s a disappearing photo sent from the same unknown number that sent me the video.
If I click on it, I’ll have ten seconds to see the photo before it disappears forever.
I click on the picture and the image fills my screen. It’s clearer than the video was, but not by much. Again, a broad-shouldered man with dark hair is centered in the image.
“Anton…” I whisper.
His back is to me, and he’s crouched over…
“Oh God,” I gasp, nearly dropping the phone.
His knee is covering her face, but blonde hair spills over onto the floor. I can see blood staining the carpet.
Anton told me that Marina was found dead in a hotel room at the Grand Centrale. But wherever this photo was taken… it was most definitely not at the Grand Centrale.
Which means he lied to me about so much more than I realized.