Chapter 93 Part 93

Chapter 93 Part 93
Riker

Two years earlier

None of it sat well with him. The whole thing had left a bitter taste in his mouth, one that clung stubbornly no matter how many times he swallowed. It wasn’t fear that bothered him—he knew fear intimately—it was something heavier, something unsettling, the kind that crawled beneath the skin and refused to let go. He got to his feet and grabbed the duffel bag hiding the bundles of cash, the weight of it pulling at his shoulder as he lifted it. The money felt wrong in his hands this time. He stowed the bag in his ceiling, pushing it into the narrow space he used for things he didn’t want to see. Then he grabbed his keys from the counter, the metal cold against his palm.
He’d done similar jobs in the past, harder ones, bloodier ones, but never before had it bothered him like this. He couldn’t remember when he’d taken the wrong turn—when discipline and duty had eroded into something darker—but somehow he’d gone from being a marine to a kidnapper, and sometimes a murderer. The thought made his jaw tighten. He wiped a hand over his face, dragging his fingers down slowly, as if trying to physically erase the weight pressing on him. He had to make it right. That much he knew with uncomfortable clarity.
He got into his truck and stopped at the gas station to fill the tank. The smell of fuel hung thick in the air, sharp and acrid, clinging to his clothes. He bought necessities for the road—water, electrolyte packets, protein bars—his movements automatic, practiced. Soon, he was back on the road, headlights cutting through the darkness as Charlton pulled him closer mile by mile.
He was thirty years old and lived a solitary life. No family. No friends. No attachments. He’d designed it that way. He told himself he didn’t need them, that independence was safer, cleaner. He liked his life the way it was. Or at least, he had. In recent years, something had shifted. The empty void in his life had begun to make itself known, the loneliness settling in slowly, like a fog he couldn’t shake.
This last job hadn’t been bloody or gruesome, but he knew exactly what fate awaited the young woman in the back of his car. That knowledge gnawed at him. She’d been quiet—almost shy—timid in a way that set his teeth on edge. She hadn’t spoken to him once during the day it had taken to drive her there. No pleading. No screaming. Just silence. She’d asked politely to go to the bathroom, her voice soft, controlled, and at first, he hadn’t been bothered by it. That was the problem. He should have been.
When he got back to his house afterward, he’d still been fine. Or so he’d thought. The first night hadn’t bothered him much, but as the days dragged by, sleep became elusive. Food tasted like ash. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her reflection in the rearview mirror—her eyes hollow, heavy with something that mirrored his own isolation. Something in her gaze spoke of pain, of emptiness, of being utterly alone. He knew then that it was something that would haunt him forever.
Charlton was five hundred and forty miles from his home—his sanctuary—the only place he ever felt truly safe. Paul Marsh was an alias he used for work, a name that existed only when he needed it. In Williamsburg, where he lived, he used his real name: Riker Walberg. Not that many people knew it. He kept to himself. He preferred it that way.
He didn’t have a plan when he reached Charlton. Not at first. But as the miles blurred past, one began to form. No matter what happened—no matter what Weston did or said—he wasn’t leaving Charlton without that girl. He had no idea why the conviction was so strong, only that it settled deep in his gut. And he had always trusted his instincts.
It was still dark when he reached Charlton. He parked the SUV half a mile from the house and went in on foot, the night air biting cold against his skin. The pistol sat snug in a shoulder holster beneath his jacket, a familiar weight. He moved quietly through the darkness, every step deliberate, toward the back door of the house.
Within seconds, the lock yielded. He slipped inside and closed the door behind him without a sound. The house felt wrong—too still, too empty. He moved up the stairs to the master bedroom where he knew Weston slept when he was there, but the bed was untouched. Cold. He searched the entire house methodically, tension tightening his chest with every empty room.
His heart hammered as he rushed out to the barn, fear clawing painfully at him—the fear that she was already dead. He froze when he switched on the lights. The tractor had been moved. His throat closed as he swallowed hard. If Weston had moved the tractor over the trapdoor, then she was already dead. The bastard had killed her.
When he finally managed to move the tractor aside and pull open the trapdoor, he recoiled as the smell of death and decay surged up, thick and overwhelming. With dread pooling in his stomach, he descended the stairs, flashlight trembling slightly in his grip. The beam fell over Weston’s bloated corpse. A sharp, almost hysterical laugh escaped his throat at the sight of his face—swollen, distorted, robbed of power. Weston St. John was dead.
He stepped over the body and unlocked the wooden door ahead of him. She was on the bed. Some of her hair spilled across her face, tangled and dull. Her skin was pale, lips dry. He pressed his fingers to her neck. Her pulse was weak, erratic—but it was there. Relief slammed into him so hard his knees nearly buckled. He scooped her into his arms, her body light, fragile, and carried her out of the room and back to the house.
He laid her on the couch and ran the half mile back to his truck, lungs burning. It took longer than he’d expected to get electrolytes into her system, coaxing her body back from the brink. But she had a chance. It had only been nine days since he’d left her. Nine days that would scar them both.
Removing every trace of her from that room took far longer. Bloodied clothes in the bathroom. The tray of food. The empty water bottle rolled beneath the bed. He packed the puzzle carefully and pocketed the letters she’d written, the words too personal, too raw to leave behind.
Lastly, he severed Weston’s body into pieces and dumped him into an old well at the edge of the property. The work was brutal, methodical. Mounds of dirt followed, packed down to smother the stench of rot. When he was satisfied, he returned to the underground prison, folded the blanket Weston had lain on, and retrieved the gun resting atop him. He wiped it clean and placed it back into the bureau drawer where he’d last seen it.
With all evidence removed, he carried Merit to his truck, arranging her carefully in the back. He drove away from Charlton and the prison Weston had built for her.
He stopped every hour, making her drink the electrolytes he’d mixed. Now that she was safe, uncertainty settled in. He didn’t know when she’d wake, or who she’d be when she did. The blood on her pants told him she’d miscarried. His soul felt heavy, guilt crushing, and he knew one thing with devastating certainty.
When she woke up—she would hate him.