What if it is his mother who vanishes mysteriously...

What if it is his mother who vanishes mysteriously...
Violet’s pov

The following morning, Bentley Brooks accompanied me to the state police barracks. I sat down with two troopers and laid out the entire story of my father’s death, starting from the Excell trials up to this very moment. Bentley provided a file with all our evidence, Joshua Felderman’s letter, the financial records he’d pulled from the lead researchers.

It was clear the officers were interested. Officer Banks remained calm, but his partner, Pelino, could not sit still. Both wore those dull brown-green uniforms, though only Pelino kept his trooper hat on indoors. I wondered if he was losing his hair. He assured me, “We will take this to a judge immediately. We expect arrest warrants for Kingsley and Manfreidi before the day is over.”

Somehow, that did not comfort me. I could not give a fuck about Mike Manfreidi. But I knew what happened to Professor Kingsley would wound my guys deeply, and I hated that. To get justice for my own father, I was handing over theirs.

Why did everything have to be so fucking complicated?

Back at the hotel, Richard and Michael treated me like I was made of glass. As if one wrong move might break me into a thousand pieces.
Maybe they were not wrong, but I resented it. I wanted this whole nightmare finished, so we could go back to what we were.

To make everything worse, my period arrived, shutting down any possibility of sex to pull my mind away from it all, or to make me feel that we were still solid. We held each other, sure, and sometimes those embraces grew heated, but they always pulled back. I did not know if they were trying to be considerate, or if the idea of menstrual blood terrified them.

We could have done other things, things that did not involve making a mess of the hotel’s pristine bedding. But the guys showed no interest in getting creative.

After thirty-seven missed calls and a flood of insane messages, I finally blocked my mother’s number. I knew she had a room at the Northland Hotel. Richard and Michael had kept a security guard watching her, to prevent any more trouble from their father or Manfreidi while we waited for the arrests.

I was not charging her for poisoning my food, but the police would still question her, about my father’s death, the professor, the attempt on my life. Part of me hoped she could keep her composure. Another part wanted her to show them just how unhinged she truly was.

With her constant messages gone, the silence felt heavy. Too heavy. Richard had gone to work. Michael stayed to keep me company, but he was planted on the sofa, laptop open, files spread around him.

They insisted I use the writing desk. I sat rigid in the chair, fingers resting on my keyboard, trying to force out a romance chapter when I felt nothing close to love.

Maybe I should stop writing romance, I thought darkly. Maybe I should write a murder mystery instead.

I straightened in my seat. Maybe I could shape my father’s tragedy into a thriller.

The idea demanded space to breathe. And motion. I stood up quickly and moved toward the bedroom to change. Michael watched me, his eyebrows lifting. “Hey,” he objected, “the doctor said you need to rest for a few more days.”

“I am resting,” I said, pulling on my shoes. “I need to think. Bilateral movement helps creativity. It connects different kinds of thinking.”

“All right, if you say so. Wait, I’ll come with you.”

He was already in shorts and a t-shirt, so he was ready instantly. I took my water bottle, and we went down to the resort’s sleek, modern gym on the first floor.

The room was not large, but mirrors covered the walls to create the illusion of space. Everything was new—treadmills, stair climbers, weight machines, polished free weights. I chose the elliptical for something different.

Michael took the stationary bike closest to me. “Okay,” he said as I began to move. “But do not push yourself too hard.”

I dismissed his concern with a wave, put in my earbuds, and found my creative zone, a place I had not visited in weeks, buried under all the chaos. With my favorite music playing, I opened the notes app and started typing.

Though my father’s story inspired me, I did not want to ruin his memory with a poorly written book. So I used his death as a starting point, then began spinning something entirely new.

“Ah, shit.” Michael stopped pedaling and got off the bike. “I forgot my phone, and I have a Zoom meeting at two. I will be right back.” He shot me a look, a silent plea not to overdo it, then he rushed out.

I was already deep inside my own head.
What if the main character is a man, not a woman? What if it is his mother who vanishes mysteriously, instead of his father dying…

I barely registered the gym door opening. I could have checked the mirrors, but my gaze was locked on my phone, my thumbs flying. I had let go of the elliptical’s handles, using only my legs to keep the machine moving.

I assumed it was Michael returning, or maybe another guest coming in for a midday workout.

My music was loud, smothering every other sound. That is how he got right behind me, how he wrapped his hand in my ponytail and tore me backward off the machine. My phone flew from my grip. My back slammed onto the black rubber mats.

Before I could roll over, that same unseen hand began dragging me toward the door. I caught one brief look at a pair of ugly snakeskin cowboy boots before my head struck the legs of the weight bench.