Chapter 124
Evelyn's POV
The kidnappers had said they were watching, and even if that was partially bluff, I couldn't risk them intercepting communications or realizing I had access to a private military contractor. If they figured out I was anything other than a panicked civilian, they might cut their losses and kill Adrian immediately.
I needed to be smart about this. Careful. I needed to play the role they expected—the helpless woman, dependent on others, easily frightened into compliance.
I forced myself to take slow, steady breaths, letting the fever-weakened trembling in my hands work in my favor as I got dressed. I looked exactly like what I was supposed to be: a woman barely recovered from a high fever, stressed and frightened by a kidnapping threat, operating on emotion rather than strategy.
Perfect.
I grabbed my purse and phone, made sure my hands were shaking just enough to be visible, and headed for the elevator. My mind was already three steps ahead, planning and discarding options with the cold efficiency that five years in Vorkuta had beaten into my bones.
The parking garage. I needed to get to my car, needed to look like I was genuinely trying to comply with their demands. And I needed a way to contact Julian that wouldn't raise any red flags.
The elevator descended with agonizing slowness, each floor marked by a soft chime that seemed to echo the pounding of my heart. I kept my breathing shallow and rapid, the way someone in genuine panic would breathe, even as my mind remained ice-cold and calculating.
The parking garage was dim and quiet, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows across rows of expensive vehicles. I walked toward my designated spot with steps that looked hurried and unsteady, my eyes scanning the surrounding area with peripheral vision while keeping my head down in a posture of submission and fear.
My car sat alone in its spot, no black Mercedes nearby. Julian's car was gone—of course it was gone, he'd left after I'd driven him away with my cruelty and cowardice. But the absence of his vehicle gave me an idea.
A risky, desperate idea that relied entirely on Julian being smart enough to read between the lines.
I pulled out my phone with shaking hands—genuinely shaking now, from adrenaline and residual fever and the desperate hope that this insane plan might actually work—and dialed the number for the kidnappers. It rang twice before that distorted voice answered, impatient and slightly annoyed.
"What now? You're not supposed to call this number unless you have proof of the wire transfer."
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I said, letting my voice crack with what sounded like genuine distress. "I was trying to leave, to go to the bank to start the transfer process, but there's a car blocking mine in the garage. I can't get out. I don't—" I took a shaky breath, playing up the helpless civilian angle. "Can I call 311? To have them contact the owner to move it? I don't want to cause any trouble, I just need to get to the bank and I can't—"
"Jesus Christ." The disgust in the distorted voice was palpable. "You're calling me about a parking problem? Are you fucking serious?"
"I'm sorry, I just didn't know if I was allowed to call anyone, you said not to involve the authorities and I didn't know if 311 counted as—"
"It's a parking hotline, not the goddamn FBI," the voice snapped. "Call whoever you want about your car. Just get the money transferred before the deadline or your stepson starts losing fingers. Understand?"
"Yes, yes, I understand, I'm sorry—"
The line went dead.
I stood there for a moment, letting out a breath that was only partially performance. They'd bought it. Thought I was exactly the kind of person who would panic over a blocked car and need permission to call a municipal hotline. The kind of person who could be controlled through threats and intimidation because she had no resources of her own, no ability to think strategically under pressure.
Good. Let them think that.
I dialed 311 with fingers that had stopped shaking now that I had a concrete plan in motion. The operator answered after two rings, her voice professionally pleasant.
"311, how may I help you?"
"Hi, yes, I'm in the parking garage of my building and there's a vehicle blocking my car," I said, keeping my tone flustered but polite. "I need to get out for an emergency, but I can't reach the owner. Is there any way you could help me contact them?"
"Of course, ma'am. I can put out a request to have the vehicle owner contacted. Can you provide me with the license plate number?"
I recited Julian's plate number from memory, the combination of letters and numbers I'd memorized without meaning to during all those nights when his car had been parked next to mine. When we'd still been together. When I hadn't destroyed everything with my fear and self-sabotage.
"And your callback number in case the owner needs to reach you directly?"
I gave her my cell number, thanked her with what I hoped sounded like genuine gratitude rather than calculated manipulation, and hung up.
Now all I could do was wait. Wait for Julian to get the notification from 311 about a car that wasn't actually in my parking garage. Wait for him to realize that I wouldn't make a false report unless it was an emergency I couldn't communicate directly. Wait for him to put together that something was desperately wrong and I needed his help but couldn't ask for it openly.
I leaned against my car, letting my head fall back against the cool metal, and prayed that he was smart enough—that he knew me well enough—to read between the lines.