Page 69

CHAPTER 69

BAIL OUT

DEX

T he humidity in Sunset Cay doesn’t let up, even in December. It’s as if the weather mocks the chaos unfolding in Margaux’s life—unchanging, oppressive, suffocating. I sit in my quiet apartment, eyes fixed on my multiple monitors, the feed from her jail cell streaming on one screen, Timmy’s erratic movements mapped out on another. My coffee grows cold beside me, untouched.

Margaux’s been through hell. And today, hell looks like a paper-thin outfit in a jail cell.

I bet she didn’t have ‘going to jail’ on this year’s bingo card—or on her overall life’s bingo card.

When the notification about her arrest pinged on my phone, I almost destroyed the keyboard trying to pull up the police reports. The audacity of him— her abuser—calling the cops on her and spinning some half-baked story about being the victim.

I want to smash his smug face into the asphalt. I want to burn his pathetic existence to the ground.

He accused her of pulling his hair? I’ll show him what it looks like to have each hair pulled out one by one until he’s fucking bald.

But I can’t. Not yet. She’s not ready.

The feed from the jail’s internal cameras flickers to life, a sterile gray-blue hue bathing the screen. There she is, curled on the cold concrete, her paper uniform crinkled awkwardly around her limbs. Even through the grainy footage, I can see the exhaustion etched into her face, the tension in her shoulders.

My stomach twists.

Does she even realize how close she’s come to breaking? How precarious this situation is? How many lines he’s crossed—how many she’s allowed him to cross?

I swallow hard, my jaw clenched tight enough to ache. Every instinct I have screams at me to take matters into my own hands, but I can’t act until she’s ready to let go of him. And right now? She’s still tethered to some thread of hope, some misplaced belief that this can be salvaged.

When they move her to the downtown facility, I switch feeds. The cameras there are older, the angles worse, but I manage to find her again. She’s in a cell with other women now—some tweaking, others hardened by years of this cycle.

Margaux sticks out like a sore thumb, her pale skin and ginger hair practically glowing in the dim light. She’s scared but holding it together.

I admire that about her—her resilience, even in the face of absolute bullshit.

The other women seem to warm up to her, eventually. One even laughs at something she says.

Good. She needs allies, even temporary ones—even if they’re jail cellmates.

On another screen, I monitor Timmy’s movements. His phone’s GPS is a useful tool for me—a way to track his pathetic attempts at a life. Today, he’s already spent hours at the meth tents, a familiar haunt for him now. He’s back at the apartment by noon, but only briefly, before heading to the beach and then the 7-Eleven that’s become his second home.

I shake my head, disgusted. He’s unraveling, too. Not that he was ever held together by much to begin with.

I look on as Margaux is eventually released from jail, barefoot and wearing the paper clothes, her shoulders hunched against the weight of it all.

Then it hits me—in domestic violence cases, the accused can’t return home except to get basic possessions.

I look on at the apartment’s feeds in horror as I realize Timmy isn’t home, and the police officer escorting her won’t let her in.

Timmy has essentially left her in the worst part of the Cay, with no money, no shoes, and a dying phone.

A man who claims to love her—who promised to protect her—instead had her arrested on a fabricated charge. And now she’s stuck navigating a world of dodgy drug users and predators, barely clothed and without a lifeline.

She’s not safe. Not at all.

She’s alone, vulnerable, and stranded in a situation that could spiral at any moment. I can’t stop picturing her walking those sketchy streets, surrounded by predators who would take one look at her and see an easy target. My stomach twists.

It’s unconscionable. It’s unforgivable.

And it’s exactly why he needs to be removed from her life.

But if there are two things that Margaux is—other than beautiful, the woman of my dreams, extremely loyal and stubborn—she’s resilient as fuck, and a creative problem-solver.

Relief washes over me as she manages to get into the apartment to retrieve essential possessions, as well as Sabre. The jalousie windows are smashed, shards of glass glittering on the floor like evidence of Timmy’s destruction. Sabre nuzzles against her as she gathers her essentials, his quiet purr a stark contrast to the chaos around them.

I track Timmy’s movements as he loiters nearby, waiting to see what she’ll do. He’s predictable in his unpredictability, and it only fuels my anger.

If he so much as looks at her the wrong way, I’ll...

I stop myself, my hands trembling. I can’t act yet. Not until she’s ready. Not until she’s free of him in every sense.

She gets an Uber to a hotel downtown, a place I know well—one of the few spots she’s claimed as her own, even if he’s tried to taint it. Through her phone’s camera, I catch glimpses of the room. Seeing Sabre sprawled on the bed, purring like nothing’s wrong, brings a small, fleeting smile to my face.

She texts Alice, venting about the absurdity of it all. I read the messages as they come in, each one a punch to the gut. She’s spiraling, questioning herself, blaming herself for things that aren’t her fault.

She doesn’t see it yet, but she’s starting to pull away from Timmy. The distance—physical and emotional—is growing. It’s not enough, but it’s a start. Maybe this jail visit and subsequent order to stay away is a blessing in disguise.

On the feed from Timmy’s phone, I watch him stumble back to the apartment late at night, reeking of bad decisions. His smirk as he passes the security guard is infuriating. But he has no idea how much of his life I control—how much of his digital footprint I’ve corrupted.

I’ve planted enough breadcrumbs to keep Margaux doubting him, to make her see the cracks in his facade.

But still, she hesitates.

He’s just so talented at explaining everything away, using word salad to make Margaux doubt and blame herself.

The next few days are quiet. Margaux writes, she rests, and she finds small moments of peace in the chaos.

And yet, she checks his location obsessively, as if needing to confirm that he’s as awful as she knows he is.

He doesn’t disappoint—meth tents, late-night trips to nowhere, hours spent with people who don’t care about him any more than he cares about himself.

I catch snippets of her surveillance on him, his patterns painting an unflattering picture of the aimless derelict loser that Timmy is in a way that’s hard for her to ignore.

She’s finally noticing his patterns, the truth she’s been avoiding for months.

But even now—despite taking screenshots—she second-guesses herself, her compassion clouding her judgment.

I lean back in my chair, running a hand through my hair.

She’s so close. So close to walking away for good.

But she needs one last push—a moment of clarity that shatters the illusion he’s built around her.

I wonder if having gone to jail will be enough—the final nudge she needs. It’s a huge deal, and it might be enough. I’ll just have to see how this plays out.

Until then, I’ll be here, ready to pick up the pieces when it all comes crashing down.

Because it will.

In relationships like this, it always does.

And when this ends—and it will end—I’ll make sure she never has to feel this kind of fear again.