Page 9 of Frankie and the Fed

“Ryan. Put me on a flight to San Francisco.”

“What are you going to do?”

“What do you think? Put me on a flight now.” I go to my bedroom, grab a small suitcase, and start shoving clothes inside.

I hear Ryan on the phone, doing as I asked. Thank God for Ryan. I’m not sure what will happen when I get there, but I have to get into that house and get her out of there, even if it costs me everything I have.

I walk back into the living room, dragging the small suitcase behind me.

“Is everything confirmed?” I growl.

“Already sending you the details.” Ryan nods, still busy on the phone.

I look at the smashed phone on the floor. It wasn’t the smartest thing on my part. I can’t go without a phone. I can’t risk Ayala not being able to contact me.

I take Ayala’s device and change out the SIM cards. When she comes back to me, I’ll buy her a new phone, a better one. Hell, I’ll buy her anything she wants.

Could she be hospitalized? Is it possible he put her in a psychiatric hospital like he told the cops?

No. I’m sure he didn’t. Ayala told me she never saw the psychiatrist who signed the documents. That it was all fake, and I believe her. He’s faking it again.

“I’m going out to the airport,” I tell Ryan, already on my way out. There’s is no time to waste.

CHAPTER4

Ayala

Ibarely open my eyes.

One eye hurts too much and refuses to open. I try a little harder and open it into a slit, hoping to see more clearly. The world around me is blurry. Is this what heaven looks like? Or hell?

I blink, trying to figure out where I am. The door and windows are closed shut, and terrible darkness surrounds me, preventing me from knowing how much time has passed or what time of day or night it is now. The surface under me is soft. I’m on a bed, still in the bedroom. I’m alive.

My arms hurt, and my mouth is heavy and swollen. My face burns with pounding pain. I reach for my face to check my wounds, but my arm doesn’t move. I pull harder and startle when I hear a metallic sound. I suddenly realize that both my hands are above my head.

I try to look up to see what’s making the sound. It hurts so damn much. I glimpse the silver metal surrounding my wrists.

Handcuffs.

I’m handcuffed to the bed, to its iron frame. I pull again but only get a burning sensation in my joints. I have no way out of this. My heart races, and panic washes over me. He never did such things before. Handcuffs? I don’t know him anymore. He murdered Robin. He’s a murderer.

This is a nightmare. I can’t possibly have married this...thing. This evil thing.

The door opens, and I cringe, trying desperately to disappear, to be transparent, but I’m not. I’m still here, tied to the bed, unable to move.

“Oh, so you’re finally awake.”

“Let me go, Michael,” I say in a soft voice, trying to convince him he’s making a mistake, that he’s not like this.

“You brought this on yourself, whore. It’s too late now.”

I try a different approach, even though the thought alone makes me sick to my stomach. “I love you. Let me go.”

He furrows his eyebrows. “You love me?”

“Yes. You’re my husband. We can go back to the way we were before. I can come home, and we can be together. I’ll make you the food you like. Do you remember how we were in the beginning? You liked that.”

He comes closer to me and reaches for my crotch. I can’t stop my physical reaction and cringe. He smiles. “I thought so.”