Page 67 of Stealing His Cupcake (Stockholm Syndrome for the Win #2)

Amy

Clutching my temporary driver’s license to my chest, I leave the DVS office on shaky legs. I did it. I can legally drive now. It doesn’t feel real. Needing to share it with someone, I turn my phone on, forgetting all about driving and licenses when I see I have a missed call from Ethan.

Finally.

Even though a few days have passed since Wyatt left, I’m still very much in the pissed-off-Amy mode.

If anything, my anger has grown. Every time I wake up in an empty bed, every time I’m busy in the kitchen and start talking to Wyatt out of habit, convinced he’s sitting nearby with his crocheting or reading or just watching me, every time I want to fucking talk to someone, I get angrier at him for leaving me.

Sure, I have Kayla and we’ve talked a lot over the past few days, finally sharing all our secrets.

It’s funny how similar her story is to my own, in all aspects except for the ending.

Ethan might be insane, but he’s never even considered leaving her.

Perhaps I’m the faulty one here. My old insecurities bubble up to the surface, reminding me that no one ever really wanted to be with me. Even Wyatt only kidnapped me because he would have had to kill me as an eyewitness otherwise. Perhaps he never really wanted to be with me.

A hot flare of anger burns through the toxic thoughts. Whether he wanted me or not, Wyatt is now stuck with me. He’s mine and I’m getting him back.

The phone nearly slips from my fingers as I dial Ethan’s number. “Did you find him?” I blurt out the second he answers, not caring how rude it sounds.

“I think so,” Ethan replies.

“You think so? What kind of answer is that?”

I can almost hear him rolling his eyes. “See for yourself.”

A grainy security-camera photo appears on my screen, showing an unkempt homeless man chugging liquor straight from the bottle.

The next image shows the same man, now staring into the distance, the bottle clutched in bloodied knuckles.

His beard is longer than I’ve ever seen it and his hair is all tangled, but there’s no mistaking it.

The homeless drunk from the security footage is my husband. “Jesus Christ, he’s a mess.”

“Yeah,” Ethan agrees. “This was taken a few hours ago in a town about fifty miles from your house. He’s staying in a motel there under the name Norman Gates.

Paid in cash, so there’s no credit card trail, but I’ve confirmed it with the receptionist. They are expecting Mr. Gates’ wife to show up and surprise him. They’ll give you the key to his room.”

“Wow. Thanks, Ethan.” I haven’t even considered how I would get into Wyatt’s room, but it looks like Ethan has it all covered.

“No problem. Look…” There’s a pause during which I’m ordering an Uber to get me home.

Now that I can drive, I can finally stop using the app.

“Are you sure about this, Amy?” Ethan asks, sounding concerned.

“Wyatt is dangerous and if he’s drunk… Kayla would be gutted if something happened to you and I can’t let that happen. ”

A memory of Craig slurring drunkenly and slapping me flashes in front of my eyes, but I push it away. Wyatt is not Craig. “He won’t hurt me. Drunk or not, I’m safe with him. ”

“Okay. But what if he doesn’t want to talk to you? Have you considered that he might simply run away again? If he’s convinced he doesn’t deserve you, he might not be willing to even hear you out.”

“I have considered that, and I have a plan. Does ketamine do what I think it does?” I never thought I’d be asking for advice from a serial killer, but I guess this is my life now.

“Yes, but it’s difficult to obtain.”

My phone pinging with a notification lets me know my ride is approaching even as a car pulls over in front of the DVS. “I already have a healthy supply,” I reply, keeping my words vague enough not to arouse the driver’s suspicion.

Ethan laughs. “Ah, you found your husband’s stash?

Well, I hope he’ll appreciate the irony of being taken down by his own drugs.

Ketamine is fine. He probably has the laced version with accelerated onset, but if he doesn’t, be careful.

It might take three to five minutes for the substance to take effect. A lot can happen in five minutes.”

“He won’t hurt me,” I repeat, certain of it. No matter what happens, Wyatt would never hurt me. “How much should I use? There wasn’t exactly a step-by-step guide.”

“Call me when you have it at hand and I’ll walk you through it,” Ethan replies, laughing again. “You know, this is normally not the kind of advice I supply to my clients.”

I snort. “Yeah, I can imagine. Thanks.”

“No problem. Just don’t get yourself killed. I don’t want to deal with a heartbroken Kayla.”

“Don’t worry. There’s zero chance of that happening. I’ll call you when I get home.”

Hanging up, I absently stare at my hand or, more specifically, at the ring now adorning my ring finger.

Remembering Wyatt’s joke about not looking behind the loose panel behind the washing machine, I searched the place hoping to find something that would reveal where he’s hiding.

Instead, I found drugs, money, and a small package addressed to Wyatt.

Noticing it had been delivered the day after our wedding, I curiously looked inside the already open box and found this particular bomb.

A wedding ring. A beautiful wedding ring in exactly my size, tucked in a hole in the wall behind a fucking washing machine.

According to the receipt, Wyatt ordered the ring on our wedding night and had it speed-delivered the next day.

Judging by the opened package, he must have taken it out and then…

What? Decided he didn’t want to give it to me anymore?

Maybe he didn’t want to be married to me at all?

Well, screw him. I am his wife, so this ring is mine and I will wear it.

He can have the outline of it marking his face after I punch the bastard.

As you can see, I’m getting pretty good at this whole turning-pain-into-anger thing. And I have a lot of pain to go through.

At home, I check the duffel I’ve had packed since I called Ethan, confirming everything I will need is inside.

With Ethan’s help, I prepare two syringes with the drug, with a dosage that will only knock out a man of Wyatt’s size for about an hour, safely stashing them in my pocket.

I am not giving Wyatt a chance to run away from me again. Ever.