Empire of Lies

Meredith Now

1 out of 5 stars

Dear fellow Goodreads.com reviewers,

This is not a book review. I’m writing this here, on this book’s page, in hopes that someone will see this before I’ll be forced to delete it.

My name is Meredith Alexis Thatchwood, and my husband—Michael Anderson—has kidnapped me. He is currently holding me against my will in a mansion, in the middle of nowhere. (From what I remember from the last time I managed to escape, the place is five miles away from the Genessee River, past a drive of overgrown maple trees. Some street names nearby are Ardmore Lane, Pine Avenue, and Trellis Cove.)

If you help me, I promise that my father—Leonardo Thatchwood—will reward you for alerting the police to my whereabouts.

PLEASE call 1-888-MER-TIPS and show them this review. Please tell them I’m still alive…and please contact Gillian Weston and show this review to her, too.

Please help me,

Meredith

Comment from InLovewithBooks: Ugh. These indie authors are getting on my damn nerves. Stop promoting your book blurbs on other author’s book pages! (And why would you post this as a 1-star?)

Comment from TheDNF-Queen: She left out, “Help me, I’m poor! Please BUY MY BOOK!” I’m sure that’s what she was going for with this pandering-ass review/blurb. SMH. (She probably posted it as a 1-star since those are the ones we all read first BAHAHA!)

Comment from RomanceHeart: I hope you’re not going to buy her book, TheDNFQueen! And I’m with InLovewithBooks. What is it with these newer indie authors? #theaudacity

Comment from TheDNF-Queen: I just googled the woman who she’s claiming to be and this Thatchwood woman has been missing FOR REAL for eight weeks. Like, she’s using a real-life tragedy to sell her book. SAD. I’m blocking this author.

I stop reading the comment thread and scream as loudly as I can into a pillow. I’m tempted to throw the cell phone against the wall, but I’ll only be hurting myself.

The phone is a “gift” that Michael left on the table for me last week, but there’s nothing to thank him for. It can’t make calls or send text messages, it has no email or web search functions, and there is no way for me to turn off the restricted controls, snap pictures, or even check the damn time. What I have left is the super basic version of Netflix, access to a curated YouTube, and the ability to post reviews (but not comment or message) via Goodreads.

I also have access to seeing a delayed version of Gillian’s Instagram, but it brings me to tears each time I load the page.

Every other day, she posts a different picture of us when we lived together—along with a long and beautifully worded caption, and I know that she’s still crying herself to sleep.

She’s had to turn off all the comments, since her fans only want to know about her next book. I’m pretty sure the comment that sealed the deal was from mmrr025 two days ago: Can you give us an idea of when you THINK you’ll be normal again? With all due respect, I think Meredith would want you to publish that new book! She was your FAN, too!

Even with these new glimpses that I’m allowed to take of the outside world, most of my free time is spent wandering through this gilded prison—looking for new ways to get the hell out of it.

I may cry myself to sleep here or there, spend a few hours longing for the days when my husband would fuck me with his mouth during the afternoons with an unparalleled passion, instead of staring at me blankly from across a chessboard, but I refuse to feel sorry for myself.

I’m going to get away from him within the next couple of weeks. Come hell or high water.

Grabbing my watch and my journal, I walk over to my bedroom’s locked balcony and look up at the cameras that guard the terrace.

9:05…9:06…9:07…Left balcony camera shuts off and restarts. Right balcony camera doesn’t pick up the slack for twenty-one seconds…

I move to the hallway and wait for fifteen minutes, writing down those camera patterns. The cameras above the winding staircase are too high for me to see, but I’m willing to bet that they’re on the same schedule as the ones in the main living room.

When I make it into the kitchen to check the cameras above the cabinets, I stop at the sight of Michael standing in front of the stove. Dressed in all-black, with the sleeves of his button-down shirt pushed up to the elbows, he’s staring intently into the skillet—looking sexy as fuck.

His shirt is clinging to his muscles in all the right places, his perfect, chiseled jawline is freshly shaved, and from here, I can smell a hint of his intoxicating cologne.

I notice that he has a new tattoo on his left hand—a grey spotted spider that’s far smaller than any of his other ones. He’s also wearing a new watch, a Patek Phillippe that costs what my entire inheritance is worth. It’s almost as if he’s making a statement.

Noticing me, he turns around and smiles, sending unwanted butterflies fluttering against my stomach. He stares at me for several seconds, looking me up and down—fucking me with his gorgeous green eyes.

Suddenly, images of late-night sex in my condo, kissing him in the back of a cab, and his daily flower delivery from before invade my mind. My heart swells at the memories, but the frames quickly dissolve and give way to the darker pictures of our story: Him stuffing me into a van after our honeymoon, him lying about loving me, and his insistence on keeping me here.

I hate to admit it to myself, but this man can still turn me on and wet my panties within seconds. Criminal kidnapper or not, he’s still the sexiest man on the planet, and he knows exactly how to look and what to say to get under my skin.

“Good morning, Meredith,” he says. “Did you sleep well last night? Have you completed the daily swimming laps that I now require you to do?”

I don’t answer. I head toward the breakfast bar and lean against the counter, looking at my phone. With any luck, the breakfast box that drops via drone every morning will be here soon, and I can return to my room.

“Anything interesting happening in the news lately?” he asks. “Oh, that’s right. You can’t access those things. If you’d like, I can update you on where the police are on your case.”

Don’t react to him, Meredith. Don’t react. I suck in a breath and open my Goodreads review to read more upset comments about my post.

“It’s such a shame,” he says. “Some of the people on social media are starting to think that your husband has something to do with your disappearance. They don’t seem to care that the cops have cleared me, and there’s evidence to the contrary.”

I grit my teeth and keep my eyes glued to the screen, as he steps closer to me. He gently grabs the phone from my hands, forcing me to look up at him, to stand up a bit straighter.

“I’m not sure I’m a fan of this extended silent treatment, Meredith,” he says, looking into my eyes. “It’s not really fair, given the circumstances and all I’ve done for you.”

I bite my tongue to prevent myself from saying, “You haven’t done shit for me,” but I can feel the words begging to be freed.

“We have to leave here in a few weeks,” he says, his voice low. “So, it’s in your best interest to—”

“Talk to you?” I cut him off, unable to hold in my emotions anymore. “You honestly expect me to talk to you and act like this shit is normal? Like I’m actually happy to be your wife?”