Empire of Lies

Meredith Now

NYPD Crime Watch Tip Submission Form

I would like to report a malicious murder for hire plot that involves my soon to be ex-husband, Michael Anderson (owner of the Fahrenheit 900 Club) and Leonardo Thatchwood, billionaire CEO, i.e., my father.

My father hired the former to murder me, but Mr. Anderson took it upon himself to hold me captive, in an isolated house, for what he claimed was my “best interest.” He lied to the media and reporters, along with Mr. Thatchwood, and I would like the truth to come to the light A-fucking-SAP.

Although I am clearly still alive and in another country, I seem to have misplaced my passport, so I’m unable to return to the United States of America at this time.

I truly believe that both of these men belong in prison, and I am willing to testify at both of their trials.

I have a prepaid phone and a number where I can be reached once you receive this tip.

Sincerely,

Meredith A. Thatchwood

555-786-5019

I stare at my words on the submission form, waiting for the alcohol that’s currently coursing through my veins to give me the courage to hit send. This is the seventh day in a row that I’ve come into the resort’s computer lab and typed these same words.

My incessant stalling is due to the fact that my mind and my heart are playing on opposite sides of the field: Emotions on offense, thoughts on defense. And every night, when the tears soak my pillow, I suffer through a never-ending tug of war between the two. There’s never a clear-cut wi

To make matters worse, I still wake up from time to time, in the middle of the night, and rub my clit to the thoughts of Michael’s face, unable to ever think of another man who can dominate me in the bedroom like he does. Whenever I’m on the edge of an orgasm, I can’t help but think about the way his mouth always knew the right way to pleasure me for hours. The way he filled me with his cock and owned my body with every stroke.

Stay focused, Meredith. Stay focused on the goddamn crime report and hit send…

My finger hovers over the return key, but my heart steps in for an unexpected block. It still beats a different tempo for Michael, still doesn’t understand how I could ever lump him into the same category with my father.

Sighing, I lean back and open a new browsing tab for YouTube, typing the words, “Initial Police Presser for Meredith Thatchwood.”

Not a day has gone by that I haven’t watched and re-watched all of my father’s press conferences about my disappearance, wondering why the hell no one has nominated him for a real-life Academy Award. I’ve tried posting anonymous threads on their public tip site to report what he’s done, and they’ve finally blocked my fake email address after sending me twenty of their standard “Submitting false reports to the police department can be considered a crime,” in return, every time.

For whatever reason, I can’t bring myself to call anyone—not even Gillian, but it’s not by choice. Anytime I even think about using the phone in my suite, I remember the short, curt note that Michael stuffed at the bottom of my duffle bag.

Meredith,

It’s in your best interest that you follow my instructions.

Do not make any phone calls while you’re in Mexico.

Do not talk to anyone while you’re in Mexico.

Do not fucking trust anyone.

You’re welcome for saving your life.

--M

Shaking my head, I delete my words from the Crime Submission form and log out of the computer. My heart wins this round again, but I know logic will have its chance sooner or later.

I make my way to the resort’s luxury bar/gift shop and make a mental note to grab one of the “I love Mexico” vibrators that I’ve been eyeing for the past few weeks.

“Welcome to the Agua Bar.” A man in all white steps in front of me. He hands me a menu as I take a seat at a booth.

“Tell me whatever you want when you’re ready,” he says, setting a bright pink margarita in front of me. “This one is on me.”

“No, it’s on me.” A guy in a black polo shirt and inked sleeves suddenly takes a seat next to me. “You mind if I join you?”

“Actually, I was hoping to sit here alone and think.” I give him a fake smile. “No offense.”

“None taken.” He smiles, but he doesn’t move. He leans back against the leather booth, looking up at the waiter. “She’ll have a Bloody Mary. As will I.”

I debate getting up and moving to another booth. “I’m not really—”

“Into Bloody Marys?” he asks, smiling. “This bar makes some of the best ones. You’re missing out if you haven’t tried any.”

“No, it’s not that… I’m uh…” I feel my fake smile fading as Michael’s “Do not fucking trust anyone…” sounds in my head. “I’m actually here waiting on my husband. It’s our honeymoon.”

“Can’t be,” he says, looking at my wedding ring. “A man who married a woman like you would never let his bride out of his sight, especially on a honeymoon. Well, a man like me anyway.”

“We’re not attached at the hip like that,” is all I can manage to say.

“No?” He shrugs. “Well, in that case, I’ll just move when your husband arrives, yeah?”

Get the fuck up and run, Meredith. Now.

I say nothing, and I can’t move as fast as I want to. I’ve drunk too much alcohol hours prior.

“Lighten up,” he says, his smile widening. “I’m not trying to overstep my boundaries. I’m just working on my social skills and my English. I probably shouldn’t have said that last line. My apologies.”

“It’s okay...” I look around for an exit, then I notice him staring hard at my wedding ring.

“What does your husband do for a living, if you don’t mind me asking?” he asks.

“He works in real estate.” I lie. “He can sell you a house in New York if you’re looking.”

“So, you’re from New York…” He’s still staring at my wedding ring. “Is that where you got that ring from?”

My heart begins to race as another guy enters the bar and sits right next to him, placing a gun on the table.

“I’m not sure what you’re expecting from me,” I say, swallowing. “I think I need to go now.”

“I just want to know where you got that ring from.” His voice is suddenly harsh and cold, his English more than perfectly clear. “That’s all I’m asking.”

“I don’t know.” I push my drink away. “My husband never told me.”

“You probably should’ve asked.” He suddenly leans closer and grabs my hand, holding it up under the upside-down canteen light. “It’s about five carats, right?”

“Nah.” His friend answers for me. “That’s thirteen. Fifteen if you count the tiny stones on that criss-cross band.”

“That’s a lot of carats,” he says, looking at me. “Your husband must really love the way you fuck. That, or you have one hell of a lifestyle back in the states.”

My mouth struggles to say a word, my brain is useless. The only thing I can feel is a sudden rush of fear coursing through my veins.

“I mean, if you’re wearing that much on your finger, I can only imagine how much you’re really worth to someone.” He’s still holding my hand. “I actually recognize this designer’s work. It’s the first thing I noticed when I saw you here last week…” He trails the edge of his nail against the design, slowly circling the silver spiders that hold the clasp. Then he touches the tiny king and queen chess pieces that are etched into both sides of the band.