“Sure,” I say, taking another step back. Each step he takes toward me, I take one away from him. I hope I am getting closer to the door. I hope Griffin will get back here soon. “I get it. You’re rich. Congratulations.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I can see why my son likes you. You’re both wise-asses who probably know a little too much for your own good. Like your father. Did you know I knew your father? He used to work for me.”
“Yes, I knew that,” I say.
“Tragic, what happened to him. Your mother, too. You see, your father, Jill, was one of those ignorant men who liked to get in the way if he felt things were not being carried out in a fair and just manner. Rather noble of him, if you think about it, but naïve. For a while, I considered him one of my best employees. He really cared about doing a good job. But then he started sticking his nose in places it didn’t belong. Started asking questions, and then, when he didn’t like the answers, started demanding that we change the way we did things.”
“So he wanted things done right,” I say. “I don’t see anything wrong with that.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it; it just depends on what your definition of ‘right’ is. And unfortunately for your father, our definitions didn’t quite match up. And he wasn’t willing to just accept that. So something had to be done. He had to be taken care of. Though I’d like to assure you, I certainly was not the one to do it. I actually had very little involvement in the whole thing, if you want to know the truth. But people will do all sorts of things to protect what’s important to them.” He takes another step. “Are you still following me, Jill?”
Hearing him say my name makes my stomach turn. He stares at me with his pale blue eyes, like nothing more than Arctic ice with the tiniest bit of light shining through. His lips are thin and his face is tight, pinched. I look at him and see nothing that resembles Griffin in the least.
“I’m going to go,” I say. My voice trembles and I swallow. “I’d rather not have this conversation with you, Mr. Alexander.”
And then he’s there in front of me lightning fast, his face inches from mine. It seems impossible that he could’ve crossed that distance so quickly, but here he is, his breath hot on my face. He grins. He is only a few inches taller than me, and slim, but he is surprisingly strong. When his hands wrap around my throat, I am surprised that I can’t immediately remove them. I can’t budge them at all, and in fact, he’s only squeezing tighter and it feels like he’s about to crush my windpipe. I flail wildly at his face, his arms, but it’s like he’s locked in and there is nothing that will loosen his grip. My body tingles. The color drains from everything, his face, the room, it’s all black and white. A sound like white noise, or the ocean waves, starts to build in my ears, and gets louder, louder. My mouth falls open but no sounds comes out, there’s nothing but the rushing noise and this intense pressure like a balloon filled to the point of popping and then . . . nothing.
Chapter 27: Griffin
I wake up with a jolt, like someone just dumped a bucket of ice cold water over me. I can tell by the light it’s still early, earlier than I’d be getting up at the ranch, even. I sit there for a minute, trying to remember if I’d just been having a crazy nightmare or something. I look to my right and see that Jill’s side of the bed is empty. There is a bathroom connected to this room, and I can see that the door is open and the light is off. A strange feeling is coursing through my veins, like someone just shot me up with a dose of anxiety and fear. I kick back the covers and get out of bed, feeling like some sort of animal that can sense a particularly bad storm before it hits.
It’s quiet in the hallway. I stand there for a second and wonder if maybe I’m going crazy. What the hell do I think could actually be happening? But then I hear something; it sounds like Jill, though I can’t make out exactly what she’s saying. I hurry down to the study.
He lets go of her the second I step into the room and Jill collapses in a heap on the floor. He stumbles back as though she’s pushed him, and he’s laughing.
“It’s too late,” he says. “There’s nothing you can do.”
I rush over to her and can see the marks he’s left on her throat, bright red, stark against her white skin. Suddenly, her body jerks slightly and she coughs, this terrible, dry wheezing sound. I’m kneeling down next to her when her chest heaves; her eyes are still closed but she’s gasping and coughing, trying to draw in a breath.
“Jilly,” I say. “You’re okay. Come back to me.” The color slowly starts to return to her face and her eyes flutter.
“I don’t believe it,” my father says from behind me. Out of the corner of my eye I see him move toward his desk, where I know he keeps his .45, top right hand drawer. He’ll shoot us both, but the drawer is locked, so it buys me enough time to bypass him before he can reach the desk and take him down.
We land hard on the ground but he twists out from under me, scrambling to get onto his feet. He kicks, connects with my side, but I don’t feel a thing. I grab his leg and yank him toward me. I clench both fists and let his face have it; he screams when the cartilage in his nose shatters, he spits up blood and fragments of teeth.
I went on a fox hunt, once, when we vacationed in Devon, England. I don’t remember much about that vacation, except the way the hounds ripped apart that little red fox once they had it cornered in front of a crumbling brick wall. They couldn’t have been called off; they’d tasted blood, they were in a frenzy, they didn’t stop until there was nothing left. I think of this, suddenly, of those dogs, and I think I could be just like them and go on pummeling my father’s face until there’s nothing left.
But I stop.
I stand up, slowly, as he spits up more blood and rolls to his side, groaning. Jill is sitting up, leaning against the wall, rubbing the side of her neck. Her eyes widen as I approach and I realize it’s because I’m covered in blood.
“It’s not mine,” I say, kneeling down in front of her. “Come on, we have to get you out of here.” I pull one of her arms over my shoulders and gently help her stand. I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial 911.
“I need a police officer over here,” I say, giving the dispatcher the address.
“Come again?” she says.
“This is not a prank,” I say and repeat the address. I look at my father, who is rolling onto his hands and knees. “I need an ambulance, as well. Send an officer now. Send a few. Do whatever you have to do and get someone down here.”