Chapter 3

A sudden, sharp knock on the lounge door made Ginger flinch.

"Ginger? Are you in there?" a woman' s voice called from the other side. "Everything okay?"

A sliver of hope cut through my despair. Someone was out there. They would help me.

I opened my mouth to shout, but Ginger shot me a look of pure poison. She put a finger to her lips in a gesture of mock secrecy, then a cruel smile spread across her face.

She smoothed her suit, composed herself in an instant, and walked to the door.

She opened it a crack, blocking the view into the room with her body. Two other assistants, both younger women in similar corporate attire, stood in the hallway.

"What is it?" Ginger asked, her tone back to its usual crisp, professional command.

"We heard shouting," one of the assistants said, peering past Ginger, trying to see inside. "We thought maybe there was a problem."

Ginger laughed lightly, a completely fabricated sound. "A problem? No, just taking out the trash."

She stepped aside just enough for them to see me, a pathetic heap on the floor, surrounded by the mess of my life.

The two women looked at me. There was no sympathy in their eyes. Just a cold, dismissive contempt that mirrored Ginger' s.

"Oh," the first one said. "Another one."

"She claimed she was Mr. Moran' s sister this time," Ginger said with a roll of her eyes. "They' re getting more creative, I' ll give them that."

The second assistant, a blonde with a sharp nose, chimed in. "Did you see her shoes? I wouldn' t be caught dead in those."

They all chuckled. They were a pack, and I was the prey. My hope died as quickly as it had been born. These people weren't here to help. They were here to watch.

Ginger' s eyes flicked back to me, and she noticed the phone lying on the floor. A new wave of anger crossed her face.

"Did you think you were going to call someone?" she hissed, stepping back into the room and shutting the door again.

I scrambled for the phone, my fingers fumbling with the cracked screen. I had to call someone. The hospital. The police. Anyone.

My thumb managed to hit the emergency call button just as Ginger' s shoe came down on my hand.

I screamed as a sharp, agonizing pain shot up my arm. The phone skidded out of my grasp.

Ginger picked it up. She looked at the screen.

"Trying to call 911? To tell them what? That you were trespassing and I asked you to leave?" she sneered.

She turned the phone over in her hand. On the back was a faded sticker of a sunflower, one Alia had put there years ago. It was our favorite flower. Damon used to bring them to our mom.

Ginger' s eyes narrowed. "Where did you get this?"

"It' s just a sticker," I choked out, cradling my throbbing hand.

"Don' t lie to me!" she snapped. "Mr. Moran has a sunflower tattooed on his wrist. I' ve seen it. Are you trying to copy him? Is that part of your pathetic little fantasy?"

She was delusional. The tattoo was in memory of our mother. He got it the year before he left.

Before I could explain, she threw the phone to the ground. Then she stomped on it, once, twice, a third time with a sickening crunch of plastic and glass. The screen went black. The sunflower sticker was obliterated.

My last connection to the outside world was gone.

"There," she said, breathing heavily. "No more calls."

The fury in her seemed to have broken its leash. She grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked my head back.

"You have caused me so much trouble today," she spat, her face inches from mine. "You come into my building, you lie to my face, you waste my time."

She shoved me again, and I fell back against the wall, my head smacking against the hard surface.

"I think you need a more permanent reminder to stay away."

She looked around the room, her eyes landing on a pot of coffee left on a burner. A dark idea formed in her eyes.

"You look cold," she said with a malicious grin. "Let' s warm you up."

She grabbed the glass coffee pot. It was still half full. Steam was rising from the spout.

My eyes widened in terror.

"No, please, don' t!"

She ignored me. She walked toward me, the hot coffee pot held like a weapon. The two other assistants, who had slipped into the room behind her, just stood by the door and watched, their faces a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity. They were her accomplices now, their silence a form of consent.

This wasn't just about getting rid of a perceived stalker anymore. This was cruelty for its own sake. She was enjoying this.