"Thirty seconds. That's all you have to stop the bullshit, or your son is dead."
~~~~
Six years ago, Chelsea Doherty lost everything when her husband disappeared without a trace and left her to clean up his past. Now living in Ireland, she has piec...
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Cambridge, Massachusetts
June 2024
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Thanks to the five-hour time difference between Ireland and the East Coast, I arrive in Cambridge in the late afternoon. Checking into a hotel not too far from the Harvard University campus, I hunt for clues on the internet before I even unpack. About thirty minutes in, I hit paydirt. Of all the Chinese restaurants in town, only one sells Yan Du Xian soup. A staple food in Asian countries, it's a rare find in the States but one of Marcel's must-haves. He's obsessed with this soup and when we were together, he'd go out to get it for us from a local restaurant every single Thursday night for dinner like clockwork. Even vacations were no exception. Unless he changed his habits, he will show up at the Golden Dragon tonight. I'm banking on it.
Leaving the hotel just after six, I get into the black Toyota Corolla I rented at the airport. Traffic is light and I pull up into a parking lot three stores down from the restaurant ten minutes later. Now the waiting game begins. Angled and with my laptop open as if I'm working, I have a front-row seat of the entrance and watch as patron after patron walks in and out. The adrenaline keeps a constant tremble in my body and my thigh muscles twitch with impatience.
Six years without a peep from Marcel.
Time to plot my revenge.
Now that he's within reach, I'm close to a mental meltdown.
Keep it together, Chelsea.
Over the years, I'd laid out careful words and repeated them over and over in my mind for hours on end.
Scenarios of how I'd react when I first encounter him again.
Actions I'd take that would speak louder than words.
When I finally catch sight of him, my mind goes blank. I struggle to breathe and the pressure on my chest threatens to crack my sternum in half.
Fucking bastard.
Time has treated him well. He is ripped, tanned, and self-confident, with a wide smile that bears witness to how much he's enjoying life. No sadness, no guilt, no desperation; feelings that have been constant companions for me since that day in Hong Kong. He didn't care then and he doesn't care now. Probably has forgotten all about Sean and me.
A bucket of mixed emotions is poured over my head. The hate and rage are overpowering, although there's also a part of me that weeps for lost times. Those times where our life was perfect with only the occasional ups and downs.
The day when we both said "I do" and swore to be there for each other in good times and in bad.
That evening I presented him during dinner with the little baby onesie that had the words "I'm Dad's Little Pumpkin" printed on the chest to tell him I was pregnant. Come to think of it, it might've been a Thursday night and we were enjoying Yan Du Xian soup.
The night in bed when we celebrated the baby's sex reveal and he told me that he was going to leave the Crimson Disciples because he didn't want that type of life for his family. Not with a child. He wasn't going to turn his son into a killer.
And then he threw it all away.
Tears flood my eyes and I have to bite the side of my hand to avoid a crying fit. Enough shed tears. It's time to get even.
Marcel leaves the restaurant with several paper bags in hand. I start the car and slide on my mirrored aviator shades; if Jackson taught me anything, it's the power of hiding my eyes. Marcel won't know what's going on in my head. When I confront him, he won't see the distress, the devastation, the vulnerability. No, the only thing he will see is the stoned face of a woman who will slice off his balls and feed them to him for dinner together with that damn soup before ending his pathetic life.
He must feel pretty confident because he doesn't take any precautions to lose a potential tail. No sudden turns, no unexpected u-banger, no speeding up or slowing down without a reason. He obeys the speed limit, signals in advance, and avoids sudden stops. Following him is as easy as pie.
We end up in a residential area screaming affluence. Without exception, the houses are big and well maintained, surrounded by massive yards with grass that is meticulously groomed, and with several cars in their driveways that match the price of Marcel's fancy, silver Lexus. Marcel pulls in beside a midnight blue BMW coupe and from the look of things, he spent at least twenty percent of the money he stole from me on the cars and his new home.
When I'm done with him, I want to set the whole lot on fire.
He gets out of the Lexus and I'm about to follow suit when the front door to the house opens. A woman with long, chestnut-brown hair and a model figure appears on the threshold. Her frayed white shorts display sculptured, tanned legs and her overly large but even breasts suggest that she might've had a boob job. All in all, she is gorgeous with a smile and energy that goes along with utter happiness.
A little boy of maybe three or four appears next to her and takes off down the driveway. "Daddyyyy."
What. The. Actual. Fuck!
Marcel sets the paper bags with the food onto the hood of the car and catches the little boy. With the boy's arms outstretched, he spins him around, making airplane noises the way he used to do with Sean. The memory is choking me. Paralyzed, I sit in my seat, unable to make a sound as the woman joins them and is rewarded with a long, throaty kiss.
Fucking hell.
When I finally manage to breathe again, they are walking up the driveway. Marcel tousles the little boy's hair and the woman laughs. Pure positive energy surrounds them; not even a crack is visible in their idyllic, perfect existence. Does she even know about his past? That he had a wife and kid he abandoned? That he is nothing but a despicable human being?
As the front door closes behind them, the crushing pain is stifling. My cheeks are soon wet from my tears and I lean my forehead against the steering wheel, allowing the sobs to take over.
He fucking replaced us.
I could handle, even expected, another woman, but a child!
My body shakes so hard with rejection and anger that it takes forever to regain control. What the fuck am I going to do? I can't hurt him in front of the kid, but my thirst for revenge is pounding just as hard in my chest as it did for the past six years.
Confront him.
Get it off your chest.
Tell him exactly how you feel and that you hate him with every fiber of your heart.
The rest will fall into place.
I eye my purse with the gun I bought at a pawn shop in Boston as soon as I landed. If I take it, I might not be able to stop myself and shoot him right then and there in the head. Better leave it in the car.
Sucking in a deep breath, I close my eyes.
I'm ready.
This is the moment I've been waiting for, and if I don't act quickly, Bastian might get to Marcel first. Escaping the car, I square my shoulders, just to freeze when the now so familiar jab of a gun muzzle pushes against my spine.
Crap, not again.
WP total word count: 28,887
Many of you have been waiting for this chapter and now that you know what Marcel has been up to, I hope he moved up your hit list. Of course, first things first, Chelsea has once again caught the attention of a person with a gun: Who do you think is it this time? We got quite the list of people to choose from, so give me your best guess.
Thanks for reading and I hope this much anticipated chapter didn't disappoint. If you enjoyed it, please consider a vote and/or drop me a comment.
