Chapter 2 - THE MAN IN THE BLACK CAR
Matthew Carter did not look frightened when the SUV appeared behind us.
That frightened me more.
I had just climbed through a bathroom window, dropped nearly twelve feet into wet mud, run barefoot through woods I did not recognize, and thrown myself in front of a stranger's car because I believed anything had to be safer than going back.
Now the vehicle chasing us was gaining.
Matthew simply looked into the mirror.
"How many?" he asked.
His driver, a broad-shouldered man in his forties, checked again.
"One vehicle. Four, maybe five men."
"Armed?"
"Can't tell."
Matthew loosened one cuff.
"Take the quarry road."
The driver's eyes flicked toward him.
"That road washed out last spring."
"Then they'll assume we won't use it."
The car turned so sharply I grabbed the seat.
Matthew reached toward me instinctively, then stopped before touching me.
"Seat belt."
I stared.
"What?"
"Put it on."
My hands were shaking too badly.
He leaned forward, pulled the belt across without touching more of me than necessary, and clicked it into place.
Behind us, headlights swung through the rain.
"They're still coming," I whispered.
"I know."
"What if they catch us?"
"They won't."
He said it without arrogance.
Just certainty.
It made me look at him.
"Who are you?"
"Not important right now."
"That's what dangerous people say."
Something almost like amusement passed through his eyes.
"Fair."
The road narrowed.
Trees closed around us.
Rain hammered the roof.
The SUV behind us disappeared for several seconds.
Then returned.
Closer.
My chest tightened.
"They know this road."
Matthew's expression changed.
"Apparently."
His driver said, "We have company ahead too."
I looked through the windshield.
Another pair of headlights.
"No."
My body reacted before thought.
I reached for the door.
Matthew caught my wrist.
Not hard.
But firm enough.
"What are you doing?"
"I'll run."
"In this?"
"I can't let them—"
"You are not getting out of a moving car."
"They'll hurt you."
The driver gave a humorless laugh.
Matthew looked at me.
"Emily, I need you to listen carefully."
It startled me that he used my name.
I had told him only once.
"My driver is James Cole. The vehicle ahead belongs to us."
I stared.
"Us?"
"Security."
The approaching vehicle flashed its lights twice.
James flashed once.
The vehicle swerved sideways across the narrow road.
Our car shot past.
The SUV behind us tried to follow.
Then the security vehicle blocked it.
Brakes screamed.
Metal struck metal.
I twisted around.
"No!"
Matthew put a hand against the seat beside my shoulder.
"Don't look."
"Your people—"
"Know what they're doing."
"Who has people who do this?"
He looked at me.
"Someone who has had enemies longer than he's had good judgment."
That wasn't an answer.
Then gunshots cracked behind us.
I screamed.
James accelerated.
Matthew's entire face hardened.
"Call it in."
James tapped his earpiece.
"Unit Two engaged. Possible weapons. Send police response to junction fourteen."
Police.
That word gave me something to hold onto.
"We're going to the police?"
Matthew looked at me.
"Eventually."
My fear returned.
"What does eventually mean?"
"It means your feet are bleeding, your face is bruised, you're hypothermic, and I would prefer a doctor examine you before anyone asks you to repeat what happened five times."
"No."
He went still.
"I need police."
"You'll have them."
"Now."
"Emily."
"No."
My voice broke.
"I'm not disappearing with another powerful man because he says he'll handle everything."
Silence filled the car.
James looked in the mirror.
Matthew leaned back.
Then he nodded.
"You're right."
I hadn't expected that.
He took out his phone.
Called someone.
"This is Carter. Contact county dispatch. I have a twenty-four-year-old woman reporting unlawful confinement, assault, and possible attempted sexual coercion at the Blackwood estate."
My stomach clenched hearing it described so plainly.
"She's with me voluntarily. We are transporting her to St. Anne's Medical Center. Send officers there."
He listened.
"Yes."
Then:
"Also send units to Blackwood before Diane Mercer has time to clean the house."
I stared.
"You know my stepmother's last name."
Matthew ended the call.
His eyes met mine.
"I know exactly who Diane Mercer is."
The cold inside me changed.
"How?"
His jaw tightened.
"Business."
Of course.
Everybody knew Diane through business.
Mercer Atlantic Design had once been my father's company.
Commercial interiors.
Luxury hotels.
Corporate redevelopment.
After he died, Diane took control.
For years, she appeared in magazines talking about resilience, female leadership, and preserving her late husband's legacy.
Behind closed doors, the company had been losing money.
I knew that much.
Apparently Matthew knew more.
"You're one of her investors?"
"No."
"Client?"
"No."
"Then?"
"Competitor."
That should have relieved me.
Instead, his tone made the word feel incomplete.
"What kind of competitor?"
"The kind Diane cannot afford."
The car emerged onto a paved road.
Streetlights appeared.
My heart finally slowed half a beat.
Then my teeth started chattering.
Matthew noticed.
He turned up the heat.
"You said Mr. Ambrose."
I looked away.
"Richard Ambrose?"
My head snapped toward him.
"You know him too."
"Yes."
"How?"
Matthew's expression became colder.
"He's been trying to purchase distressed Mercer Atlantic debt for six months."
I frowned.
"Why?"
"Because people like Ambrose rarely buy debt for the interest."
"What do they buy it for?"
"Control."
My stomach tightened.
"The company?"
"Assets. Contracts. Real estate. Leverage."
He paused.
"People."
I pulled his coat tighter around myself.
"Diane said he could save the company."
"He could."
I looked at him.
"He just wouldn't save it for her."
The meaning settled slowly.
Ambrose had not been doing Diane a favor.
He had been negotiating from weakness.
And somehow she had decided I was part of the price.
"Why me?"
Matthew didn't answer immediately.
"I don't know."
"She said I was the only valuable thing left."
His face changed.
"Did she use those exact words?"
"Yes."
"What else did she say?"
"That he had always liked me."
Matthew looked out the window.
"How long have you known Ambrose?"
"Since I was seventeen."
His gaze returned so sharply it frightened me.
"What?"
"He came to Christmas parties. Company dinners. Dad knew him."
"Did he ever behave inappropriately before tonight?"
I wanted to say no.
Then memories surfaced.
Ambrose standing too close at eighteen.
His hand staying at my lower back too long when I was nineteen.
Commenting that I had "grown beautifully."
Diane laughing.
Me feeling uncomfortable and then blaming myself.
"I don't know."
"Emily."
"Maybe."
Matthew didn't push.
Good.
At the hospital, security was already waiting.
So were two uniformed deputies.
I froze at the entrance.
Matthew noticed.
"You don't have to speak to anyone until you're ready."
"I thought you said police immediately."
"I said they'd be here."
"What's the difference?"
"You choose when you speak."
That word again.
Choose.
I nodded.
A nurse brought a wheelchair.
"I can walk."
She looked at my feet.
"No, honey, you cannot."
I looked down.
Blood had soaked through the bottom of Matthew's coat where it covered my knees.
For the first time since escaping, I really saw myself.
Torn dress.
Mud.
Blood.
Bruise.
One broken nail.
I started crying.
Not dramatic sobbing.
Just tears.
Matthew crouched in front of me.
He didn't touch.
"You're safe."
I shook my head.
"You can't know that."
"No."
He corrected himself.
"You're safer than you were twenty minutes ago."
That I could accept.
Doctors cleaned the cuts.
No stitches.
My cheekbone wasn't fractured.
No concussion.
They drew blood because I told them about the wineglass Ambrose had reached for.
I hadn't drunk from it.
Thank God.
A forensic nurse asked whether he had touched me sexually.
"No."
"Attempted?"
"I don't know."
She nodded.
"No pressure. Tell me only what you remember."
I told her.
The locked door.
Diane.
The slap.
Ambrose blocking the bedroom entrance.
His hand reaching toward the wine.
His comment:
We don't have to make this unpleasant.
Then the window.
When I finished, I was shaking again.
Two deputies took my statement.
Matthew stayed outside because I asked him to.
That mattered too.
At 1:17 a.m., one deputy returned.
"Diane Mercer is claiming there was a misunderstanding."
I laughed.
A terrible sound.
"Of course."
"She says you became intoxicated at the party and ran after an argument."
"I didn't drink."
"We're documenting that."
"What about the locked room?"
"She says the bedroom doors lock automatically."
"They don't."
"We're checking."
"And Ambrose?"
The deputy's expression changed.
"He left before our officers arrived."
My blood went cold.
"What?"
"Do you know where he might go?"
"No."
Matthew, standing several feet away, did.
I could tell.
The deputy followed my eyes.
"Mr. Carter?"
Matthew approached.
"Ambrose owns a private aviation company."
The deputy swore softly.
"You think he's leaving?"
"I think if I were Richard Ambrose and knew police were searching the Blackwood estate, I wouldn't spend the night at home."
The deputy moved away to make a call.
I looked at Matthew.
"How much do you know about him?"
"Enough."
"Why?"
His eyes darkened.
"Because Ambrose tried something similar before."
My stomach dropped.
"What?"
"Not you."
"Another woman?"
Matthew said nothing.
That was answer enough.
"When?"
"Seven years ago."
"What happened?"
"Her family took money."
I stared.
"And she?"
"Disappeared."
"Dead?"
"We don't know."
The hospital room suddenly felt colder.
"Did Diane know?"
Matthew looked at me for a long time.
"I don't know."
My phone would have been useful.
Except it was still at the mansion.
So Matthew lent me one.
I knew exactly one number by memory.
My aunt Caroline.
My father's younger sister.
She answered on the fourth ring.
"Hello?"
"Aunt Caroline."
Silence.
Then:
"Emily?"
I started crying again.
"Oh my God. Where are you?"
"Hospital."
"What happened?"
I told her enough.
Not everything.
She went silent.
Then she said something I wasn't prepared for.
"Emily, don't go back to Diane."
"I wasn't planning to."
"No."
Her voice sharpened.
"I mean don't go anywhere she can find you."
I stared at Matthew.
"Why?"
"Because your father warned me about this."
My breathing stopped.
"What?"
"Before he died."
My father had died five years earlier after what everyone called a sudden heart attack.
"What did he warn you about?"
Caroline began crying.
"Ambrose."
The world tilted.
"What about Ambrose?"
"Your father said if anything ever happened to him, I was supposed to keep you away from Richard Ambrose."
I couldn't speak.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because Diane said Robert was paranoid at the end."
My father.
Robert Hale.
Not Mercer.
Diane had kept her own surname.
I whispered:
"What exactly did Dad say?"
Caroline took a breath.
"He said Ambrose didn't want the company."
Pause.
"He wanted what your father had put in your name."
I looked at Matthew.
His expression changed immediately.
"What did Dad put in my name?"
Caroline whispered:
"I don't know."
Then the hospital door opened.
James entered.
His face was grim.
"Matthew."
"What?"
"We found Emily's phone."
I sat up.
"Where?"
"Not at the mansion."
My stomach tightened.
James looked at me.
"It was inside the SUV that followed us."
The room went silent.
My phone had never simply been left behind.
Someone had taken it.
And whoever chased us had expected to return me to Diane.
Matthew looked at James.
"Anything else?"
"Yes."
James held out an evidence bag.
Inside was a folded document.
My photograph was clipped to the top.
Below it were several lines of typed information.
My date of birth.
Social Security number.
Passport number.
Bank information.
And at the bottom:
HALE BENEFICIARY — ACCESS PENDING MARRIAGE CONSENT.
I stared.
Marriage.
Consent.
Ambrose.
My father.
Matthew picked up the bag carefully.
His expression went completely cold.
"Emily."
"What?"
"I don't think Diane was trading you to Ambrose just to save her company."
My throat tightened.
"Then why?"
May you like
He looked at the document.
"I think somebody needs you married."
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