The Strategic Response
“I’ll walk,” I said, hand on the door handle.
“Excellent choice. By the time you reach home, you’ll remember your place.”
I stepped onto the cracked asphalt, the air thick with the smell of rain. Andrew had chosen this spot deliberately—no cell towers, no people for miles. He hadn’t been imagining scenarios last week when he joked about being stranded here—he had been planning.
The Mercedes roared away. Through the passenger window, I saw the glow of his phone as he texted Naen, confirming my “lesson” was underway. His tires hissed on the wet road, then vanished.
I counted to sixty, ensuring he was gone, before walking toward the ruins of an old gas station. A black Ford pickup sat in the shadows.
Marcus stepped out with an umbrella and coffee. At thirty-one, my younger brother’s background in private security had been invaluable to my plan.
“Did you capture everything?” he asked.
“Every word,” I confirmed, showing him the stopped recording. “He even said, ‘remember your place.’”
Marcus shook his head, anger flashing. “Three years of control was bad enough. But this? Rebecca will destroy him in court.”
