Chapter 8: Sarah's Revenge
[Sarah's Perspective]
Sunlight filled the Morrison Group's dining room as Max and I walked to our usual table. Employees greeted us as we passed - each with a polite "Mr. Morrison" and "Mrs. Morrison."
Max gave them short, professional nods. I smiled and said good morning to each person, which seemed to surprise them. One young intern nearly dropped her coffee when I asked about her day.
"You don't need to do that," Max said when we sat down. "They're employees, not friends."
"They're people," I said quietly. "Being kind costs nothing."
He went to get our breakfast without responding. When he returned, he set down my usual order - eggs benedict, fruit, toast, and pasta. The plates clinked softly against the polished table.
Without thinking, I started my routine - trimming the bread crusts with precise movements, carefully separating the egg white from yolk, methodically picking out every herb from the pasta. I noticed Max watching me intently, his own breakfast untouched.
"These habits..." he said, his voice strange. "They're exactly like—"
"Like who?" My heart squeezed, already knowing the answer.
"Isabella." His eyes stayed on my plate. "Maybe it's a chemistry student thing."
The food turned tasteless in my mouth. I forced myself to eat everything while Max checked his phone, his fingers tapping out what I assumed was another message to Isabella.
The drive to DC stretched ahead of us, Max's hands steady on the wheel of his black SUV. Music played softly from the stereo - classical, his preference. We stopped twice - once for water at a pristine rest stop, once for lunch at an upscale roadside restaurant where Max insisted on a proper meal despite my protests.
"How much longer?" I asked after hours of silence broken only by piano concertos.
"About two hours." He adjusted the rearview mirror, though nothing had changed on the empty highway.
When we reached DC, he glanced at me. "Golden Age Manor or the city apartment?"
"East side."
His eyebrows lifted slightly, but he turned the car without comment. The gleaming buildings of downtown gave way to progressively shabbier neighborhoods. I spotted a convenience store with metal bars on its windows and asked him to stop.
Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as I made my purchases: a large duffel bag and a solid wooden baseball bat. The clerk's eyes widened slightly, but he rang me up without comment. A stack of "Missing Person" posters by the register caught my eye - someone else's sister, someone else's daughter.
Max eyed my purchases when I returned to the car. "Plans?"
"Meeting someone." I kept my voice neutral, watching his reflection in the side mirror.
He studied me for a long moment, then nodded. The car moved forward into deepening shadows.
I had Max park the SUV at the edge of the east side slums. A group of men lounged against a graffiti-covered wall, eyeing our expensive car with obvious interest. One of them stepped forward, then stopped.
"Sarah Wilson?" He squinted through the window. "That really you?"
I rolled down the window. "Hello, Tommy."
"Damn, girl. Heard you married rich." He waved to the others. "Let them through! She's good people - used to help at the shelter."
As we drove deeper into the slums, I saw nothing had changed. Kids played in broken streets, dodging around piles of trash. Old women sat on crumbling stoops, fanning themselves in the afternoon heat. The air hung heavy with poverty and despair. We passed the shelter where I'd once volunteered - before Michael, before everything. A new coat of paint couldn't hide the peeling sign: "East Side Community Center."
"Stop here," I told Max. The underground casino was just ahead, hidden beneath an abandoned department store whose faded sign still promised "AMAZING DEALS!"
The casino's stale air hit me as I descended the concrete stairs - cigarette smoke, spilled beer, and desperation. Fluorescent lights cast sickly shadows over card tables and slot machines. Michael hunched over a poker table, same ratty jacket, same nervous tic of rubbing his nose. Same dead eyes that had watched men drag me away.
The duffel bag went over his head before he could react. The bat connected with his right knee with a sharp crack that echoed off the grimy walls.
"What the fu—" His curse became a scream as I took out his other knee.
The casino fell silent except for Michael's whimpers and the endless electronic chiming of slot machines. Through the smoke-filled air, I heard whispers.
"That's Wilson's sister?"
"After what he did? Selling her to traffickers? This is mild."
I yanked the bag off his head. His eyes widened in recognition, then fear as they fell on the bat in my hands.
"Sarah? Baby sis?"
"Don't." The bat tapped against his shoulder. "Don't call me sister. You lost that right when you sold me for gambling money."
"Please," he whimpered. "We're family! Can't we just forget—"
"Forget?" The word came out as a snarl. "Forget waking up in that warehouse? What those men did? What they planned to do?" The bat struck his shoulder with another satisfying crack. "Or maybe I should forget how you counted money while they dragged me away?"
He scrambled backward on bloodied hands and knees, leaving red trails on the concrete floor. "You're crazy! You can't—"
"That's enough." A new voice cut through the casino's noise. Behind the bulletproof glass, the owner's face darkened as he pressed the intercom. "Mrs. Morrison, I presume?"
I froze at the use of my married name.
"Your brother owes this establishment nearly half a million dollars." The owner's voice carried a dangerous edge. "Now you've damaged my property and disrupted my business. Someone needs to pay."
"Send me the bill," I said, tightening my grip on the bat.
"Oh, I don't want your husband's money." The owner's smile showed gold teeth. "I want something much more valuable. Tell me, Mrs. Morrison... how much do you know about Azure Liquid?"