Dark Horse

19

Two-forty A.M. Bruce Seabright couldn't sleep. He didn't try. He had no desire to share a bed with Krystal tonight, even though he knew she was unconscious. He was too agitated to sleep, or even to sit. He had spent an hour cleaning his office: polishing the fingerprints from the furniture, wiping down every item on the desk, spraying the telephone with Lysol. His inner sanctum had been breeched, contaminated.

Krystal had come in here without his knowledge and pawed through the mail on his desk, even though he had told her very specifically never to do that. He always handled the mail. And Molly had come in and taken the videotape. He had expected better of both of them. The disappointment was bitter in his mouth. The order of his world had been upset, and now that bitch private investigator was trying to take over. He wouldn't stand for it. He would find out who she was working for, and he would make sure she never worked again.

He paced the room, breathing deeply the scents of lemon oil and disinfectant, trying to calm himself.

He never should have married Krystal. That had been a mistake. He had known her eldest daughter would be a problem he would end up having to deal with, and here he was.

He opened the television cabinet, pulled a video from the shelf, and popped it in the VCR and hit play.

Erin, naked, chained to a bed, trying to cover herself.

"Look at the camera, bitch. Say your line."

She shakes her head, tries to hide her face.

"Say it! You want me to make you?"

She looks at the camera.

"Help me."

Bruce ejected the tape and put it in its cardboard sleeve. He went to the small secret wall safe hidden behind a row of books on real estate law, opened the safe, put the tape inside, and locked it away. No one else would see the tape. That was his decision. He was best equipped to make it.