Escape

Escape: Ch. 8

RECAP:

     “Fix this, James. And find the kids. Now,” Drew muttered, leaving the hyperventilating kid to fix his mess and call the fifty men.

          Those kids were going to be his. Especially that skunk-haired one. She was going to pay. No one got away from him. He would make sure of that.

Chapter 8:

          “I want my daughter found… Carl.”

          Carl, the FBI agent and ex-police officer, remained as stone-faced as the perfectly Botoxed lady in front of him.

          “I’m sorry, ma’am. We are doing everything that we can. You have to be patient.”

          “My daughter is in danger, and you’re telling me to be patient?! What kind of officer are you?!”

          “None, ma’am. I’m an FBI agent.”

          “Whatever!” The woman leaned over the counter, nose touching Carl’s nose. He caught a whiff of her extremely strong perfume and gagged, still remaining expressionless.

          “Carl, find my daughter. She is a princess, after all. You don’t want to be responsible for the questions about a Royal, do you?” He didn’t reply. “I thought not.”

          “Let me remind you, Carl, that I am a very powerful woman. And I can do things to you that you will never. Experience. Ever. I can make your job go away. I can kill your family. I can do anything I please. You just remember that.”

          Queen Comfrey’s eyes were startlingly blue, with a grayish glaze. Like refrozen ice. That was the condition of her heart, Carl thought nastily.

          Her perfectly straight platinum blonde hair reached the small of her back, not a strand out of place. Pale skin made thick, long, and dark lashes stand out. High, sharp cheekbones stood out on her thin, heart-shaped but long face. She was so skinny, though. Thin and bony. Like a skeleton; a sign of evil and death, but so perfectly chiseled.

          She was sort of like a rose. Perfectly beautiful, fake, sharp, evil, and thorny, with an underlying hint of warning and malice. In short, Carl hated her with a passion. But, he could do nothing about it, because she was the queen.

          “I’ll try, ma’am,” was his reply.

          “You won’t try. You’ll do,” was hers.

          “Gwen’s gone. So is Ella.”

          “I know, I saw.”

          “What do we do?” Gwen’s father paced back and forth, like a grandfather clock. He was old enough to be one, Mrs. Atwood thought wryly.

          “We wait. And if she doesn’t come back, we celebrate.”

          When Mr. Atwood gaped at her, she shrugged, feeling a prickle of guilt that she chose to ignore. The things money could do to a person.

          “It’s one less mouth to feed. And with no jobs, that is a good thing.”

          “When did you become such a heartless woman?” Her husband asked her, sighing.

          “When your job died, that’s when.”

          “But you don’t even care about your own daughter? I’m sorry, Trina, but that is just plain sick and wrong.”