Page 52 of Tempting Devil
“He was hire to clean up the…mess.”
“Mess?”
“My body,” I replied bluntly, not sugarcoating anything.
“Oh.” She looked forward, her expression becoming more uneasy with every new piece of information. But I couldn’t stop here. There was so much more she needed to know.
Not to clear me of my crimes. Nothing could do that.
But to keep her safe.
“When he got there, I was still alive. Instead of killing me, this cleaner — Brian McGuire — decided to make some money off of me.”
“How?”
“By patching me up and selling me like a piece of property. Based on what I’ve learned, he does a lot of this type of cleaning. It’s perfect when you think about it. He’s a funeral director with a goddamn cremation oven at his disposal. He can easily get rid of any and all evidence. And certain people will pay a premium for that.”
I didn’t tell her how I came about that information, considering I learned it when I went through his things while I waited for his body to be turned to ash last night.
“Who did he sell you to? How could anyone?—”
“I don’t know who exactly. Henry is still trying to track down exactly who was behind it.” I’d hoped I’d find something in Brian McGuire’s files, but they were all fairly cryptic, requiring Henry’s expertise.
“What did you get sold into?”
“Underground fights. Death matches. Modern-day gladiator fights broadcast on the dark web for anyone willing to pay to watch and place bets on who would survive.” Bile rose in my throat from the memory, but I pushed it down, needing to get through this so Imogene could understand my actions.
And the lies I told.
Imogene’s face paled as she raked her gaze down my body before meeting my eyes. “That’s how you got all the scars.”
It wasn’t a question. Merely an observation.
“Yes.”
She sucked in a shuddering breath, tears welling in her eyes. “How long were you trapped there before you escaped?” she squeaked out.
“Three years, ten months, two weeks, and twenty-eight hours.” My voice was heavy with the weight of those years.
“I assume whoever was holding you didn’t let you go out of the goodness of his heart.”
“You’re right about that.” A shiver rolled down my spine as one particular memory of the depravity I’d witnessed returned to the surface.
We’d all been escorted into the training room where one of the newer prisoners knelt handcuffed in the middle of the cage, as I referred to the ring we fought in. He was a decent-sized guy, but he committed the horrible sin of trying to escape.
It wasn’t enough for the guards to simply put a bullet in his head. They used every escape attempt as a way to brainwash us into obedience.
For six horrific hours, we were forced to listen to his cries and pleas for help as a pack of dogs tore him apart. But they didn’t kill him, as if they were trained that way. It wasn’t until the head guard grew bored that he allowed him to be put him out of his misery.
But he wasn’t the one to shoot him. Instead, he made one of us do it.
Made me do it.
His was the first life I ever took. I’d remember it for the rest of my days.
“How did you escape?” Imogene’s voice pulled me out of that pit of death, returning me to the present.
“I got lucky when they were transporting us after a fight. The van hit some rough weather and lost control, crashing into a tree. The driver, guards, and the rest of the prisoners all died. I should have died, too. It’s still a blur, but I was able to think clearly enough to use the opportunity to escape.