His Betrayal Funded My Revenge

As an investigative journalist, Abigail Hartman was used to making enemies. But tonight, publishing that exposé on the city's corrupt shipping syndicates had finally caught up with her. The rain in Brooklyn tasted like rust and exhaust.

Abigail Hartman pressed her palm against the gash on her forehead, blood mixing with rainwater and running down her wrist in thin pink rivers. Her ribs screamed with every breath. She stumbled into the mouth of the alley, her Chanel flats slipping on the slick concrete.

Behind her, boots splashed through puddles.

Three men. Maybe four. She didn't turn to count.

Her heart slammed against her sternum so hard she could taste copper at the back of her throat. The alley narrowed ahead, brick walls pressing close, fire escapes tangled overhead. No exit. Only shadows and the stench of rotting garbage from the industrial dumpsters lining the right wall.

She fumbled for her phone.

The screen was completely shattered, but it lit up when she pressed the power button. The cold blue glow illuminated her shaking hands. She hunched over it, trying to shield the light, but a whistle cut through the rain behind her.

"Pretty little thing," a voice called. "Dropped something?"

Abigail's stomach dropped. She shoved the phone into her coat pocket and ran.

The pain in her ribs was white-hot now, probably cracked, definitely bruised. She'd taken the first hit when they cornered her outside the warehouse, before she'd screamed and clawed and run. The second hit had caught her forehead against the brick wall. She couldn't remember the third.

She found a gap between two dumpsters and squeezed through. The stench of rotting food and chemical waste made her gag. She pressed her back against the cold metal and pulled out the phone again.

Her thumb hovered over the screen. Rainwater dripped from her hair onto the glass, distorting the app icons.

She opened the phone app. Scrolled to the top of her favorites.

Attilio.

Her husband.

The man who had signed the papers that made her Abigail Shepard on paper, even if he never called her that out loud.

She pressed the call button and held her breath.

The phone rang. Once. Twice. Each second stretched into an eternity. The footsteps stopped at the mouth of her hiding spot. She could hear them breathing, scanning the darkness.

Three rings. Four.

"Come out, come out," the voice sang. A boot kicked a loose can, sending it clattering against the brick.

The line clicked. Abigail's heart surged.

"Attilio's phone. Who is this?"

A woman's voice. Soft. Familiar. The voice of someone who answered his private line like she did it every day.

Abigail's throat closed. She knew that voice. Candace Padilla. Her best friend from college. Hearing that voice, Abigail suddenly remembered that half her colleagues in the newsroom were currently in Europe, chasing after Attilio and Candace, documenting their every glamorous move. The irony tasted more bitter than the blood in her mouth. At Attilio's explicit orders, the press had no idea he even had a wife. The whole world believed he and Candace were a match made in heaven.

"Hello?" Candace said again, impatient now. "Is someone there?"

Abigail couldn't speak. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

"Attilio, darling, someone is on the line but they are not saying anything." Candace's voice was muffled now, away from the receiver, speaking to him. "It's just an unsaved number. No caller ID. Probably another one of those desperate reporters or an obsessed fan."

An unsaved number. The realization hit Abigail like a physical blow. Her own husband hadn't even bothered to save her phone number. To him, she wasn't a wife. She wasn't even a name in his contacts. She was just a string of meaningless digits. A suffocating wave of humiliation and despair swallowed her alive.

A distant male voice, Attilio's voice, said something Abigail couldn't make out.

Then Candace laughed. Soft. Intimate. "Fine. I'll tell her." Her voice came back to the receiver, bright and polite. "Whoever this is, Attilio says he'll call you back. We're just getting off a plane. It's been a very long flight from Paris."

The line went dead.

Abigail sat frozen, the phone pressed to her ear, rain dripping down her face. Paris. He was in Paris. Not Frankfurt. With her. Candace had answered his phone. Candace had called him darling. Candace had said we.

The phone slipped in her wet grip. She caught it against her chest and squeezed her eyes shut. A tear escaped, hot against her freezing cheek, indistinguishable from the rain.

The dumpster to her left shuddered.

A baseball bat crashed against the metal shell, the sound exploding through the alley like a gunshot. Abigail's body jerked, her free hand flying to her mouth to trap the scream. Her teeth sank into her knuckles. The taste of blood and rainwater filled her mouth.

"Think she's in there?" one of them asked.

"Check the other side."

She had seconds. Maybe less.

Her thumb moved on autopilot, scrolling through her contacts. Not 911. The police would take too long. The questions would take longer. She couldn't be Abigail Shepard in a police report. Not tonight. Not ever.

She found the name. Pressed call.

It rang once.

"Abby?" Phineas Cole's voice cut through the line, background noise of the newsroom behind him. "It's almost midnight, what is going on?"

"Shut up and listen." Her voice came out as a whisper, barely audible over the rain. She pressed harder against the dumpster, feeling the rust flake against her coat. "Brooklyn. Navy Yard. Corner of Flushing and North Portland. Three men. Armed."

"Jesus Christ." Phineas's chair scraped. She heard him moving, shouting something at someone in the office. "Are you hurt? Where are you exactly?"

"Alley. Behind the textile warehouse." She heard boots approaching her side of the dumpster. "Hurry."

"Three minutes. I'm calling it in right now. Stay on the line, Abby. Don't hang up."

She couldn't answer. The boots stopped inches from her hiding spot. She could see the toe of a steel-toed work boot, black with yellow laces, resting in a puddle that reflected the distant streetlight.

Her fingers found a piece of broken glass on the ground beside her. Jagged, thick, probably from a beer bottle. She gripped it until she felt the edge bite into her palm.

The boot shifted.

Then stopped.

In the distance, a siren wailed. Red and blue lights swept across the alley mouth, painting the wet brick in carnival colors.

"Shit," the voice muttered. "Cops."

"Let's move."

The boots retreated, splashing faster now, fading toward the far end of the alley. A metal gate clanged. Then silence, except for the rain and her own ragged breathing.

Abigail's hand loosened on the glass. It fell to the ground with a delicate chime, harmless now. Her legs gave out. She slid down the dumpster until she was sitting in the filthy water, her back against the metal, her head tipped back to catch the rain.

"Abby?" Phineas's voice was distant, tinny. She'd dropped the phone. "Abby, talk to me. The patrol car is two blocks out. Abby!"

She fumbled for it, her fingers numb. "Here."

"Thank God. Are they gone? Are you safe?"

"Yes." The word felt foreign in her mouth. She wasn't sure what it meant anymore.

"I'm getting in my car now. I'm twenty minutes out. Don't move. I'm coming to get you."

Abigail closed her eyes. The rain was slowing, or maybe she was just losing feeling. "Okay."

A pause. The newsroom noise faded as Phineas moved somewhere quieter. "Abby. Why didn't you call him?"

She knew who he meant. Everyone always meant the same him.

"I did," she said. The word came out hollow, scraped clean of emotion.

Phineas was silent. Then, quietly, "And?"

"She answered."

Another silence, heavier this time. "Abby. Tell me you're joking."

"Paris," Abigail said. "He was in Paris. Not Frankfurt. With her."

"Jesus Christ." Phineas's voice cracked with fury. "That son of a bitch."

"I need to go." Abigail pushed herself up, one hand pressed against the dumpster for support. "I'm going home."

"Let the cops take you. At least let them help."

"No police." Her voice sharpened, cutting through the fog. "No reports. No names. You know why."

Phineas was silent. He did know. Everyone who knew Abigail Hartman knew that she disappeared three years ago and became someone else, someone whose name couldn't be attached to violence or scandal or Brooklyn alleys at midnight.

"Then let me drive you," he said. "Twenty minutes. Stay in the alley. I'll bring a first aid kit. I will take care of it."

"I'll meet you at the apartment." She was already moving, limping toward the street, away from the patrol car's lights. "Don't follow me. Don't call anyone."

"Abby, wait."

She ended the call.

The patrol car passed the alley mouth, slow, searching. Abigail pressed herself into the shadow of a fire escape until it moved on. Then she stepped onto the sidewalk and walked.

Two blocks to the all-night bodega on Flushing Avenue. She kept her head down, her damaged phone clutched in her pocket, her coat collar pulled high to hide the blood on her neck. Every step sent fresh lightning through her ribs. She counted them. Seventy-three steps to the corner. Forty more to the door.

The bodega's fluorescent lights blinded her. The kid behind the counter looked up from his phone, eyes widening.

"Bathroom?" she asked.

He pointed, wordless, to the back corner.

She walked past the shelves of chips and tampons and overpriced Tylenol, past the lottery tickets and the cigarettes locked behind glass. The bathroom door had no lock. She wedged a trash can under the handle and turned to the mirror.

The woman looking back at her was a stranger.

Her forehead had swollen into a purple lump, split at the peak where the blood still seeped. Her lower lip was split, crusted with dried blood. Her left eye was beginning to close, the skin around it tightening with impending bruise. Rainwater and alley filth had matted her hair to her skull.

She looked like what she was. A woman who had been used and discarded and then hunted for sport.

Abigail turned on the cold water. She cupped her hands and splashed her face, again and again, until the water ran pink and then clear. She scrubbed at her skin with brown paper towels, rubbing until her cheeks burned, as if she could erase the night by force.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

She pulled it out, expecting Phineas, expecting more concern she didn't want.

It was him. Attilio. A single text message.

"Landed. Frankfurt was a success. Going into meetings. Don't wait up."

The lie was so bald, so effortless, it stole the air from her lungs. He was at JFK. With her. And he was texting his wife a pre-packaged excuse from a playbook she now realized had been in use for years.

She looked at the message for a long time. Long enough for the screen to dim and then brighten again when she touched it.

Then she pressed the power button. Held it down. Swiped to confirm power off.

She dropped the phone into the bathroom trash can, on top of the bloody paper towels and the empty tampon boxes.

It made a soft sound, plastic against plastic.

Abigail straightened her coat. She ran her fingers through her wet hair, arranging it to cover the worst of the damage. She didn't look in the mirror again.

She walked out of the bathroom, past the counter where the kid still stared, out into the rain that had slowed to a drizzle.

She didn't know where she was going. Not home. Not yet. Home was a penthouse on the Upper East Side with a view of Central Park and a bed that was always cold on one side.

Home was where Attilio Shepard would eventually return, smelling of Candace's perfume, and ask why she wasn't asleep.

Abigail walked north, toward Manhattan, toward the bridge, toward whatever came next.

Her hands were steady. Her face was empty.

She did not look back.