SATURDAY...
(MARCUS REYNOLDS)
Marcus sat in his penthouse apartment, lights off, curtains wide, cigarette burning slow between two fingers he didn’t realize were trembling.
On the coffee table in front of him sat three phones... two dead burners and one sleek black one with a single number dialed.
He stared at it.
His jaw twitched.
He pressed call.
It rang twice before her voice came through.
“...Hello?”
That voice.
He closed his eyes and grinned.
“Well, well. The runaway answers.”
Silence.
“Don’t tell me you thought I’d forget you that easily.”
Still no response.
But he could hear it... her breathing, the stiffness in it.
Still scared. That made him smile.
“You’ve been running around like some sweet little trophy girl. But we both know the truth, don’t we, Tess?” His v
