Vindictive Too

By Ryan Lawrence

The best revenge never includes forgiveness. To truly punish the guilty, something worse must be done to them.

A chain of vengeful events is set in motion when a man's brutally murdered body is found in an alley behind a seedy bar. Inspector Declan James is put on the victim's case, only to discover his intimate connection to the slain man. After a not-by-chance meeting with the mysterious Véronique, a woman on a mission to right a terrible wrong, Declan finds himself mired in an intricate web of corruption, lies, and coverups.

Marie and Jacques Bergé, the owners of the internationally renowned Château Bergé, act publically as the pinnacle of society and wealth, but behind closed doors, their lives are in turmoil. From Marie's erratic behaviour and bizarre disappearances to Jacques's not-so-secret love for another woman, Fairporte's "it" couple teeters on the edge of destruction.

In the shadows, a bearded man, powerful and dark of heart, secretly orchestrates his machiavellian manoeuvres from a place of sadism and despair.

From the bustling core to the rustic outskirts of Fairporte, ON, secrets, suffering, and rage are found everywhere. As the cruel desire pain, the wronged seek retribution, and the fragile break, will anyone get their revenge before death or madness claim them?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Dec 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9780228886273

Ryan Lawrence

Ryan Lawrence was born and raised in Guelph, ON, and he is a graduate of the University of Guelph in English Literature. Ryan lives in London, ON, with his husband, Todd, their cat Dora, and his massive comic book collection that once fell on Todd. He's okay.

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Copyright © 2022 by Ryan Lawrence

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-8626-6 (Hardcover)

978-0-2288-8625-9 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-8627-3 (eBook)

For my husband, Todd,

& my mother, Susan.

The following events take place concurrently with those in Vindictive.

Contents

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

Epilogue

I

Marie Bergé gazed upon the Morrison Farm with cold, hate-filled eyes. The view from her BMW’s tinted windows showcased an innocuous, late summer setting. It was an early, sunlit morning on a seemingly ordinary farm. Warbling birds, awake in the fresh country air, parlayed soft euphonious chirps amid a vista of wide-open cornfields. It was your typical Ontario countryside filled with blossoms of vibrant colours, simple rural activity, and gentle placidity.

This picturesque scene was a calculated, disingenuous front, and Marie knew it. She was repelled and sickened by the ersatz panorama around her. Albeit hidden and quiet, the corruption bubbled hotly under the epidermis of soil and foliage. Well-versed in its corrosive effects, Marie recognized it as lies, sleaze, and wickedness. Horrid memories filled her with teeming rage, but fear was always the prevailing emotion.

These trips had long ago become a sick compulsion for Marie. She visited the outskirts of this particular farm several times a week to watch, remember, and grow angrier.

And far more fearful.

Marie felt protected from the evil and malignancy of this farm by the steel and glass shell of her expensive automobile. It was a stronghold from which she never extricated herself as long as she was anywhere near the place; she wore the car like a suit of armour. Marie never set foot on the soil, and she had her reasons. The scars ran deep within her psyche.

She believed the owners were unaware of her interloping presence, ignorant of these regularly conducted sojourns. Her visitations always occurred around daybreak, going only so far as the outer border of the property, never past the fence line.

Despite their sordid side business, the Morrisons were actual farmers, rising at the crack of dawn to work the land. Marie knew this and always planned accordingly. She took the utmost care to obfuscate herself in the shadows of the early morning light. The luxury car she drove was matte black. Her attire was dark, designed plainly, and sans flourishes. Marie crafted her near-invisibility skillfully. She was not interested in a face-to-face confrontation with any of her former tormentors.

Marie reasoned they probably would not recognize her in her current incarnation. She was older, more refined, and wealthy. Not that her appearance and lifestyle improvements gave her any comfort or feeling of security. All the safeguards in the world would never be enough to risk everything she had gained since her captivity to get out of the car for a closer look. She would never create an opportunity for anyone to drag her back to the hell she had scarcely escaped from so many years ago.

Day after day, Marie continued to hold the rage she felt towards her tainted past deep inside her heart. But the fear? That was a different story. That was just under the surface, often overwhelming, near debilitating.

Marie used her hatred of the farm to counterbalance her fear of it. As a coping mechanism, it helped her gain resoluteness and equilibrium. Otherwise, she could never come back here to stare down her memories. She could never function in the here and now. Marie remembered the past to make sure it never became her future. She did not forget, would not, could not, ever.

And when the fear became too much for her rage to hold at bay, she invariably self-medicated. Marie and pills were intimate companions.

After a few more silent, reflective moments, she turned the key in the ignition and pulled the stick shift out of the park position. Swirling the car around, Marie sped away down the barely visible dirt road that led back to the highway, back to the safety of her home.

The Château Bergé.

Located on the outskirts of Fairporte, ON, Château Bergé had stood for over a hundred years, its construction commissioned by Henri Bergé, Marie’s husband Jacques’s great grandfather. Jacques was the current owner and operator. Marie was also a co-owner, but she had nothing to do with the daily running and operation of the business. The place was just her home.

Loyal to the French Renaissance style, the château was an immense, opulent building with granite blocks as the structure’s base and Italian marble throughout. The roof was traditional copper, reinforced with multiple corbelled corner turrets ornamented with bronze gargoyles.

Château Bergé was famous for its immense imperial Carrara marble staircase, a feature that ascended three floors. Many sumptuous french crystal chandeliers hung generously around the interior of the building. Spanish carpets, Rococo sculpture, and nineteenth-century impressionist paintings enhanced the elegant setting.

The structure was palatial, with hundreds of rooms. The massive grounds of the estate provided an Olympic-size swimming pool and an 18-hole golf course.

As Marie drove further away from the Morrison Farm, she imagined the entire property burning to the ground behind her. Perhaps one day, it would. A broad smile appeared upon her face at the thought of its fiery destruction. She often dreamed of fire.

From the shadows, a lone figure emerged from the cornfield. He stood silent on the makeshift road of dirt and dust as he watched Marie’s car drive out of sight.

The figure was an older male, tall, his countenance reeking of malevolence. A disdainful, knowing grin sat proudly upon his bearded face. This baneful smirk reflected the corruption in the man’s soul, subtly equating his complete awareness of, and reasons for, Marie’s obsessive visits to this farm. He often watched her from a distance.

The man was full of secrets and rage, like Marie. Unlike her, he was devoid of fear, possessing clarity of purpose. He reached under his linen coat and patted the concealed gun he always kept strapped to his left side. With sinister intent, he walked towards the Morrison homestead.

––––––––-

Sweaty and out of breath, Michael Morrison left the cornfield and made his way to the barn hoping his brothers had not noticed his disappearance. He wiped his dirty, calloused hands on his faded, torn jeans and reached into his pocket to remove his cell phone. This call needed to be private. It was now or never. The desire to hear her voice, rich and heavy like golden honey, was all-consuming.

More importantly, he had to warn her about his eldest brother; Seth was deeply suspicious of him. Michael was painfully aware he had been sloppy, asking his invasive, pointed questions too frequently. Worst of all, he continuously offered one flimsy excuse after another for his many sudden disappearances.

Seth was a bellicose, violent caveman, but he was not the focus of his brother’s fear. Michael believed Seth needed others to think for him, a task once belonging to their late father. Now he knew other such men existed, giving his lumbering fool of a brother purpose and direction, and they were no dummies.

They were also extremely dangerous.

Michael had recently discovered during his amateur sleuthing that these men were murderous, depraved criminals without conscience. Several of them hid behind false faces, living dual lives. He was shocked to discover so many of them were the local law, businessmen, and politicians. These were men with influence and power in Fairporte and the surrounding area. It even went as far as Toronto.

He knew he was in over his head, but he was doing all this for one sophisticated, clever, and sexy-as-hell woman. He did what she asked of him, and she asked often. He acted on her requests every time despite the known danger.

Michael first laid eyes on her at the King’s Inn Pub in East Fairporte, a dilapidated area of the city the wealthy Bergés had not bothered to invest any time or money into modernizing. Whether they forgot to finish their plans for the city or never had any interest in gentrifying this area, no one ever really knew. East Fairporte remained a sketchy, dirty eye-sore on its best days—a place only lost souls frequented.

The pub was dark and dingy, but the booze was cheap, and Michael was left alone. His brothers never frequented the place. For all its seediness, the King’s Inn allowed him to be his authentic self, free of judgment. He was able to get drunk and forget for a time the unfulfilled dreams of his recent teenage years.

There was always easy sex available with no commitments. Though the desire for something more significant was there, Michael doubted he would ever find a lasting relationship in this dive. He had been down that road once already, unsuccessfully. No, liquor, drugs, and sex were the only commodities this place reliably stocked and delivered. Here, love was a dying dream—or dead on arrival.

The women who frequented the place provided easy, uncomplicated sex and were available without a price tag. Sometimes, so were the men. Especially the curious ones who stared a tad too long, smiled just a little too big and got caught by Michael’s knowing gaze admiring his ass in his tight jeans. The ones who wanted to buy him a beer for no apparent reason, but Michael knew they always had an agenda. These were the horny blue-collar, often closeted guys usually not found on Grindr.

And that one attempt at something more substantial?

There had been one slightly older, ruggedly handsome gentleman in particular that Michael took a shine to. The sex had been undeniably hot, with both men admittedly feeling the chemistry between them.

Eventually, Michael had picked up on the subtle signs given by his lover that suggested he wanted more from him than just a physical relationship; he was always open and receptive to the prospect of emotional commitment. A monogamous, intimate relationship was something Michael had secretly wanted from someone but doubted he would ever get, considering his circumstances. So, despite any lingering fear or apprehension, he dove headfirst into a relationship.

The two men had great conversations, shared similar interests, and were sexually compatible. Over time, however, the older man’s increasing rigidity and resistance to getting too close emotionally had left Michael deeply frustrated and hurt. Tired of the stunted situation, Michael reluctantly broke it off with the guy, and he had not seen or spoken to him since.

After that failure, a heartbroken Michael took whatever came his way, whatever turned him on, gave him pleasure, and provided him with a feeling of being desired. Though not out to his immediate family, Michael accepted his bisexuality, even comfortable with it. And anyone who could help him escape the disappointment and monotony of his life was on the menu.

The sexual encounters occurred in the King’s Inn’s bathroom or backroom, in a cheap motel or at his partner’s residence. Never at his own house, in his bedroom, because the Morrison farm was completely off-limits. Michael never mixed his two worlds.

After sex, he typically felt satisfied and happy, but the sensation of contentment usually faded quickly. Once he returned to the farm, a depressed Michael invariably regressed into the empty husk of the bullied, high school dropout and recalcitrant farmer with a highly abusive, dysfunctional family.

But this boring, unfulfilling routine changed for Michael one auspicious afternoon several months back in late spring. The day a mysterious woman walked into the pub for the first time. No, sauntered in, as Michael always remembered it.

She had commanded attention as no one else had ever done before in the place. As inconspicuously as possible, Michael had watched her ignore the stares from the other patrons and the staff. She had gone to one of the many questionably hygienic booths, eased herself into its padded seat, and ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio. The bar did not have that, unsurprisingly. She had had to settle for a glass of cheap red wine.

Observing from his booth, Michael waited for her to cringe in overt distaste.

Shockingly, she never showed any signs of displeasure or irritation with her surroundings. Remaining calm and collected, she looked totally in control. This kind of woman did not belong in such a place. She was slumming it, as the saying goes.

She wore stylish, oversized sunglasses that remained on during her entire stay despite the dimness and darkness of the environment. At the time, it puzzled Michael, but he had since learned it was intentional: a signature look.

It added to her mystery and mystique, and it excited him.

She sat quietly in the booth for over half an hour, alone, slowly sipping the red wine the barmaid had previously plopped down aggressively in front of her. The employee was not impressed by the woman’s glamour and poise, her presence eliciting waves of jealousy.

Michael had planned on taking the barmaid into the backroom for a romp until this mysterious woman stole his attention, and all else became background noise to him.

The mystery woman glanced over at Michael. With a wave of her right hand, she crafted an invitation for his company.

Without hesitation, Michael joined her, introduced himself, and remarked that she was the most exquisite woman he had ever seen. He gushed about her flowing, jet-black hair and how it danced, glossy and shimmering around her delectable neck.

Despite his contrasting rural nature, Michael exclaimed his desire to kiss her. He did not wish to risk polluting her impeccably pure skin with the farm’s dirt that constantly lived underneath his fingernails despite all efforts to remove it. Carefully, he reached out and caressed her soft, ruby-red lips with the clean back of his right index finger.

Surprisingly, she did not recoil from his touch or chastise him for his impulsiveness, this physical intrusion without her permission.

Michael knew he was coming on strong but could not help himself. Her scent was beyond intoxicating. It caused an instant, animalistic attraction. It muddied his thoughts and created a hard, throbbing desire within his jeans that he desperately wanted to satiate. He wanted to bathe in her freshness and explore her body, from her mouth to the hidden pink opening between her thighs.

Though a tad rough around the edges, Michael was an attractive man with sun-kissed light-brown hair, bronzed skin, and gentle eyes. Years of manual labour on the farm had made his body taught, his muscles turgid, and his ass tight and round. He quickly realized his physical form excited her. It brought colour to her face, and he hoped his rugged sensuality brought a flush to more intimate parts of her feminine form.

Despite her attraction, the woman remained seated and silent. Her smile hid a secret. Unbeknownst to Michael, she had come to this place of trash and throwaway lives specifically for him. She believed Michael could be of use to her. She knew many things: secrets, hidden truths, and the dark legacy of the Morrisons.

The woman had every intention of submitting to his charms because she needed his help, doing whatever she had to to get it. Even if it meant fucking a dishevelled labourer to get what she desired. At least she found him handsome.

When Michael offered his body, she took it. He soon gave her his heart, too, willingly and innocently; she took that also. Both items were commodities to her, and she knew how best to use them to further her goals.

Michael begged for her identity, a name to exalt. He asked repeatedly, and she always refused. It drove him mad. For weeks their clandestine meetings in random motels fuelled his desire to know her.

When the timing was right, she told Michael about her enemies, dangerous men who wanted her dead. She would not be controlled by them ever again. However, she had seen too much and knew too much for them to let her live outside their control.

Though she routinely hid from her oppressors and fought back against them whenever the opportunity presented itself, she was alone in her fight. And this left her vulnerable.

She had confessed to Michael that she believed they would eventually find her and make her disappear.

At this point, Michael was ready to do anything for her and readily agreed to help. He had asked for a one-time payment for his services—her name.

And so she had whispered it, seductively, in a heavy french accent, before taking him to bed again.

My name is Véronique.

––––––––-

Marie, where have you been?

Before Marie fully pushed open the door to her family’s suite at Château Bergé, her husband had ambushed her and asked the same question she was tired of hearing and dreaded answering. While the question retained a large amount of honest, concerned inquiry, Jacques’s voice carried an exasperated tone.

Marie had hoped her husband had already extricated himself from their suite before her return. Jacques was often at work in his official office on the château’s third floor early in the morning. Unfortunately for Marie, he was in one of his investigative moods and had remained at home to confront her.

Jacques was always kind and patient with his wife during these moments. Marie truly appreciated it and loved him all the more for it. Of course, no amount of tenderness would ever be enough to loosen her tongue. Not about this.

Long ago, Marie had secretly vowed never to tell her husband about her past, at least, no more than she already had. Talking about her strict, unloving parents and her unhappy childhood was one thing. The years before she met Jacques, the years and innocence lost to the streets of Montréal and, eventually, the Morrison Farm was her secret shame to bear.

Marie offered up another one of her many excuses to explain her absence.

I couldn’t sleep. Insomnia. I know, I know! The Doctor prescribed those pills, but I feel like a zombie after taking them. I thought the fresh air might do me good, so I went for a drive with the windows rolled down, as you can see by my poor excuse of a hairstyle.

Grinning at the last comment, Jacques walked over to his wife and hugged her with such affection and vigour Marie thought she might burst apart. He then moved his mouth down her neck, exploring the skin with his tongue and lips as he went along.

Marie let out a soft sigh.

Pulling back, Jacques gazed longingly at his wife. He took the measure of her Italian-Canadian beauty, her chestnut brown hair cut in the pixie style he loved so much. Marie’s dark eyes often conveyed a deep sadness but still sparkled for him. Her artificially bronzed lips bore just a hint of soft pink around the edges, and this pink matched her pale, rose-hued skin. She did not possess the olive colouring of her father’s people.

Marie had on one of her classic Chanel suits. As she often told Jacques, it aided in making her feel safe, powerful, and confident. Feelings she rarely ever felt without material assistance.

I’m sorry I worried you, Marie sighed, but her apology lacked emotion. She desperately wanted to embrace her husband, reciprocate the warmth of his affection and scream her secrets into the air for him to hear. She wanted him to tell her everything would be alright, that he would always protect her, and that he would not think less of her knowing the truth of her past.

Instead, like always, she forced a smile, told him how handsome he looked, and went back to being silent. Marie’s resolve to reveal nothing was steel.

Marie, whatever is bothering you, please tell me. Let me in.

Jacques often tried to break through Marie’s hard shell of insecurity and secrecy, but her armour was damn near impenetrable. Sometimes he succeeded, and she fell into his arms and their bed. Partially succeeded, truthfully, as revelations and secrets never escaped her lips. He never pried deeply.

Even when Marie occasionally cried softly during their love-making, Jacques believed his wife was mainly happy with her life with him and their children. He knew she could be even happier if she let down her walls.

Jacques was nothing if not a true Frenchman: romantic to the core. He whisked Marie away on trips to distant countries for adventures most people could never afford to experience. Jacques showered her with gifts, including designer clothes and Tiffany jewels. He made sure Marie would never want for anything. The secular needs were easy; the emotional ones were harder to assuage.

Diagnosed with severe depression early into their marriage, Marie took prescribed medications from an ever-changing consortium of doctors to aid in combating her emotional and mental instability. While the pills helped balance her mood, they failed to bolster her limited ability to cope, especially with the tragedies in her past.

Like she did with her husband, Marie refused to explain to any doctor what her traumas were. As always, they were her demons to wrestle with alone. Therapy was out of the question. Marie would not go, period.

Jacques, a few nightmares keep me awake at times. It’s nothing. Are the twins with the nanny?

Jacques knew the routine. Marie would no longer talk about herself once the topic of their children, twins Henri and Etienne, entered the conversation. Resigned to defeat, he ended his questioning and returned to the kitchen counter. He collected the meal he had painstakingly prepared and placed it on the table at the breakfast nook, taking a seat himself. Inviting his wife to join him, Jacques answered her question.

The twins are fine. They’re at the pool. Listen, I need to talk about the party tonight.

Marie made a nasty face, irritated by the topic.

I’m sorry, but I can’t put off talking about it anymore. The Parisians arrived this morning, and the dinner event in their honour is at seven, with cocktails at six. I know how this displeases you, my love, but the Cartells have spent a lot to hold their party here. We need this money to keep this place running. You know I can’t refuse their business.

As her face turned red, Marie spun around to face her husband. The usually timid woman had disappeared, replaced by a hateful creature filled with obvious resentment towards the topic. Marie knew her husband was jumping around the truth. It was not the Cartells that brought their engagements to Château Bergé, but Jules Cartell, specifically. A woman who continuously slithered her way into their lives.

Marie’s nemesis for years, Jules, the blonde, striking beauty, was a leader in Fairporte’s business community. She was the head of Cartell Worldwide, a hugely successful international company. And she was only in her late twenties.

Jules was more than beautiful. She was wickedly intelligent and influential. And as much as it pained Marie to admit it, that influence extended to her husband. Jacques repeatedly told his wife that Jules was a business associate and friendly acquaintance, nothing more.

Marie had her doubts.

Oh, I know what that bitch wants and what she’ll do to get it! So do you!

Jacques was unsurprised by his wife’s hostile response. He had expected it. However, solemnity and reassurance were the only tools Jacques had to work with if the day was to run smoothly for everyone. Calmly, he kissed Marie’s steely face a few times in a futile attempt to remove the grimace that had set up shop there.

I’ll never allow that bloodsucking family to take our home from us, Marie. And Jules isn’t like the rest of them. Truly, she’s not what you think. She’s not interested in the burden of running a place as huge and complex as Château Bergé.

Jacques took a deep breath. He knew it was pointless to defend Jules to Marie. Considering his secret feelings for the woman, it was also borderline slimy. And Jules hated his wife as much as Marie hated her. It was a mess he knew he had to extricate himself from soon. The time was coming when he would have to make a choice. But now was not the time to think about his conflicted feelings or Jules’s recently spoken ultimatum concerning their complicated relationship.

Marie, honey, I’m going to finish changing and get to the office. I want you to eat this wonderful breakfast your handsome husband made especially for you, and afterwards, I want you to try and get a little sleep while the twins are away. I’ll check in on you later.

After kissing Jacques goodbye, Marie attempted to smile, but the action was weak, the performance unconvincing. She was too pissed off.

When Marie first met Jules, she sensed the electricity between the woman and Jacques. Images in her head of her husband with her rival had plagued her for years. There was something in Jules’s eyes: hunger and lust. All directed at her husband. It terrified Marie.

Oh, Jacques, Marie whimpered aloud once her husband had left, how can you defend that woman to me? That bitch wants more than our home.

During the tail end of her conversation with Jacques, Marie had picked up a coffee mug full of hot brew. She had yet to take a drink from it—even a sip. She held fast to it, gripping the mug tightly.

Marie’s distressed mind channelled her rage down through her arm. Her muscles tensed as energy travelled toward her clenched hand. Her anger and hatred of Jules filtered into her unrelenting grasp. Marie squeezed harder and harder, subconsciously increasing the intensity of her rage.

Eventually, the mug exploded under the pressure of her surprisingly powerful grip. Hot coffee and broken ceramic shards showered down on the breakfast nook and her flesh.

Marie gawked at the newly formed cuts on her hand, swooning at the swirls of blood beginning to form on her reddening palm. She winced at the pain caused by the heat of the liquid on her delicate flesh. The pain and the blood brought on terrible memories.

Instinctively, Marie thought about fire and explosions. She imagined something terrible happening to Jules. And to others.

Let them all burn, she whispered menacingly.

––––––––-

Michael could not get in touch with Véronique; his texts and calls continuously went unanswered. He had no idea if she had listened to or read the many messages he sent to her phone. He knew in his gut that he was in immediate danger. Both of them were in immediate danger. He had to warn her.

Their relationship existed exclusively on her terms. They played their sex games and their intrigues by her rules. Véronique always contacted Michael; it was for her protection. She repeatedly told him she would never put herself in a situation that left her vulnerable to her enemies by inadvertently assisting them in locating her. She believed Michael would likely lead them straight to her if he knew where to find her should their alliance be discovered.

Véronique enjoyed laughing openly at Michael’s naiveté, tired of listening to his ridiculous promises and guarantees that he would never tell, never betray her. She understood what Michael refused to accept; they would easily make him talk despite his bravado. These men had ways of making someone give them what they wanted. Their methods were brutal and vicious. They would break him, of that she had no doubt.

Michael honestly had no idea where Véronique lived, what she did when she was not with him or if she was sleeping with other people. Was Véronique even her real name? He thought it could likely be an alias, yet the mystique surrounding her identity suited her, and he liked it. She was the unknown in his life. The game of chance he willingly played despite the dangers associated with it.

Yet, though he had feelings for Véronique and lusted after her, Michael knew it was not true love. Not so deep down, the pull of his heart was to the man that had gotten away. Memories of the two of them together plagued him incessantly.

Michael was committed to helping end his family’s disgusting legacy. Still, if his ex somehow re-entered his life, he would end things with Véronique, romantically and sexually, and return to him. Michael had never really wanted the relationship to end. He had felt forced into making that decision and regretted not trying harder to make it work by breaking down his ex’s emotional barriers and fear of commitment.

Inside the barn, Michael was sweating through his clothes, his hair matted and thick with moisture and dust, but it was not just the farm work that made him feel clammy and sticky. He was sick with the knowledge that Seth was on to him.

It was something his brother had said to him that morning that triggered Michael’s panic and fight or flight response. It was the reason he had run to the barn the first chance he got. He realized the time had come to sever his ties with them. They were too dangerous, too greedy, and too unpredictable. Michael was sure they would kill him without hesitation to silence him, to prevent the heinous truth of this place from getting out.

The farm was not what it seemed. Michael worked the land with his brothers, but the produce they cultivated and harvested was not their only commodity. They peddled evil. Those poor women! He winced, thinking about them, about their fates. Michael had wanted out the minute he discovered the truth, but Véronique needed hard evidence. And he had made a promise to her.

Though it had nearly cost him his fragile sanity, Michael finally had what she needed.

Though he had been hiding out in the barn for a while, pacing back and forth, it only just dawned on him now to check his stash of evidence to make sure no one had discovered and removed it.

Michael walked away from the doors and headed towards the back of the barn, where the hay was thickest, and the ground was not all natural dirt. Grabbing a pitchfork, he worked to uncover a section of the floor that was once used as a washing station long ago, now hidden by hay and debris.

Beneath some old wooden floorboards, which could be removed and placed back without anyone suspecting their periodic displacement, Michael had hidden his physical evidence. It was enough to take down Seth and his criminal employers for good.

Yes, it’s still here, Michael gasped, relieved.

When Véronique revealed his family’s connection to her troubles, Michael was disgusted. He was even more horrified to discover how far back these crimes went. His father had started this perverse criminal activity when Michael and his siblings were children, possibly even earlier. Now, upon their father’s death, Seth, the eldest sibling, continued this despicable relationship with crime and sadism.

Confident the documents, pictures, and recordings were safe, shrouded beneath the wood and chaff, Michael replaced the hay. He immediately called Véronique—again.

Finally, the familiar sultry voice answered one of his frantic calls. "Salut, mon amour. Hello, my love."

I have it! I managed last night to get the last of the pictures. Seth suspects. Fuck no, he knows! You’re in danger. I’m in fucking danger! It’s time to get to the authorities outside the city before those bastards discover anything missing. Ottawa, maybe?

Michael raved into the phone like a madman. He had worked himself into a frenzy, unable to think