Angela Weber and Ben Cheney
Three months after leaving camp Angela was a changed woman. Not fixed and certainly not one hundred percent well either physically or mentally, but changed certainly.
Stronger, fitter, healthier and more honest with herself and with those she loved than she'd ever been in her life.
It hadn't been easy and even though she'd scoffed at her therapist the first time he told her that anything she wanted was worth working hard for Angela was now proud that she'd worked as hard as she had.
After three months of treatment she now tipped the scales at one hundred and thirty pounds, just two pounds below the minimum acceptable level for her height of five feet ten inches. As exciting as it was to know that once she'd gained those last two pounds her physical trainer and her therapist would sign her off as healthy was the notion that she didn't feel fat.
She was back in school and while that was hard in itself, being surrounded by the same influences that had driven her to the brink in the first place, she coped by practising the techniques she'd learnt in therapy. The first few weeks she limited the times and types of contact she had with former friends, while at the same time seeking out new friends who were engaged in more healthy activities outside of classes.
After having missed six months of school she had a lot to catch up on and while she understood that it would set back her ultimate goal of graduating she knew she wouldn't finish up with her peers. Her therapist helped her see that that was a consequence of past behaviour and something she should strive to avoid again. Staying on track with her studies became a new goal.
At four months she was another pound closer to her weight goal and still feeling good. The pull of the gym was still there and her therapists and doctors told her it would be for a while, but she'd resisted doing anything other than what her trainer told her was 'normal'. A few light weights to keep her toned and never any exercise right after eating. The whole routine seemed to be working so she stuck with it even though her brain sometimes told her that a 'little bit more' wouldn't hurt.
At five months she'd gone over her goal weight by nine ounces and when the nurse announced this, for the first time in her memory, she didn't panic. Instead she was filled with the warmth of pride. She was proud that she'd done it and even prouder that the extra ounces hadn't made even a blip on her radar as she'd gained it.
At six months she was given the all clear to wean herself off the diet plan slowly. Very slowly. Now her routine was about maintaining the healthy weight she was and retraining her brain to accept that it was healthy.
The strange part was that after six months of intensive therapy and counselling she did feel healthy.
Her body felt healthy and so did her mind. And for a girl with the kinds of problems that Angela had suffered all through college that was a miracle in itself. She was healthy. The weight gain was necessary for her organs to function as they should. The slow gain meant that all her bodies systems began to work normally gradually, rather than straining them even more than they had been at her lowest weight.
She was eating regularly and was free of the dread and self deprecating feelings that used to make her want to burn off the calories the instant they entered her body.
She was still a regular at the gym but in a more controlled way. She had specific times she could go and the gym itself monitored her comings and goings very strictly. She had a digital clock card of sorts and without swiping it through the front doors they wouldn't open for her. She'd 'fallen off the wagon' a few times in the past months but her therapists helped her see that they were wins, rather than losses because she'd rebounded in healthy ways.
Once she'd tried to enter the gym in the middle of the night despite knowing that they were closed and that the reason the doors wouldn't give had nothing to do with her. But she'd had a particularly stressful day, her mental state was fragile, and she'd managed to get herself home and explain her reasoning's to her parents under her own steam that time.
Another time she'd gotten a C on a paper she'd been convinced deserved a higher mark. She'd begged her teacher to reconsider and when he wouldn't she'd crumpled. Struck with the old feelings of failure she'd gone to the gym and had overstayed her allowed time limit. Her personal trainer warned her, delicately and subtly, that breaking the rules could result in relapse and the possibility that her membership could be cancelled. Angela, stuck in limbo and not knowing what to do, had broken down and cried.
It had taken more than an hour – nowhere near the machines or the exercise rooms – but Angela had called her father and he'd gone to collect her.
Her therapist, trying to make her understand that relapse was normal and that the way she dealt with the relapses was more important than the relapses themselves did his best to calm her the next day in her session.
Angela learnt, after that, that her coping mechanisms were shoddy and set out to rectify that.
New ways to deal with stress and anxiety were put into place and since then she'd never looked back.
Now, eight months after leaving camp, Angela was down to seeing her counsellor just once every two weeks and attending just one group therapy session a month now that her medical team had marked off most of her physical recovery goals.
Her period had returned only a few weeks before and even though she knew and understood that most women would hate that she loved it. She welcomed it coming again. Its return meant that she hadn't permanently damaged her vital organs and that she might still be able to have children naturally. There would be a million tests when the time came, but for now it was enough. It was a huge relief, but only one of many.
Her skin was clear and her eyes bright. They were the first signs she's noticed herself though her parents and Ben had noticed other things. Her moods were levelling out too and she was able to fall asleep and stay asleep more easily now that her body was functioning so much better. She had no trouble concentrating in classes now and her grades had slowly gotten better over the months prior. She was no longer so stressed about lecture times cutting into her gym time and as a result she found that sticking to her set down routine made life easier. She was balancing school, family and her personal life with relative ease.
That included her relationship with Ben.
The first four months of Angela's recovery were also the first four months of his. And they'd done it alone, without each other.
After leaving camp Ben had travelled to Angela's home town with her. Unable to bear being apart until he was sure that she was at least out of the woods medically Ben had stayed at the Weber house with her parents while she'd stayed in the hospital.
When she was released – after a two week stay to ensure that her heart had recovered enough to be off constant monitoring – Ben had moved to a hotel nearby for another week. After that his time was up.
So, on the day he should've been returning from camp he went to his own home town to face his own family and coach. Well aware that whilst away he'd fallen in love his parents were supportive and proud that he'd straightened himself out and had stood by his girl through the worst of her own troubles.
His coach, on the other hand, wasn't interested in his relationship issues and just wanted to see the proof that camp had done what Ben had promised it would.
With two days rest from all the travelling under his belt Ben took the field with his teammates for the second last game of their season and went a long way to showing his coach that proof. Clear headed, eager to perform and never more willing to follow instructions Ben had the game of his life.
The following week he was named in the starting line up and at the end of that game his coach signed off on his place on the team for the following season, as long as Ben managed to catch up on all the course work he'd missed while away at camp. Ben politely declined the offer of a spot on his university team for the following season and instead asked his coach for a written recommendation to go with his application to transfer to Angela's school.
After that he put his head into his books and studied like there was no tomorrow so that his course credits were as good as they could be. His application for transfer counted on his passing, and passing well.
His parents understood. They understood the need to be near his love. They understood the commitment he'd made to her. They understood his determination to do his best on his exams and to make the transfer happen.
So Ben's life became one part study and one part Angela. There wasn't room for anything else. Like her he withdrew from the social group he'd been part of before going to camp and instead buried himself in his study.
He talked to Angela every morning before class and again every night before bed. He ate in the dorm, he studied, he worked out only enough to maintain his normal off-season fitness regime and if there was any spare time – of which there wasn't much – he spent it talking some more to Angela.
On Saturday afternoons he conference called with her therapist and on Thursday afternoons he conference called with her parents and her therapist.
Two months later when his finals came around he was mentally exhausted but also confident. He breezed through his first two exams, felt a little less confident about the next two but was sure he'd blitzed the last.
When classes broke for a two week break he was on the first plane to Angela's home town, where he stayed the entire two weeks, getting back to campus the morning of his first class. And so his routine went.
Saturdays he conferenced with the therapist, Thursdays with her parents and therapist and the rest of the week he was either in class or studying for a class.
His exam results showed the level of concentration and determination he had and reflected the monumental amount of work he'd gotten through to catch up to his peers. He passed everything and three out of his five classes he returned results that put him in the top five percentile of his class.
Five months after returning from camp his application for transfer was granted. His grades and his recommendation from his coach secured him a similar scholarship that he'd had at his previous school.
He had to finish out the current year but after that he'd be moving across three states to be with Angela and neither of them could contain their joy at the news.
His news coincided with her marked improvement both mentally and physically. Knowing he'd be near seemed to bolster her resolve to get better and it kept him on track to continue to achieve the best results he could in his classes.
His parents saw him off at the airport early in the morning and her parents were expecting him in the early afternoon at the other end. But he only had eyes for the tall, dark haired beauty that stood smiling just beyond the arrivals gate.
They clung to one another right there, in the way of all the other arrivals. Not caring that people were huffing and puffing. Not caring that his luggage was probably making its third trip around the carousel. Not caring that not a word had passed between them since his plane had touched down.
He was there, she was there and they were once again in one another's arms. It was enough. To be together. That she was healthy. That he'd passed his final exams and had a place on a team. It was enough that they had a future.
Jessica Stanley
Jessica's daddy was not amused to have his simpering daughter sat in his office at three o'clock on a Thursday afternoon. Especially not when she was still supposed to be at that god forsaken camp on top of the mountain for another month, at least.
"I don't understand what the problem is, princess," Marcus Stanley told his daughter truthfully.
"Rosalie Hale is insufferable," Jessica whined. "She put me in a cabin with a common girl, daddy. And when I brought that to her attention she did nothing. Nothing!" she screeched.
"A common girl you say?" Marcus asked, arching an eyebrow. He pulled a file folder off the stack to his right and studied the first page inside it for a few seconds. "Lauren Mallory is hardly a common girl, Jessica. She's almost as highly situated socially as you are, princess," he gushed, hoping to end this ridiculous discussion quickly by using a little well placed flattery.
Stunned that her father knew who her most recent roommate had been Jessica changed tack. "She might be socially acceptable but she isn't morally acceptable, daddy."
Frowning Marcus thought back on what his wife had said about their child's latest stay at Crossroads. "The last time you called your mother you told her you were very happy with your roommate," he said firmly. "In fact, the last time we heard from you you were singing this other girls praises. I think your mother said you used the phrase 'bff's', whatever that means."
Jessica's huff was loud and theatrical. She stared down at her perfectly manicured nails before turning what she thought were puppy dog eyes on her father. "But daddy she scammed me. She conned me out of half of this year's allowance! And that Rosalie did nothing!" she screeched again, setting her father's back teeth to tingling.
She could screech all she wanted Marcus thought darkly as he reached for yet another page in the file folder. He read it then pushed it across the table towards her. "That," he said as evenly as he could manage, pointing to a spot on the bottom of the page, "is your signature, correct?"
"Yes, but..." Jessica began but was hastily cut off.
"No buts," Marcus roared. "Lauren Mallory didn't con you. She didn't scam you either. You signed half of this year's allowance over to her of your own free will and Rosalie Hale has nothing to do with that," he hissed.
"You should sue her for letting common criminals into that stupid resort," Jessica suggested as innocently as she could, which wasn't much.
Marcus sat back in his chair and clasped his hands together behind his head and stared at the girl opposite him. She was impossibly spoiled, had no goals or achievement to her name and had never shown any inclination whatsoever to make her own way in the world. He wanted to blame her mother for her indulgent ways but knew that half of the blame was his. Deciding he was done doling out money for her every whim, and taking the advice of a colleague who insisted that tough love was a kindness and not a degradation, he blew out a long, slow breath.
"Jessica," he began softly. "I love you like no other father loves a daughter. I want you to know that. I want you to know that what I'm about to do is done through love and with the deep and abiding hope that this will change your life. I can only hope you'll come to appreciate this at some point. Your allowance is henceforth withdrawn. Kaput. Your driver will be reassigned to another part of the company and your apartment in the city will revert to being used solely for company use on the first of next month. Consider your credit cards and store cards null and void as of right now. I will write you a cheque for the bond and the first month's rent on wherever you decide to live after that, but that's it Jessica. No more. It's time you grew up and made your own way."
Dumbfounded, shocked and gaping Jessica began to cry. She begged. She pleaded. She raged and she cried. But there was no shaking Marcus Stanley's resolve.
"I hate you," were her parting words and right in that moment he didn't doubt they were true.
But, like other fathers the world over Marcus was sure that this was the right thing to do for his only child. He might have given her the world but it was time that she learned to function in that world on her own.
"Don't bother asking your mother for money," were his parting words as she stormed out of his office.
Jessica knew not to bother with that. Her mother would do whatever her father thought best.
As she stepped out of the building and out into the heat of a Melbourne summers day Jessica began to shake. She had nothing of her own and what she did own was sitting in an apartment she only had the right to call home for another sixteen days.
As calculating as the day is bright Jessica took out her mobile and dialled before she'd taken one step onto the pavement.
"Paul, darling," she simpered when the call connected. Looking down at the ring she'd pulled from a pocket and placed on her hand she managed a brief scowl and then reeled in the next poor sucker who'd pay her way through life. "I've decided to accept your proposal on two conditions."
"And they are?" Paul asked on the other end of the call.
"One, you marry me before the end of the month and two, you send a car and driver for me this second."
"Done and done," came the reply.
Yes, she thought. It was always best to get a 'starter' marriage under ones belt.
Tyler Crowley
Three weeks after Edward and Bella left camp – One week after securing the 'boon' that was Bella's statement.
"Sochi is the bloody middle of nowhere!" Tyler grumbled to his editor.
"Sochi is the middle of everywhere right now," came the blunt reply. "This is actually a pretty cushy assignment you know. There were a few guys pretty put out when I announced you were going to cover it."
"I doubt it," Tyler muttered as he looked down at the press pack on the desk in front of him.
Eric Yorkie had been Tyler's editor since he'd graduated from uni. His first job had been his only job for the past fifteen years and because they were friends and not just boss and subordinate Tyler had always felt free to voice his opinions on the jobs he was sent on. This one felt more like a punishment than a windfall.
"Whose idea was it to grant the Winter Olympics to a place that one has to make snow and two, is in Russia?" Tyler asked snidely.
"Not our problem," Eric chuckled as he laced his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. "All you've got to do is find an angle. Something that has nothing to do with the actual sports," he told a sceptical Tyler.
"You're sending me to Russia to cover the Winter Olympics and you don't want an article about sports?" Tyler asked incredulously.
"You got it," Eric confirmed. "Look, every man and his dog is going to be writing profiles on medal winners and their support teams. The media from here to Timbuktu will be flooded with hard luck stories about bobsledders that come from countries who don't have snow and orphans who were plucked from obscurity and clawed their way to the top of their sports by some do gooder or other. I don't want that. That's not what I'm looking for. I want either philosophical opinion or humour. I don't care which; I'll leave that up to you. Do whatever you want but don't send me profile shit. I don't even really want depth. I just want a different angle."
"How long?" Tyler asked, eyeing the press passes and the Olympic credentials already bearing his name.
"Go now, go in two weeks, don't go there at all, I don't care," Eric chuckled. "I need the piece by the second weekend after the opening ceremony so you've got a month and a half. Do with it what you will."
"You don't care if I actually even go there?" Tyler asked, eyebrows raised sceptically.
"I really don't. You and I both know that being on the ground wherever the action is isn't always the best way to get the story. I trust you, that's why I chose you for this. You got me that Black/Swan thing and I made a packet out of it so if you want to sit up on the mountain and do your thing from there and never set foot in Russia I don't really give a shit. Just get me a story I can print by the middle of February and I'm happy."
"Nothing to do with the sports," Tyler mumbled to himself, his brain already searching for an angle despite his reluctance to see this assignment as anything other than a nuisance. "I'll give it a shot," he announced, getting to his feet and offering his hand across the desk for his friend.
"Glad to hear it," Eric replied, shaking the proffered hand. "Make sure your expenses are with Kate on time and you shouldn't need to hear from me before you submit," he chuckled.
Tyler nodded, accepting the reprimand in good humour. He was notorious for slacking on his expenses. Eric always paid up, when Tyler could be bothered submitting them, and he knew it drove his friend and boss to distraction when Decembers expenses didn't come out of Decembers budget but rather from March or Aprils.
He didn't hear whatever his bosses parting comments were because Tyler already had an idea forming as he walked out of the office and out to his car.
With a flick of a switch his personal recording device blinked on and Tyler was making hasty notes as he drove towards his home. A little time in a Russian resort on someone else's dollar didn't sound all that bad.
My Kingdom for a Towel
By Tyler Crowley
~Russia's polished bid to host the 2014 Winter Olympic Games looked spectacular on paper. What it looked like in actuality was, on the surface, just that. Spectacular. Scratch away at that surface and another world awaits for those keen enough to really look. And I was keen.
Credit should not be spared for the Organising Committee who it has to be said has produced a main stadium that will bring to life the games itself and is magnificent. Its domed lid is lit up with the giant countdown numbers telling everyone from far and wide just how many hours there were until the world's greatest athletes would pit themselves against one another. The surrounding streets are suitably adorned with all manner of banner and streamer befitting such a prestigious gathering of talent and spectacle. The resort town that was to welcome thousands and thousands of visitors over the coming month was polished to within an inch of its life.
Those chosen to meet and greet the arrivals wore smiles that were genuine. Those arriving were weary from covering such vast distances to be there but were also instantly alive with the prospect of competition and glory that awaited.
But I wasn't searching for a way to report the Games as the glorious success they were bound to be. That wasn't my brief and it wasn't that I was searching for a way to pick fault, either. I was just there to find a true story to relate to you.
After all, even the most backward seeming regions on earth could host a sporting event successfully if enough cash is thrown at it. And Russia threw Fifty billion at this to ensure that what was presented to the world down the lens of a thousand cameras was what they wanted the rest of the world to see. A thriving and prosperous country with hospitality on tap. That they achieved in spades. In the Olympic Village. On the surface.
I arrived in Russia a week before the scheduled opening ceremony to get a feel for the region and for its natives. I wasn't disappointed. The area itself where the games village is situated is stunning. A crosspatch of modern and traditional Russian living with a few splashes of Olympic fever thrown in for good measure to really ramp up the excitement.
Leaving the natural beauty of the area aside – because after all, only God himself could take credit for giving the Olympic Organising Committee the backdrop to host such a spectacle – the cracks in the pavement made themselves more than apparent from the off.
I'd made a booking at my hotel six weeks before landing in Sochi. At the time I'd made the reservation I was assured that not only was there room for me but that the facilities listed in the brochure and online were a true representation of what I'd find when I arrived.
The outside of the building was exactly as it was pictured but there the similarities ended. Set aside the eight – yes you read that correctly, eight – stray dogs that were happy to laze in the sunshine on the front steps, and set aside again the fact that there was no floor in the hotel lobby and you begin to see where my interest in presenting a true picture of Sochi had stemmed.
A coat of paint could cover over patched holes in walls and there had been many hotel walls I'd seen patched in my time. New carpet can be laid over stains of dubious origin too. After all, not all hotel occupants treated the rooms with respect. This I knew first hand.
What I didn't know, or understand, was why there was a dirt floor where an actual concrete floor, at the very least, should be in my chosen hotel. Waved away as a mere irritation by the proprietor of the hotel I was taken to his own private 'suite' to complete the check-in process. That was a first for someone like me who had travelled to some pretty far reaching places. I'd never stood in the hotel owners kitchen before. Once my credentials and booking had been checked over he took me upstairs and my attention was pointed in the direction of the views the upper floor of the hotel would give me.
And stunning views they were. As a distraction it was brilliant in its simplicity for I had a clear visual stream from two floors up of the main stadium and the avenue leading towards it. It would be stunning at night I mused as I took a good look. And then the obvious problems made themselves known to me. Yes I had a fantastic view but it could be seen through the uncovered windows, that couldn't be opened.
There was no air conditioning or visible means of heating in the room either. That was going to be an issue with the windows having been painted shut. I ventured into the adjoining bathroom hoping there would be a vent of some type that would allow for air flow. There was, thankfully. My joy was short-lived. It too was painted. But not shut. Over. The entire mesh section was painted over. No air flow for me.
There was a shower stall and a toilet and with that I would have to be satisfied. No hand basin, no bath tub and to my astonishment no towels either.
I had the idea then that perhaps I was supposed to contact housekeeping and let them know that I'd arrived and that I'd be needing towels. And toilet paper. And a shower curtain and that without that I'd need an extra bath mat to mop up the water that I was sure to spill in a shower stall with no curtain.
It was then that I learned there was no housekeeping. There were no towels, toilet paper or shower curtains to be had. There were also no light bulbs, no newspapers and no running water that was fit for human consumption. There was also no fridge so bottled water, if I walked to the village and brought some back from the press camp, would be had at room temperature. Which was quite warm because there was no air flow.
The 'visitors guide' folder in the room was a font of knowledge. According to my hosts I was only several hundred feet from restaurants, cafes, bars and gourmet food halls if I was a member of the press or an athlete. If I wasn't affiliated with either of those groups I was out of luck. The proprietor of the establishment was recently divorced and his wife was the cook in the family. My meals, it seemed, were to be taken outside the hotel.
What I did have access to, though, was twenty-four hour round the clock access to the internet and it was good quality, again according to my hosts handwritten notes. A quick check through my room and I found the network plug. It was dangling three feet above my head on wires that came directly out of a cracked ceiling tile. It had blinking lights and I took that to be reassuring that there was at least electricity in the building. That was something I hadn't thought to check for so far.
Another 'modern feature' of my room was listed as 'telefone connection directing right to a real person who will be answering'. An interesting way to say concierge, I hoped. There was indeed a handset on the small table by one of the twin beds. The handset even had a cord. It wasn't plugged into a socket, and there was no socket anywhere that I could find, but it had a cord. I clutched my mobile phone to my chest and thanked the heavens above for USB chargers.
I was then asked to give my attention to the list of 'rules' in the back of the folder. They were all very simple, common sense rules, for the most part. I was asked to think and act in ways that wouldn't disturb other guests. I was asked not to smoke in my room and not to urinate in the emergency stairwell. Common sense.
What wasn't common sense were the warnings printed on a tiny square piece of plain white paper that had been hastily shoved into the plastic pocket inside the back cover of the folder.
I had to read that paper twice. I quote, 'Dear Guest, please do not put your personal belongings on the second bed. Otherwise we will have to give you a bill for the use of the second bed and bedding. Hotel Administration.'
So yes, Sochi is a beautiful place filled with kind, warm and endearing volunteers who are happy to show you around and to take you into their town and make you feel welcome.
But, there is nowhere in Sochi where a man, or woman, can buy a bath towel.
I ask you, where in the Russian Winter Olympics 2014 bid did it say that guests were to bring their own linen?~
Tyler hit send on his submission and then settled back against the pillows in his cabin at Crossroads. He'd been back in the country for only two days and already Rose had sent him a file on a pair of private guests that he'd be required to assist during his stay this time around.
Alec and Jane Hopwood were twins who had arrived from England just two days prior to his own return to Crossroads. From a wealthy family they had a unique and somewhat disturbing problem. Alec was in love with his sister. His sister didn't seem at all opposed to it either. Cripes.
Sighing Tyler flipped the page he was reading over and ground his teeth as he read the application the twins mother had written before their stay at camp.
"Jesus, Rosie," he muttered. "Where do you find them?" he asked rhetorically.
The loud, shrill ringing from his mobile rescued him from having to read the awful details about the twins. "Crowley," he answered after seeing the caller was from his editors office.
"Tyler," Kate sighed down the line. "I've got your submission here, its great work by the way, but where in hell are your expenses?" she huffed.
"Katie, darling," Tyler chuckled, "Meet me at Young and Jacksons at seven and I'll hand them over in person."
Kate hated being called Katie by anyone other than Tyler. She'd also resisted his advances for the past three years. She hated chasing him for his expenses but loved it when he asked to meet her in the cosy booth at the pub to hand them over.
"Seven thirty," Kate replied softly. "And you're buying."
She'd never said yes before so Tyler was completely thrown. "Okay," was all he managed to reply.
"And don't you dare wear jeans," she chuckled.
"Wear the blue dress you wore to the Christmas party," Tyler begged before his brain had a chance to tell him to shut up.
"Done, see you at seven thirty," she managed to croak before ending the call.
"Holy shit," Tyler hissed as he sprang from his bed. "She bloody well said yes," he told the empty room. "Holy shit."
Lauren Mallory
Marcus Stanley sat relaxed in the back of his town car like he did every other day of the working week. His driver, Demitri, who had been in his service for the past sixteen years steered the car through the peak hour traffic with practised efficiency. He got them home and through the massive wrought iron gates in good time, pleased to once again accept the praise from his boss who he both admired and respected.
Before he could step from the vehicle Marcus cleared his voice discreetly and asked his man to remain seated for an extra moment. Then he very casually withdrew a plain white envelope from his briefcase and passed it over the driver's seat.
Demitri accepted the envelope without dread. Marcus had made Demitri a very wealthy man and there was nothing his boss could ask of him that he wouldn't do with the same calm, practised efficiency with which he approached all his tasks.
Demitri opened the envelope and stared down at the small five by ten photograph of a woman. "How far am I to go?" Demitri asked.
"When you believe that her debt of two hundred and fifty thousand has been repaid," Marcus replied smoothly.
"Time frame?" Demitri asked, skimming the information on the page the photograph was attached to.
"In your own time Dem," Marcus replied evenly. "This is personal, not business. Consider your bonus doubled on completion," he said before making his way out of the car and into the house.
Demitri restarted the car and made his way back along the winding drive. He pulled the beautiful Mercedes into her regular spot where she spent her nights and then he made his way up the winding staircase to his apartment over the garage.
He set the envelope down onto his kitchen table and pulled the bottle of scotch down off the shelf above his stove. He poured himself a good portion and drank it down in one gulp.
"I don't know how you managed to fleece him little girl," he said darkly to the unblinking photograph, "but you're going to be sorry you did."
Ten days later – Prague
"...I'm standing outside the Hotel Florenc where the body of Lauren Mallory, the socialite daughter of Charles and Margaret Mallory, was found by a maid in the early hours of this morning. Initial reports say she was found deceased on the bed, a clear plastic bag with an unnamed substance by her side. Her father Charles, CEO and Director of Source Industries is quoted as saying his daughter was not a drug abuser and that he had no knowledge of her ever having dabbled with any illicit substances. Her mother Margaret broke down at a press conference earlier this morning telling the gathered press that her daughter was a sweet and kind girl who would be mourned and missed by her many friends..."
Demitri switched off the television and flung the remote control onto the bed. His job was done.
With one last look over the room to make sure he'd left nothing personal behind he slung his bag over his shoulder, clutched his passport and grinned. "I told her she'd be sorry," he said before pulling the door shut behind him.
A/N: Thank you for reading.
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