“Daddy!” Lizzie yelled, running for us. She held something
in her hand. “There was a letter in the playhouse. Do you think it may be from
a prince?”
“Let me see that,” Edward said, taking the envelope from her
muddy fingers. She stood there, waiting expectantly. “If it’s from Prince
Charming, I’ll let you know.” Lizzie
harrumphed, running back to the playhouse. He opened the envelope, his face
blanching as he unfolded the paper. “Fucking Renee!” He stomped away, pulling
out his cell phone. “Sanchez!”
I fell back in my chair and pulled my knees up to my chest. “Mommy,
was it a prince?” Lizzie called from her perch inside the playhouse.
“No, baby. Just some junk mail,” I replied, trying to keep
my voice calm. I was anything but calm. My mother had decided to fuck with our
lives. Again.
“Bella, can you come inside?” Edward called to me. I
woodenly got up, walking into the kitchen. Edward had taken the letter out of
the envelope, laying it on the counter. He was wearing latex gloves. “Read this
but don’t touch it.” I looked at the letter, shocked at its contents.
You guys will never
learn…
Ever.
You think that I’ll
just go away? I’m not going away until my demands are met. And since no matter
what I say is causing you two to budge, perhaps threatening your children will
get your asses in gear. The loss of a child is what is spurning this on…do you
know who lost a child?
Anyhow, you have two
weeks to come up with $15 million dollars. If you do not pay me that money,
your children will join your ex-husband, Bella and your dead wife, Edward. You’ve
got three of ‘em. What’s the loss of one, hmmmm?
Two weeks to come up
with the money and admit your guilt for killing Mike, Isabella, or your
children will no longer be on this earth. You will forever know what it’s like
to lose a child. Or rather, children.
I’d hate to kill a
kid, but you’ve forced my hand.
Two weeks.
The clock’s ticking
and you have to drop of the money and your confession to this location in the
park by your former school by June 20th at 7pm.
Don’t. Test. Me.
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