DOUBLE VISION

  The Single Minded Series Book 4

  CHARLES ELLIOT

  Contents

  VIP Readers

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  The Series Continues

  Review this book

  About the Author

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  Chapter One

  The blindfold is eventually removed from her eyes, allowing the dark contours of an austere countenance to bloom into detail while gray light filters through the window on the right.

  The young man with his swept-back dark hair sits back in his chair, tossing the blindfold onto the empty table next to him. He is devilishly handsome. Or maybe the devil made him handsome. Frankly, Jasmine has a hard time determining which description carried more truth. The sneer on his face seems to leave the beholder with a set of conflicting emotions. He has the type of face that makes it seem like flattery and seduction are his closest friends.

  But friends often get you into trouble. As well as others.

  Right now, Jasmine feels that this trouble has somehow acquainted itself with her.

  “Sorry. I know this is kind of sudden. But I like to make sure my guests arrive safely where I want them. So I took a little initiative. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Even if Jasmine knew what to say, she wouldn’t be able to talk. She has a gag in her mouth.

  So instead, as her body tenses after hearing the voice—a voice slick with sadistic playfulness—she studies him more closely. He looks strangely familiar to her, even though it’s the first time they have met. The arising inkling of recognition unearths along with it a sense of trepidation, and even danger. But the memory itself that had formed such an impression is now a shadow within her mind, and hollow in its detail. Even if the circumstances of their meeting had not been that of a kidnapping, she may have nurtured a distrust toward someone like him, regardless of the conditions.

  Her kidnapper clearly had no qualms with her taking in her surroundings either. They are in someone’s apartment. From the sparse decor, bare walls, and overall lack of personality, she figures it must belong to one of the man’s bruisers. Not even a look through the window helps her to determine where she is, however. The little she can see beyond the curtain—the gray and brown exterior of old apartment buildings—helps nothing to position her in any location within a city she recognizes. Unless she stands outside, she won’t be able to navigate her way out.

  The man sitting across from her seems to be indifferent to her study of this new cage he has brought her to. He lights a cigarette, scrutinizing her with a knowing look that she finds unsettling.

  Jasmine realizes she has been in this situation before. An undisclosed location, the looming presence of backup muscles just beyond her periphery, and then the all-dominating sight of her negotiator splaying himself in front of her with an inflated ego.

  He is about to strike a deal with her.

  “Part of you must wonder why you’re here,” he says, blowing a puff of smoke her way. “And yet, I only say a part because you seem like a smart girl. I suspected that you wanted us to see you. It’s maybe why the shock doesn’t have you squirming in front of me like some of my more… usual clientele.”

  Jasmine remains quiet, for obvious reasons.

  “Sergei, remove the gag, for God’s sake. This is not some one-sided conversation.”

  A pair of rough hands come into view on either side of Jasmine’s face. The force by which the gag is removed feels as though it may have ripped her teeth out. Her tongue feels dry from having the cloth in her mouth.

  “You must be curious why I would waste my time on a street rat like yourself,” he continues.

  Where she found the gumption to scoff at him in saying that, she cannot say. She had already been playing a dangerous game, and she isn’t doing herself any favors now. “Rats still tread over scum in the streets. Dressing in a suit doesn’t make you any less of a piece of shit.”

  She barely feels in control of her words as they come spilling out. What are you thinking? she reprimands herself. She half expects one of his goons to hit her across the face if he isn’t himself inclined to get his hands dirty. But the tension he leaves her with by doing nothing instead is almost worse. Nothing happens. Even his expression is unmoving, as he merely regards her while continuing to smoke.

  “But yeah. I kind of am interested as to why I was brought here. Especially seeing as I’m inconsequential to most people.”

  “I’m not here to bore you with elaborate detail that you probably don’t have any business knowing,” he explains, dragging a glass ashtray closer before tipping off the end of his cigarette. “I merely brought you here to tell you that it would be in your best interest to stay out of this part of town. It is a little far from home, don’t you think? What was it again?” he taunts her. “Oh yes. W. Pontiac Avenue, Wicker Park. That’s your address, isn’t it? Or, rather… the one belonging to your parents.”

  Threats. It’s the language of low-lifes who dress themselves like authority. For any man who knows how to make such an outward change to himself, she is sure that he is able to read these outward changes in others. Therefore, she knows he’d be able to smell fear. And he’ll be prodded to investigate any trace of it by detecting it through her appearance.

  Jasmine concentrates to keep any surprise from her countenance. More than ever, she needs to be in control of the situation. That means being in control of herself. She cannot show him how his words rouse her. But, she is still at a disadvantage in terms of what she knows.

  “I don’t understand…” she says, keeping her voice even.

  “It’s better not to look for too much understanding. Trust me, if I were you, I wouldn’t overthink. It’s better for you to not ask too many questions. All I’m leaving you with is a recommendation. “You should just go back to whatever life you had before this.”

  Before what? is her immediate thought. But instead of asking this aloud, she decides to follow his advice.

  “Stay in your lane, and stay out of trouble,” he adds. “Then, we won’t have a problem.”

  Until a little more than a day ago, Jasmine hadn’t realized that the possibility of a problem existed in the first place. No more did she have any idea that someone of his character, and whoever or whatever he represented, could be behind it. He is playing a power game with her. That much is clear. But what does he hope to gain? Is he keeping an eye on Bambi? Does he perceive her as a threat? More importantly, does he know that she and her twin have already met?

  “Sergei over here will take you home. He makes a decent escort. One of the most efficient in my employ.” He looks past her, nodding his permission for the man to come forward.

  The brute who steps in from her blind spot is a big man whose muscles strain against the suit he wears. He looks even more threatening now, up close, than he did when he was on the street. In Jasmine’s eyes, there appears to be a restlessness about him that she feels she had seen in someone else not so long ago. That visible itch to someone’s demeanor that comes from unresolved sexual impulses.

  Before she can respond, or even protest what is to happen, he slams the gag back into her mouth. Another one of her freedoms is taken away soon after, as a bag is placed over her head.

  “This will all be over soon. You can go back to your old life once all this is over.”

  But as Sergei’s hands pull her from her chair and drag her through the door, those words offer her little comfort. Her old life i

s like death.

  They had seen her.

  Bambi straightens herself, quickly resuming her confidence before being drawn into the boardroom full of expectant faces. Most of those present look at her inquisitively, and some—her client among them—even looks at her with some concern.

  Shaking the jarring psychic experience entirely proves a bit harder than she imagined. But she tries nonetheless, eventually finding her voice. “Good morning, everyone. My apologies for the delay.”

  Curt nods and cold stares meet her alongside passive acknowledgement as she takes her seat toward the end of the large table where everyone seems to be clustered.

  “Now. I believe we’re here to discuss possible terms of settlement.”

  The attorney in opposition, Phil Carter, wastes no time jumping in. “Yes. Mrs. DiMaggio and I have read the terms set forward by you and your client,” he begins, unclipping his briefcase and removing a file from inside. He tosses it on the table with disdain, and Bambi watches it slide her way.

  “I’ve highlighted a number of points of contention. Not only will my client be refusing to accept some of the terms laid forth for the custody of the DiMaggio children, but she denies all claims put forward in section C. It’s all there in the file.”

  Insufferable as ever, Bambi thinks to herself, glancing venomously at him while drawing the file closer to investigate the document. Of course I know it's in the file. I drew it up, you twit. Her mind suddenly feels sharpened enough to cut back on the assaults that he’s prone to in these meetings. Though the unexpected psychic turbulence she feels as a dull ache at the back of her mind may have blunted her a little, she is more than ready now to face him.

  Upon opening the file, it strikes her as though someone had left the document unattended in the hands of a toddler. She wonders at the number of highlighters sacrificed to make her question the original color of the paper. In addition, someone had gone wild in their skewed underlining of the points set forth in the settlement, writing their opposition in barely legible terms in the margins on the sides.

  Frankly, Bambi feels it may simply have been easier to just refute the document as a whole. From what she observes, it is exactly what their perusal of the document pointed to.

  “My client wishes to address her particular distaste at the accusation which alludes to a disturbance of her mental state,” Phil adds.

  He then proceeds to launch into a rant on the point emphasized which she only barely pays attention to, waiting until he mentions something that she might hear that is of actual consequence. She can hardly explain what comes over her as she scrutinizes him, finding herself inclined to identify all the irksome qualities of his appearance that merely heighten her dislike toward him.

  The blonde of his locks are of a villainous white that even found its way to the rest of the hair tufting his jaw in what is supposed to be a beard. Yet, the contour it gives his light complexion is minimal if non-existent, the result being that if one looks from far enough away, the outline of his face just seems blurry—much like his intentions. Since his eyebrows hadn’t managed to acquire a darker tinge, either through genetics or cosmetic alteration, they too seem invisible. And with a non-prominent brow bone, his expressions and emotional intent are almost impossible to read. Her only clue is given through the tone of his voice. But since it accompanies the words he means on using, it isn’t of much use in premeditating a reply.

  In short, he is an unpredictable phantom of a man who had become more of a threat because of the strange mastery of his dispositions.

  He is done in a matter of one minute. Bambi, however, returns to the original point, not intending to give him the satisfaction of offering a response to some of his more subjective takes on the matter.

  “This accusation your client speaks of,” Bambi starts, eyeing the fiery-eyed woman on Phil’s right, “is merely a statement of what has already been confirmed through a past diagnosis of a mood disturbance by a psychologist.”

  “That was six years ago!” the woman shrieks, almost as if a perfect complement to Bambi’s point. She reins herself in after a moment, hearing the tone of her own voice, and then continues. “The clinical assessment was also done by a single professional… recommended by him!” she spits, eyeing her husband. “Facing our present situation, I am inclined to think that the two of them were in cahoots of gas lighting me.”

  Bambi almost finds the opposition laughable. But she is careful not to show her amusement. “That is highly unlikely. First of all, it would be a break of ethical conduct for the mental health professional in question to resort to such actions. Secondly, from the objective review of the history laid before us, your husband’s intentions were to help you, not merely for the sake of your own mental well-being. It was also to ensure the well-being of his children. There was reason to believe, based on statements given by teachers to your children’s school, that you had picked them up numerous times within the second week of August 2016 in which you, and I quote ‘seemed unhinged and under the influence of substances,’ as observed in your behavior and in driving away on some days. Psychiatry reports from the same period revealed that you were already prescribed an advanced schedule of mood stabilizers. Your husband mentioned you did drink your medications, but not faithfully—”

  “Lies!” she interrupts. “I took them as per schedule. But as I predicted, they were useless.”

  “Well, then it would appear as if a second hypothesis to your behavior was at least true. Mood stabilizers don’t mix well with excessive alcohol consumption. If you appeared unhinged, it may have been because of the opposing effects of the substances ingested.”

  The woman seemed about ready to fly into another fit. Thankfully, Phil does Bambi a kindness by silencing his client.

  “I think what my client is aiming to suggest is that this statement cannot be proven on one assessment alone. Especially since it was done a decade ago. The client has never been in rehabilitation for an alcohol abuse problem,” Phil points out.

  Bambi leans forward. “Mr. Carter. I don’t think I need to point out to you that a diagnosis of alcohol dependency isn’t necessary to justify that point. Her abuse of the substance may have been situational, because of a fluctuating mood. Because she was under medication, it may have destabilized her—”

  “May have… Miss Moore. These arguments are all subjective, without any solid basis on which to rely so late in the argument. The assessments done in past have no bearing on the present circumstances.”

  Bambi sees what he is doing. He is trying to divert the argument with these nonsensical inputs of the glaringly obvious to throw her off. Next to her, her client is silent. His mouth is pressed in a tight line as he tries to respectfully endure the proceeding of events. It is then that the scene—of a belligerent wife, and an apparently submissive husband—replays itself in her mind within a different guise. She thinks of Serena Clarke and her domineering, and somewhat crazed presence. And, even if she has never met Joseph Clarke, she feels that she sympathizes with his plight somewhat. Is this the same narrative he deals with? From Jasmine’s account, alcohol appears to be his own muse in drowning his sorrows. But if anything, it makes him more indifferent.

  Bambi doesn't know why the thought suddenly passes through her mind, but she finds herself aligning the motives of Mr. DiMaggio with those of Joseph Clarke. All DiMaggio did seemed to be in the interest of his children and even the preservation of his wife. Is Joseph doing the same? From Jasmine’s accounts, Serena was prone to drink copiously and be a drug user herself. Was her husband trying to prevent what he could by robbing her of some of these substances? Had he unintentionally fallen prey to those effects himself because of some deeper loss that he experienced?

  “Miss Moore… Are you listening to me?”

 

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