Beautiful Terror (Burn It All Down Duet #2)

149. The World Didnt Lose A Hero

CHAPTER 149

THE WORLD DIDN'T LOSE A HERO

DEX

T he cabin smells of damp wood and something metallic.

I push the door open cautiously, my gloves already on, my bag of tools slung over my shoulder. The plan is meticulous. Today is the day Timmy meets his end, piece by piece, and I’ll make sure it’s as slow and painful as he deserves.

But as I step inside, my stomach drops. A faint tang of gunpowder lingers in the air, sharp and unmistakable.

The sight before me drains all the adrenaline from my veins.

Timmy is slumped in a chair, his head lolled to one side, a clean gunshot wound marking the center of his forehead. Blood and brain matter spatter the wall behind him in a grotesque pattern. His lifeless eyes stare straight ahead, wide with the shock of his final moment. His body looks limp, like a marionette with its strings cut.

Phil lies crumpled on the floor nearby, a revolver still clutched in his hand. A matching wound gapes in his temple, surrounded by dried blood. The gun lies just beneath his chin, a clear indicator of how he ended things.

I freeze, my pulse pounding in my ears.

What the fuck?

I take a step closer, my boots crunching on broken glass scattered across the floor. The scene is gruesome, but it’s not what hits me hardest. It’s the simplicity of it all.

Phil got to him first.

I stare at the tableau, a mix of disbelief and rage bubbling inside me. After all my planning, my careful setup, my months of tracking Timmy’s every move, Phil beats me to the punch—and this is what he does? A single bullet?

How fucking uninspired.

I crouch down beside Timmy, studying his lifeless form. The bullet wound is clean—too clean. It’s possible he didn’t even see it coming. There’s no fear, no suffering, no chance for him to face what he’s done. Just a quick end, served by the man who raised him into a monster.

I glance over at Phil’s body. His face is slack, almost peaceful, as if he found some kind of solace in ending both their lives. The sight of him makes my blood boil.

“You fucking coward,” I mutter under my breath.

This wasn’t justice. It was an escape.

I drop my bag to the floor with a heavy thud, my jaw clenching. I had plans for Timmy. Big plans. Plans that would have made him suffer for every ounce of pain he inflicted on Margaux.

But now? It’s gone. All of it.

The sharp wail of sirens in the distance pulls me from my thoughts. My head snaps up, and my heart sinks as realization sets in.

Shit. I look guilty as hell.

I glance down at the bag of tools at my feet—chains, duct tape, gloves, a hammer—and then back at the two bodies. The cops won’t believe I just happened upon this scene.

The sirens grow louder. Red and blue lights flicker through the dirty windows, illuminating the blood-streaked walls.

Oh, fuck.

“Hands up!” a voice booms. “Get on your knees! Drop your weapon!”

LATER

The holding cell reeks of piss and regret. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow over everything.

I sit on the cold bench, arms crossed, my thoughts racing.

Phil. That spineless bastard. He didn’t just rob me of my moment—he left me holding the fucking bag.

The detectives hauled me in without hesitation, their smug faces practically screaming open-and-shut case . My ‘murder kit’ was all the evidence they needed, along with my connection to Margaux and her well-documented history with Timmy.

“You couldn’t have made this easier for us if you tried,” one of them sneered as they cuffed me.

There are definitely many things I’ve done that could have landed me in jail. I’m sure every time I’ve hurt someone before, it’s left some kind of indelible scar.

But I’m not about to open up the therapy door and let someone in to see that side of me. I’ll shove it down and worry about the consequences later.

For now, I’m trapped in a box surrounded by metal bars, with a stinky alcoholic named Larry who was locked up for public intoxication, and a twink named Jethro who claims to have performed a lewd act in public. Which he recorded on a TikTok Live. Idiot.

My crime? Homicide. But I didn’t fucking do it!

What are the chances someone would get to Timmy before I did?

After all my plotting and planning, someone else took the lead and got there first.

What kind of defense is that, though? “I was going to kill him but someone already did it.” I’m sure there’s an intent to kill crime they could charge me with.

Fuck.

So I stay silent. The detectives occasionally call me into a room and try to have a conversation, but I only reply with, “Lawyer”.

And my lawyer, Mike Larsen, isn’t returning my calls. Fucker. He’s probably swanning off on some vacation using the retainer money me and plenty of other people pour into his bank account month after month. Maybe I picked the wrong profession. Being a defense lawyer to assholes like me seems more lucrative.

A FEW HOURS LATER

Mike walks into the interrogation room like he owns the place, his pinstripe suit immaculate, his briefcase gleaming under the harsh lights. “Sorry for the delay,” he says, sliding into the chair across from me. “Family obligations.”

“No problem,” I mutter. “Thanks for coming.”

He continues. “Wife dragged me out to a cocktail party, some charity event she helped organize. They work to give homeless people teeth or something like that. You know how it is.”

I quirk a brow, disinterested and slightly confused. “Great. Can you get me out of here now?”

He smirks. “Let’s see what we’re working with.” He adjusts his cufflinks and leans in. “So, what the hell happened? Start from the top.”

I give him the rundown, starting with my intent to kill Timmy and ending with the tragic realization that Phil had beaten me to it.

Mike whistles low. “That’s... a unique one, even for me. Let me guess—you didn’t kill anyone, but the cops found you at the scene with a bag full of tools that scream ‘premeditated murder,’ connected the dots to Margaux, and assumed you killed them both out of revenge?”

I nod. “Pretty much.”

“And you have no witnesses, no alibi, nothing to prove you didn’t do it?”

“Nothing but the truth,” I say bitterly.

Mike shakes his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, you’re honest, I’ll give you that. Alright, let’s focus on shifting suspicion back onto Phil. He’s the one who actually did it, right?”

“Has to be,” I say. “The guy’s been enabling Timmy his entire life. He probably snapped.”

“Wow, filicide—or in this case, Philicide,” Mike lets out a low whistle. “We don’t see that often, but when we do, it tends to be a crime of passion. He must have pissed his dad off real bad for him to kill his own flesh and blood.”

“I know. It’s horrible. But this guy deserved to die. He was a piece of shit, abusing his fiancée. Cheating on her, accusing her of doing all the horrible things he was actually doing to her. Financially exploitative. And so cunning and manipulative… like a derelict loser hiding behind a charming facade. He had to go.”

“Well, it sounds like the world didn’t lose a hero.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“Now we’ve just got to figure out how to get you out of this.” He pauses for a moment, and then nods. “Alright. Leave it to me. We’ll make sure the cops know you were just... unlucky enough to stumble onto the scene. It shouldn’t be too difficult to establish that Phil was the shooter, seeing the gun was in his hand when you got there, and I’m sure his actions will be backed up by gunshot residue. If we can prove that, we can cast enough doubt on your involvement.”

“Whatever it takes, man. I would happily have gone down for this crime if I actually did it. But I didn’t.”

“Then we’ll get you off,” he promises. “That’s my job. As long as you’re honest with me, we have a great chance of making this all go away.”

I nod. “I will be.”

“Good. Then we’ve got a chance. But next time, Dex?” He leans forward, fixing me with a sharp look. “Leave the murder kits at home.”

I glare at him. “Noted.”

For now, all I can do is trust him to work his magic. But one thing is certain—Phil may have stolen my thunder, but I’ll be damned if I let him take my freedom, too.

As I sit in the cell overnight, I can’t help but feel cheated. I was supposed to be the one to end Timmy’s reign of terror. I was supposed to be the one to deliver justice for Margaux.

But instead, I’m stuck here while Phil gets to die the hero—or at least the martyr.

I stare at the cold, gray walls and take a deep breath.

At least Timmy’s gone.

At least Margaux is safe.

But damn, I wanted to see the fear in his eyes when he realized what was coming—I wanted him to know what true helplessness felt like.

And now, thanks to his father, I’ll never get that satisfaction.