Chapter 13 #3
He knew all along.
He played Ounce, played the club, waited until they were gone and then made his move.
But Garrett will figure it out.
He has to figure it out.
When he gets to that motel and Virgil isn't there, when he calls the compound and no one answers, when he realizes what's happened—
He will come for me.
Garrett is smart, and he loves me, and he will tear this world apart to find me.
That's what he said. That's what he promised. And Garrett keeps his promises.
I cling to that thought like a lifeline. Like a prayer.
"Just hold on," I tell the baby. "Just a little longer. Daddy's coming. He always comes."
I close my eyes and try to rest.
Try to conserve whatever strength I have left.
My body wants to shut down, to escape into unconsciousness, but I force myself to stay awake. To stay alert.
Because when Garrett gets here—and he will get here—I need to be ready to run.
I don't know how long I've been lying there when I hear it.
At first, I think I'm imagining things.
My mind playing tricks on me, giving me hope where there is none.
I've been drifting in and out of consciousness, caught between waking nightmares and the real one I'm living.
The line between what's real and what's fantasy has blurred.
But then I hear it again.
A rumble.
Low and distant, but growing louder.
A sound I know as well as my own heartbeat.
A sound that means home, that means safety, that means Garrett.
Motorcycles.
I push myself up, ignoring the screaming pain in my ribs, my back, my everywhere.
Every movement is agony, but I force myself to sit, to strain toward the sound.
Praying I'm not wrong.
Praying this isn't a hallucination conjured by a desperate, broken mind.
The rumble gets louder.
Closer.
And now there are other sounds too—shouting, the crack of gunfire, the squeal of tires on gravel.
An engine revving.
Glass shattering.
The unmistakable chaos of violence.
Outside the cabin, Virgil's men are yelling.
Running. I can hear their boots on the wooden porch, hear them scrambling for weapons, hear the fear in their voices.
These men who were so confident an hour ago, so sure of their power—they're scared now.
And then I hear Virgil himself, his voice sharp with something I've never heard from him before.
Fear.
Real, genuine fear.
He's afraid.
The realization hits me like a drug—better than any high I ever chased.
Virgil, who has terrorized me for years, who thought he owned me, who broke into my home and stole me and violated me—he's afraid.
Because my husband is coming.
Because the Saints are coming.
Because the devil himself couldn't stop Garrett from getting to me.
The door to my room bursts open.
Virgil stands there, silhouetted against the light from the other room, a gun in his hand.
There's blood on his face—from where I broke his nose, I realize with grim satisfaction—and his eyes are wild.
He looks smaller somehow.
Diminished.
Like the monster under the bed revealed to be nothing but shadows.
"Your fucking husband," he snarls. "I should have known he'd come. Should have killed you the second I got you here instead of—" He stops, shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. Doesn't matter."
He raises the gun, pointing it at my chest.
And I hear it, louder now, almost on top of us: the roar of motorcycles, the thunder of engines, the sound of the cavalry coming over the hill.
The sound of Garrett keeping his promise.
Virgil hears it too.
His hand wavers, the gun trembling.
For the first time since I've known him, he looks uncertain. Lost.
"Doesn't matter," he says again, more to himself than to me. "I'll kill you. I'll kill you and the baby and then I'll disappear. I've done it before. I can do it again."
"No." My voice comes out stronger than I expect. Stronger than I feel. "You won't."
"Shut up."
"He's going to kill you." I look at Virgil—really look at him—and I see what I should have seen all along.
A coward.
A small, pathetic man who hurts women because he can't face anyone his own size.
A bully who crumbles the moment someone fights back. "Garrett is going to walk through that door, and he is going to kill you. Slowly. Painfully. And I'm going to watch."
"I said shut up!" His voice cracks. Actually cracks, like a scared child's.
"You should have run when you had the chance. Should have disappeared like you always do. But you got greedy. You got arrogant. And now—"
The gunfire outside is louder now.
Closer.
I hear a scream—one of Virgil's men going down. I hear shouting, Garrett's voice cutting through the chaos: "Find her! Find Vanna!"
Virgil's hand shakes.
The gun wavers.
And then the wall explodes.
Wood splinters.
Glass shatters.
Dust and debris fill the air.
A figure comes through the hole like something out of a nightmare—like vengeance given form—covered in dust and blood, gun raised, eyes blazing with a fury that makes Virgil look like a child playing pretend.
Garrett.
His eyes sweep the room, taking in everything in an instant—the filthy mattress, the scattered syringes, me curled on the floor with my hands bound and my face beaten.
I watch his expression shift as he processes what he's seeing.
What was done to me.
And something in his face dies.
Not the love—I can still see that, burning like a star.
But something else.
Some final restraint, some last boundary between the man and the monster.
It's gone now.
Burned away by the sight of his wife broken on the floor of this hellhole.
He turns to Virgil.
And I know, with absolute certainty, that the monster who hurt me is about to die.
"Garrett," I whisper.
He looks at me.
Just for a second.
Just long enough to see that I'm alive, that the baby's alive, that we made it through the darkness.
"I've got you," he says. His voice is steady. Calm. The voice of a man who has already made peace with what he's about to do. "It's over, Van. It's over."
Then he turns back to Virgil, and the last thing I see before I pass out is my husband raising his gun.
I hear the shot.
And then nothing but peace.