Chapter 44
Joel collapses to the carpet with a heavy thud seconds after the bullet hits his chest. Shock colors his expression as his face blanches.
Never in a million years would he have guessed that his demise would be by my hand.
There’s a sort of poetic justice in the situation—a man who reveled in the power he holds over others being killed by the woman he broke.
He coughs weakly, blood gurgling from his open mouth and staining the carpet beside him. With each passing second, he becomes paler.
A part of me expects to feel the guilt sink in any second—this is my husband, after all—but it never comes, even as I watch the carpet darken with his blood. There’s nothing besides cold detachment and a sense of liberation, even as the light leaves his eyes and he takes a final shuddering breath.
I stare at him for minutes, as if making sure he’s really gone.
I just murdered my husband. And this time, there was no justification for the murder, no convincing myself I had to kill out of necessity due to the deal I made with Ambrose.
No, I simply shot him out of resentment and rage. A cold desire for revenge.
Does this make me a monster?
I’m not sure if I care either way.
All the bruises and scars I’ve suffered from him, the years of becoming a shadow of myself, have culminated into this moment. Frankly, he deserved to suffer more, but at least I know that he’ll never hurt anyone from now on.
Never again will I allow a man to control me or define me.
I rush to collect the items I’ve come here for, knowing I’m on borrowed time now that I’ve killed Joel. If he’s on his lunch break like I’m assuming he is, it won’t be long before someone starts to wonder where he is.
I need to hurry.
I shove more clothes into the duffel bag along with the gun—I hadn’t planned on taking it, but now it’s a murder weapon with my fingerprints all over it—and scan the room just to see if there’s anything else I might want to take.
There isn’t. I step over Joel’s limp body and close the bedroom door behind me, then survey the living room.
Unsurprisingly, there’s nothing meaningful here to me.
I’ve lived the last eight years of my life in this house, and it feels just as impersonal as the day I moved in.
The bookshelf catches my eye, though, and I pause. Making my way over to the dusty stacks, I zero in on the title I’m looking for and slip it into my bag.
It’s one of the very few possessions I’ve kept since I was a teenager, but The Secret Garden has always been one of my favorites.
My immediate thought is, I wonder what Ambrose thinks of this one. I try to shake the thought of him, but as soon as he enters my mind, I’m unable to force it away no matter how hard I try.
Damn it.
Stay strong, I tell myself. It’ll hurt less someday.
I just wish it didn’t hurt so fucking much now.
The front door shuts with a final but unceremonious thud as I leave the house for the last time ever. I hurry down the sidewalk to the Camaro, tossing the bag in the trunk before collapsing into the driver’s seat.
It’s only when I’m rummaging through my purse to grab the car keys that my fingers close around something familiar.
I pull it out, running my fingers along the ridges of the familiar dark stone. What the hell? I had been sure to take the necklace out of my purse last night, knowing I wouldn’t be returning. Ambrose must have put it back in after I had gone upstairs.
Ambrose.
Shit.
Without this, he’ll only have a fraction of his strength and no protection. I shouldn’t care, since he probably has enough years left for many lifetimes, but there’s an uneasy, foreboding feeling gnawing at my gut.
Something is wrong.
I start the car and speed down the street as the pieces click together in my mind. The angels didn’t want Ambrose’s necklace at all—they simply wanted him without it, weakened and vulnerable.
They couldn’t have known I’d have the necklace with me, so their only other motivation for getting me to leave would be so I couldn’t warn him once I figured it out. So he’d be blindsided.
The first time I had encountered them in the woods, they had claimed they wanted to prevent him from killing anyone else, but they had also made it clear how much they despised his existence.
I’m so fucking stupid.
I slip the necklace over my head and will the magic to work, obscuring me from notice as the speedometer climbs into triple digits.
I need to get to him—fast.
It was all a cleverly orchestrated ruse. Maybe Ambrose had lied, but the angels used that to their advantage to get me away from him.
Deep down, my gut had told me something was off about them, and I had ignored it. It’s all starting to make sense now. I don’t know what their vendetta against him is, but it’s clear now that they want him gone.
And now he might be, and it’s all my fault. I played right into their game.
They’re coming after him. I just hope I’m not too late.
My heart races as I finally pull off the highway and take the now-familiar route to Ambrose’s house. The rain pelting against the windshield and the sharply winding mountain roads force me to slow down, but I take the curves as quickly as I can.
Please be safe, please be safe, please be safe. The words are a silent, desperate plea resounding in my head as I get closer.
I don’t know what I’ll do if they’ve already hurt him. I had convinced myself I would probably be okay with leaving him, at least for a while, but if he gets hurt, or worse…
Panic wells up inside of me and I force it back down. I need to stay strong right now.
Gravelly mud squishes up under my tires as I rush down the driveway, noting Ambrose’s other car is still parked where it always is.
Without considering anything else, I grab the gun from the top of the duffel bag in the passenger seat and shove it into my coat pocket before rushing to the front door.
“Ambrose?” I call as soon as I fling the door open.
No reply. I run into his bedroom, but it’s empty.
I don’t even bother to close the door behind me as I sprint to the garage out back. Please be in there.
But even from here, in the dreary gray afternoon, I can tell the lights are all off. I check anyway, and my panicked shout echoes off the walls of the empty building.
He has to be around here somewhere, which means there’s only one place left that he could be.
The church.
I run down the path, the freezing rain like needles against my face as I sprint across the pale, dead grass.
When the old church comes into view, my heart drops. The door is cracked open, but the energy reverberating through my bones tells me something’s wrong—like electricity in the air right before lightning strikes.
I don’t even pause to consider the potential danger of walking into the church. The only thing running through my mind is the desperate, raw hope that I’m not too late, and that Ambrose is still alive.