Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
I’m just leaving the bathroom after drying my hair when Kody dashes down the stairs in a blink of gray fur.
I continue to my bedroom and peer out the window over my driveway. It’s not like my music is blasting, but maybe it prevented me from hearing a knock on the door?
There’s a black BMW parked next to my coupe that I don’t recognize. When I whirl around to head for the door, Russel is standing at the top of the stairs, cradling Kody.
My skin jolts and I take a startled step back. “Russ! What the hell are you doing?”
He strokes Kody’s head, his purr like a small engine. “Your back door was open.”
Anger spikes my bloodstream. “So you thought you’d just come in?”
He’s wearing jeans, a Hawaiian shirt, and flip flops, but his scruffy face looks haggard and his eyes look…unwell. “I need to talk to you.”
I’ve never been scared of Russ, but…I don’t like this. He’s blocking my way out—is that his intention? Do I need to alert th e police? Shit, my phone is downstairs. “You couldn’t call first?”
“No, actually,” he says, swallowing hard. He sets Kody down. Kody stretches, then saunters down the stairs. “I think they’re, um, monitoring my phone.”
A chill walks down my spine. “What are you talking about?” Who would monitor his phone?
He draws in a slow breath and squares his shoulders. “I’m going to turn myself in.”
I put up my hands, like I can stop whatever momentum he’s built up all on his own, but they’re shaking. “Stop right there, Russ, okay? You need to leave.”
“No!” His eyes flash. “Sorry.” He scrubs down his face. “When I made that silly joke about a time machine, and you smiled…I realized how much I missed that smile. How much I missed making you happy.”
Emotions swirl inside me, but it’s confusing. Why is he telling me this? And what would he need to turn himself in for?
“There was never another woman, Meg.”
The little bit of tenderness he just evoked pops like a soap bubble, giving rise to anger. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Russ.”
“It matters to me.” His nostrils flare. “Please.”
“Why?”
“Because what happens next means I might not get the chance to tell the truth. And you of all people deserve to know it.” He huffs a tight sigh. “I fucked up. I know that. But maybe, if I come clean, you’ll understand. Even forgive me, someday.”
I don’t know what he’s getting at and I really don’t need this. “Here we are again with your needs,” I mutter.
“Meg, just hear me out. I only need a minute. And then I’ll go.”
I glance over my shoulder, toward the driveway. “Is that your beemer out there? ”
“Yeah.” Everett’s question rises up through my swirling thoughts. Does Russel have any expensive hobbies? The beginning of an idea is taking shape, but it’s so crazy, there’s no way…
“I never meant for any of this to happen,” Russ adds, taking a step closer, into the doorway of my bedroom.
Unease twists inside me. “Russel, I really think you should go.”
But it’s like he hasn’t heard me. “It started before we were married. I had…debts. From my pilot training, and just…being irresponsible. When we went to buy a house together, I panicked, because it would all come out. One of my private clients asked if I’d transport something for him…
for a little extra. I said yes. At first, I liked the added thrill.
” He face pales, and he swallows hard. “And the money. I paid off all my debts. We purchased the condo. I bought that Cessna. Before I knew what was happening, I was taking bigger and bigger risks, and things just…snowballed.”
Frustration that he’s making me listen to this pathetic B.S. gets steamrolled by my anger as I realize what’s he confessing to. “Are you talking about drugs?”
“And…other things.”
“Oh, Russ.” I lower onto the edge of my bed. How could he be so careless?
“Then San Diego happened. I couldn’t tell you the truth.”
“So you let me believe you’d cheated?”
His eyes turn pained. “I’ve been closing everything down since. And I would be a free man right now had it not been for Trina.”
I shake my head in confusion. “What’s Trina got to do with any of this?”
“She was trying to blackmail me. That night she died…” He rubs down his chin.
“I met with her at that house. I had to talk some sense into her. I mean, I’d just spent a year closing everything down.
I wasn’t about to let her stop me from finally walking away once and for all.
But she was acting crazy. Making threats.
Sa ying she was wearing a wire, that she was going to tell the cops everything unless I paid her off. ”
Cold fear licks up my spine. “Did you kill her?”
“No,” he barks, shaking his head. “That’s why…I have to give myself up. The cops found out that I went to the house that night. They were looking for me in Seattle yesterday. They think it was me . But she was alive when I left that house, I swear.”
“Someone hurt her though. The autopsy…” I shake my head. This is all too much to comprehend.
“There’s one other person who could have done it. Someone who had even more to lose than I did.”
“Who?”
The lights go out, plunging us into fuzzy gray darkness.
Panic floods my body and I bolt to my feet. “What’s going on?”
“I think someone’s here.” Russel spins from the doorway.
“Wait, Russ!” I call out. This is all wrong.
“You just couldn’t keep your mouth shut,” a woman says, hurrying up the stairs. I recognize the voice, but my brain can’t make sense of why she’s here.
“It’s over, Stacy,” Russ says in a firm voice.
“For you, maybe,” Stacy replies.
“No!” Russ cries. “Meg, run!”
There’s a flash of movement, followed by a deep thud, then something heavy crashes down the stairs.
“Russel!” I cry out.
Panic floods my veins. Run? Where can I run to?
A figure races at me. I get a glimpse of Stacy’s hard glare and the tire iron in her hands before I lunge for the door so I can slam it shut.
But she yanks it open, launching me backwards.
The last thing I see before I crash into the bedpost is her raised fist, gripping the tire iron.
I wake to an unfamiliar crackling, but it’s muted, or maybe it’s because the back of my head is throbbing so hard, my ears are numb. Why can’t I move? It’s like I’m swimming in molasses.
I remember Ice cream. I was going to pack up the cartons and surprise Linden at the fire station, but...
Russel.
Why am I on the floor?
The crackling gets louder. And it’s hot . I’m sweating, and my throat…
Russel’s disturbing confession. It doesn’t even feel real. “Russel?” I call out, but it makes the pain at the base of my skull explode.
In the dim light, I try to get my bearings. I’m in my room with the door shut. How did my door get closed?
I force myself to my hands and knees, but stars erupt behind my eyes and the room spins. Then I smell it.
Smoke.
Panic fires under my skin.
What is burning?
Russel was telling me that awful story, and then the lights went out. Something happened. There was someone in my house. Russel knew. He tried to warn me. I turned away, but… Stacy. Coming for me . Did she hit me? Where is she now? Where is Russel? What happened?
A trail of black smoke rises past my bedroom window.
Another wave of panic flashes through me so fast, the pain in my head turns searing, like someone is stabbing the inside of my skull with hot knives.
Is my house on fire?
I try to refocus on how I’m going to get out of here, but thinking only makes my brain bounce around in my too-tight skull.
As a flight attendant, I am trained in emergency response. There are protocols. Rules. A plan. But this is not a plane falling out of the sky or a medical emergency onboard a flight or even a terrified passenger having a panic attack.
My phone. I need to call for help. I reach for it, but my pockets are empty.
Think! Where did I leave my phone?
Hot panic shoots down my spine, straight to the arches of my feet, making me want to run. But there is nowhere to run.
With my head pounding, I crawl to my bedroom door, then I remember just in time not to reach for the knob because if there’s a fire out there, the metal knob might burn me.
Though if my house is on fire, burning my hand seems like the least of my problems. The only way out of here is through that door. Smoke is filtering in through the crack at the bottom, burning my throat and eyes.
“Russel!” I call out. “Stacy? Are you here?” The effort to scream with the smoke filling the air makes my throat spasm shut. My eyes are starting to sting and there’s snot dripping down my nose.
I crawl back to my dresser and grab a t-shirt to cover my mouth, then I knee-walk back to the door. Then I remember. My phone is on the counter—I turned on a playlist, and then I was texting Linden about ice cream.
Linden.
Outside my room comes a loud whoomph followed by a crash. Glass shatters from somewhere downstairs. Is someone breaking in to come for me?
“Help!” I call out. “I’m up here!”
More smoke puffs in from beneath my door and rises up to my ceiling where it’s trapped, but the space is filling up.
I have to get out of here.
I touch the back of my hand to my door. It’s warm, but is it hot? If I open the door, what am I going to see? Am I already trapped? I need help .
I have to open the door. If there are flames, I’ll just close it again. Unless the hot hair kills me first.
Grabbing another t-shirt, I wrap it around the doorknob and twist. With a gulp of air through the t-shirt covering my mouth, I push. But the door doesn’t move.
What the hell?
I twist again and shove. Something is blocking the door. No, no, no ! I push with all my might to get it open, but something’s wedged against it.
Another crash outside my door. The thud vibrates through my bones. Glass explodes. From the heat? Or is someone here?
“Hello?” I scream over the roar of the fire, pounding on the door. “Help me! Please! I’m trapped. I’m up here!”