Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Alicia
A sharp clang slices through the house.
Stella’s in her pajamas, curled on her bed, scrolling through posts from the play on her phone—the one her father bought her. The blue glow lights her cheeks, carefree and warm.
But the sound downstairs is wrong.
Too loud.
Too deliberate.
Not a settling pipe or shifting wood.
Something else. Someone else.
Is Noah on the second floor?
Why would he be?
He doesn’t come up here when Stella’s home—we agreed to that. I go to him in the basement for privacy.
Suddenly, I can’t sit still.
If Noah’s downstairs, something happened.
With the case.
With Jessica.
With all of it.
A tremor crawls along my spine.
I tap Stella’s leg. “Give me the phone. Lights out.”
She gives me a tired smile and slides beneath the comforter. I take the phone gently from her hands and set it on the charger at her desk.
“Did I tell you the spring play is going to be The Secret Garden?” she asks, voice soft with the wind down.
“Yes,” I whisper. “You mentioned it.”
“Tryouts are in two weeks.”
Another sound cuts upward from below.
A creak.
Then a footstep.
Or the echo of one.
My hand lingers on the light switch.
“How about we get through this play before we worry about the next one?”
She smiles, unaware of my pulse climbing. I turn off the light. Her shadow stretches once, then disappears.
“Night, Mom.”
“Night. Love you.”
The latch clicks softly when I pull her door closed.
And then I move—fast.
Down the stairs.
Rapid. Quiet.
Hand on the banister.
The hallway is dark. Too dark.
My office door is shut.
My bedroom door open—wide open.
I stop at the landing, breath tight.
Noah?
The word is silent in my mind; I don’t dare speak it.
Stella would hear.
Within seconds, my palm closes over my office doorknob.
I twist.
A crash explodes inside the room.
Jessica spins toward me.
Her eyes are wild. Her hair is damp—night air or sweat, I couldn’t say—and in her shaking hand, she holds a small black handgun. The muzzle wobbles, trembling like her wrist can’t bear its weight.
“Close the door,” she says.
Her voice is soft.
Too soft.
A dead calm wearing hysteria underneath.
I swallow hard. Then close the door.
Noah’s somewhere nearby—I can feel it in my bones—but he isn’t here now. Not between me and the trembling gun.
“What’s going on, Jessica?”
“Lock it.”
My fingers fumble at the bolt. It slides into place with a quiet click.
The corner floor lamp casts a warm golden haze behind her, turning the edges of her hair into a halo, a cruel contrast to the shadow across her face.
“How did you get in?” I whisper.
She mutters something—fragmented, slurred. Incoherent.
Her gaze jerks toward my open drawer.
USB drives. Four of them.
She scoops them up with frantic, jerking motions and shoves them into her coat pocket.
“Jessica—”
Her name barely leaves my mouth before she flinches, eyes darting to the windows. Mud smears the sill. The latch hangs crooked.
She climbed in.
“Can I help you with something?” I ask, trying to keep my voice soothing and low, mindful of Stella upstairs.
Jessica’s laugh is a sharp exhale. “Yeah, I’m sure you want to help. So damn perfect. Always so perfect. He still loves you, you know?”
“Richard?” I ask carefully.
Her arm shoots out—gun thrust forward.
“Don’t play dumb.” Her voice breaks. “You string him along. Keep him close. He can’t move on if there’s even a chance you’ll come running back. You cheated on him—you fucked around—and he still loves you.”
She is unraveling.
Unspooling right in front of me.
“That’s what this is about?” I breathe. “Jessica…”
I soften my tone. The way I would with a panicked client on the brink of destroying everything. “This is a misunderstanding.”
“Oh, is it?” She sneers. “You greedy little whore. You want it all. He only gets her on weekends. Has to beg for holidays. And you—you’re so fucking judgey. So high and mighty. Planning your perfect little trips while he just wants a normal family.”
“He loves you, Jessica.”
“No,” she whispers. Her lips twist. “He loves you. Still.”
Her breathing fractures. The gun trembles, not quite aimed at me—more toward the corner, like she can’t hold it steady.
Her gaze flicks again to the window.
“Everything’s ruined,” she murmurs. “You ruined it.”
She starts backing toward the sill.
For a moment, I consider letting her go. Let her climb out and vanish. Let this be over.
But Stella is upstairs.
Stella is awake.
If Jessica circles back—
If she tries the third floor—
If that gun goes off—
No.
A heavy thud shakes below.
Then another.
Faster.
Harder.
Footfalls pounding up the stairs.
The breath I’ve been holding tears loose.
Jessica’s head snaps toward the sound.
Her pupils blow wide with recognition.
And fury.
When she speaks, her voice is a jagged whisper, slicing through the room: “You.”
A hiss.
A warning.
Pure, unadulterated hate.
“You.”