Chapter 35
Thirty-five
Lane
“Lane!” Byron’s voice thunders through the house, echoing off the walls. “Get down here now!”
My body goes rigid. What could I have done this time?
My gaze slides from the bedroom door to the bed, where my gun is tucked safely beneath the mattress.
I bite my lip, fingers twitching at my sides.
Something inside me screams to grab it, but I don't. Just a few more days. Then freedom. Everything is in place. As soon as he leaves for his annual trip with his buddies, I’m gone.
I force my legs to move, each step like wading through quick sand. Pulling in a deep, steading breath, I grip the handle with a trembling hand and twist it open. Prepared to face my monster one last time.
Byron stands in the middle of our picture perfect living room, red-faced and fuming, the vein on the side of his neck throbbing from beneath his collar.
What did the hell I do to make him so mad? I haven’t left the house in days; besides another miserable lunch with his mother.
He holds up a yellow folder, and the world tilts on its axis. “Would you like to explain this to me?” His voice is sharp, slicing through the air as he takes a slow, menacing step.
My heart beats loudly in my ears, deafening. I stare at him in horror and shock, my feet refusing to move. Heat creeps through my body, nausea sitting heavy in my stomach.
There’s nothing to say.
He found my documents to start my new life.
I am fucked.
He tosses the folder on the coffee table, his voice ice cold. “Did you really think you could just leave me, Ceciley?”
Another step.
I can’t move. I’m frozen against the floor, fear creeping into every inch of my body.
“What did I tell you would happen if you ever tried to leave me?” he snarls, taking another step closer. “I’ve warned you.” His tone is deadly. “But you went ahead and thought you were smarter than me.”
He stops right in front of me, close enough that his breath hits my face, hot and reeking of scotch.
The back of his hand connects with the side of my face with a sickening crack. White-hot pain radiates through my head as I crash to the floor.
He looms over me, eyes cold and empty. I cradle my cheek, tasting blood on my tongue.
“Do you still think you are smarter than me, Ceciley?”
He bends, his fingers closing around my throat in an iron grip. He lifts me off the ground, pressing me against the wall.
“You did this to yourself,” he hisses, tightening his grip.
Black spots bloom across my vision. My lungs burn, desperate for air. I claw at his wrist, nails digging into his skin, desperate to escape. He isn’t just trying to scare me this time. Nope. This is it. He’s going to kill me.
My vision flickers. All my planning. All my dreams. Gone. Something deep inside of me awakens. Fear snaps into adrenaline. I bring my knee up, hard, between his legs.
He grunts, and his hands release me. He sinks to the ground, groaning, his hands cradling his assaulted groin.
I don’t hesitate. I run.
My pulse roars in my ear, as I take the stairs two at a time. I sprint down the hall and into our bedroom, slamming the door behind me. My breath is sharp and ragged as I drop to my knees beside the bed. My hand closes around the cool metal of my hand gun.
I grip it tightly and aim it at the door.
There’s silence for a few tense seconds, only the rapid beat of my pulse drumming in my ears. Then, the thump, thump, thump of his shoes running up the stairs.
My finger twitches on the trigger. I take a deep steadying breath.
The footsteps stop right outside the door. This is it.
The door flies open, smashing against the wall.
I fire.
I jolt awake, my heart pounding rapidly, the smell of gunpowder still clinging to my memory. It feels like a jackhammer is going off inside my head and I can’t see a damn thing. I blink against the darkness, but it’s useless. All I can make out is the faint outline of a door.
I try to move, but can’t.
What the hell?
Panic spikes, hot and sudden as I pull again, and I feel it. Rough rope cut into my wrists, biting deep, pulling them tight behind the chair. I twist, testing the rope. It’s tight, but there’s just enough slack for my fingers to brush the knot.
What the fuck is going on?
It all comes flooding back.
The text message. The threat against Jameson. The drive here. Byron.
Seriously. How the fuck is he alive?
It’s impossible, right? Except it's not because I saw him.
A rush of nausea crashes through me. I shove it down. Now is not the time to panic. I have to stay focused. I need to get loose before Byron comes back.
I strain to listen. Nothing. Where the hell did he go? What does he want with me now, after five years? Has he been looking for me this whole time?
How long was I out, minutes, hours? My limbs feel heavy and sluggish. Whatever he gave me hasn’t fully worn off.
I force my fingers to move. I have to get back to Jameson.
Does he know I’m gone? Probably. He won’t find me. I’m sure Byron destroyed my phone, along with any possibility of me being rescued.
The earrings.
The tracker.
A floorboard creaks in the hallway. My head snaps up.
Bryon fills the doorframe, a lantern in one hand, casting a warm, flickering light across the room. A gun dangles casually in his other hand.
My heart slams against my ribs. I force my face to remain blank, my breathing steady
A smug smile curves his lips. “So nice of you to join me, Ceciley,”
He sets the lantern just inside the door and strides toward me, his footsteps matching the steady thump in my chest, stopping a few feet away.
Fear crawls up my throat, threatening to suffocate me. “How aren’t you dead?” I ask, the words coming out rushed.
His head tilts to the side, amusement written across his face as he closes the distance between us.
“Did you really think you could kill me, Ceciley? That I would leave real bullets in the gun I found?” He leans closer, his hand gripping my chin tightly, fury burning in his eyes.
“That I wouldn’t notice the money you were taking?
That I wouldn't find the search history you tried to delete?”
I resist the urge to pull away from his grip, and possibly spit in his face while my fingers furiously pull at the knot. “How long did you know?”
“Long enough to use it for my own benefit,” he grits out, his voice laced with venom as he leases my face and takes a step back.
“I still don’t understand. Why did you pretend to be dead for five years? Where did you go?” My fingertips burn, but I fight through the pain, desperate to free myself.
“I was furious when I discovered your plans to leave me. You are my wife. My property.” He points the gun at me, eyes wild, and I flinch, fingers freezing. “You thought you could start a new life without me? That I would let you go?”
He lowers the gun and starts pacing, his steps thudding against the floorboards.
“My wife who was supposed to stand by my side no matter what, who was supposed to be obedient and know her place, planned to leave me after everything I had done for her!” His steps pause, eyes cutting to mine.
“For what, Ceciley? So you could go whore yourself around like you have with that worthless PI I hired?”
I don’t answer, and he starts pacing again.
“I went to my father and together we came up with a plan. You see, I was in trouble with some people who couldn’t be bought off.
Not even with my family’s wealth!” He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh and shakes his head as if the concept is absolutely ridiculous.
He continues his pacing, back and forth across the floor, lost in his monologue. “I needed to disappear. And you presented us with the perfect opportunity. You were already planning to run, so all we had to do was make it look like you lost it and killed me.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you didn’t just run. Why not just let me go? Why force me into shooting you? Why didn’t you just fucking kill me and get it over with?”
He’s in front of me in two strides, the back of his hand connecting with my cheek, the same cheek that's already throbbing. My head snaps back, a pained groan ripping from my throat.
“Watch your mouth, Ceciley! Just because you’ve been working in that trash bar and living like a whore, doesn’t mean I’m going to tolerate you speaking like that!”
My head pounds harder, the second blow sending nausea up my throat and making my vision blur.
“I wanted to just kill you,” he admits, casually, as if we’re talking about the damn weather. “Make it look like a murder-suicide. But my father was worried an autopsy would raise too many questions.”
I almost roll my eyes. Of course. They wouldn’t want the coroner to see the fractures, the bruises, the scars. The evidence of what he really was. They couldn’t have the media asking questions about a Supreme Court judge’s son being a violent, abusive monster; whether he was dead or alive.
The knot starts to shift, loosening slightly. I continue working it, ignoring the burning pain the movements are creating.
Byron continues on, no longer needing prompted. “Getting you to shoot me was quite easy. I knew all I had to do was corner you in the bedroom. You bought that gun for a reason after all. The rest? My father took care of it. You wouldn’t believe how many favors people owe him.”
The knot gives a little more, the tension on my wrists loosening. “Why come back now? It’s been five years. What have you been doing all this time?”
He stops, a smile that has chills shooting down my spine on his lips. “To kill you of course.” His head tilts to the side. “I was waiting until you thought you were safe. Until you stopped looking over your shoulder.”
The floorboards creak again.
Jameson.
Byron stiffens, his face tightening. In an instant he’s behind me. “Did you tell someone where you were going?” he snarls in my ear, hand clamping over my mouth roughly.
I shake my head, fingers desperately pulling at the knot.
Panic skitters up my spine as he presses the cold barrel of the gun against my temple.
Another creak, closer this time.
Seconds later, Jameson appears in the doorway, gun raised in front of him. His shoulders are tense, jaw clenched, every inch of him poised and ready.
Relief slams into me like a tidal wave.
“Let her go,” he growls, voice low and dangerous, his eyes locked on Byron.
Byron scoffs, pressing the barrel harder against my temple. “I don’t think you are in any position to be making demands, Mr. Crowe.”
Jameson’s eyes move to mine, voice gentler now, but still tight with barely contained rage. “Are you okay, Wildflower?”
All I can manage is a small nod.
“You’re fine, aren’t you, Ceciley?” Byron sneers, releasing my mouth and grabbing a handful of hair, yanking my head to the side. A strangled yelp leaves me.
Jameson steps forward, the same murderous look in his eyes I saw the night Luke attacked me.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Byron warns. “Not unless you want to see how fast I can pull this trigger.”
Jameson freezes mid-step. “Let her go Byron. I’ll let you walk out of here and crawl back into whatever hole you’ve been living in for the last five years.”
Byron’s voice is cold and detached. “I don’t think so. I went through all of the trouble of getting her here after all. And now I have the added bonus of killing her in front of you.”
While they argue, I keep working the knot, heart racing.
“You hurt her and you aren’t walking out of here alive.” Jameson growls, his tone pure ice, finger flexing on the trigger.
“She’ll still be dead though, won't she?” Byron sneers.
The knot slips.
My eyes meet Jameons, trying to silently tell him what I’m about to do. Without wasting another second, I shoot my arm up, knocking the gun aside.
Two shots ring out.
Time slows.
Jameson jerks back, the bullet tearing into his left shoulder. He stumbles back, blood blooming bright and fast across his shirt.
A scream tears out of me as everything inside me shatters.