Chapter 42
forty-two
The workshop door banged open so hard the tools on the pegboard rattled. Sarah staggered through the entrance, dragging something heavy behind her.
No, not something—someone.
A body.
Maggie’s stomach dropped to her feet, then lurched up into her throat.
Landry.
His hands and feet bound with duct tape, another strip plastered across his mouth, eyes wide with terror above the silver gag. Blood trickled from a gash on his forehead, and his once-handsome face was mottled with fresh bruises layered over the yellowing ones Anson had given him.
“Sarah, what the fuck?” Maggie stumbled back, knocking over a can of wood stain. Dark liquid puddled across the workbench, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from Landry’s bound form. “What have you done?”
“I brought you a gift!” Her voice pitched higher than normal, breathless with excitement. She smiled wide, too wide. A fanatical gleam lit her eyes. “You said you never wanted to see him again. I’m going to make sure that happens.”
“This isn’t—you can’t—” Maggie’s throat closed around the words. How did Sarah know she’d said that? She’d told Anson that in the solitude of his room at the bunkhouse.
Landry thrashed against his restraints. He locked eyes with Maggie, silently begging for help.
“How did you—” Her mind raced, trying to make sense of this nightmare, but the pieces weren’t fitting together. “How did you get him? He was in jail.”
“Oh, that was easier than you’d think.” Sarah dropped Landry’s bound legs with a thud and straightened, brushing her hands together like someone who’d just taken out the trash.
“He thought I was a madly in love fan helping him escape. Men are so predictable. Flash a little cleavage, and they’ll believe anything.
” She giggled, and the sound was so childlike it sent a chill scraping down Maggie’s spine.
“I’ve been sending him letters in jail.”
Maggie raised her hands, palms out, keeping her voice as steady as possible. “This is kidnapping. You need to stop this right now.”
“No. This is justice.” Sarah reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a box cutter, the blade gleaming under the fluorescent lights. “He hurt you. He deserves to be punished.”
“Not like this.” Maggie glanced toward the door, calculating the distance, but it suddenly seemed so much farther away than it had been only moments ago. Could she make it? Call for help? “The police were handling it. He was in jail.”
“And for how long? A year? Two?” Sarah’s face twisted with disgust. “Then he’d be back, stalking you again. Men like him don’t stop. They never stop.”
Landry’s eyes bulged above the tape as he tried to scream. The muffled, silent plea that made her skin crawl.
Two weeks ago, she’d told him she’d let Anson kill him if he ever came near her again.
She’d spent the days after his arrest hoping that, while in prison, he’d experience the fear he’d made her live with for the last five years.
Now he was bound at her feet and so terrified he’d pissed himself, and it felt nothing like the victory she’d imagined.
“We need to call the sheriff,” She said, careful to keep her voice steady. “This is kidnapping, Sarah. You’ll go to prison.”
Sarah laughed, high and brittle. “My name’s not Sarah.” She crossed to her keepsake box and smiled when she saw it lying open on the bench where Maggie had dropped it. She ran her fingers reverently along the carving inside the lid. “It’s Laura.”
L+M forever.
That carving in the tree had always bothered her, because it wasn’t Landry’s style.
Now it made so much more sense.
“Laura Kemp?” Sarah—Laura—added as if she should recognize it. She didn’t.
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
Laura’s face clouded with disappointment. “I’m your biggest fan. Since the very beginning. Since Building Home. You replied to one of my emails.”
“I… reply to a lot of emails.”
“But mine was special!”
She flinched back at the vehemence. She had to play along. “Right. Of course. Your email about…” God, she didn’t remember it. She racked her brain but still came up empty.
“About the window seat you built in episode six,” Laura prompted.
“I asked about the type of foam you used for the cushions, and you said memory foam was too expensive for most DIY projects, but polyurethane was a good alternative if you doubled the thickness.” Her eyes shone with reverence.
“You signed it ‘Happy Building, Maggie.’”
Maggie nodded slowly, but she still didn’t remember it. She’d answered thousands of viewer questions over the years. “That was thoughtful of you to write.”
“I’ve written you hundreds of times.” Laura’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“Sometimes from different email addresses when you didn’t answer.
I needed to make sure you were getting them.
” She moved closer to Landry, nudging him with her foot as she twirled the box cutter.
He whimpered behind the tape. “I sent you so many gifts, too. Did you like them?”
The breath froze in Maggie’s lungs. The gifts. The flowers delivered to her home with no card. The tools that appeared on her doorstep. The unsigned notes left on her car. She’d always assumed they were from Landry, especially after they broke up and the gifts became more persistent, more invasive.
“That was you? Not him?” She looked at Landry, and he shook his head hard. He’d always denied the stalking, but she’d never believed him because of his stalker-like calls.
“It was me! I gave you the gifts, not him.” Laura’s face twisted with disgust, and a sudden memory bubbled up—not of Laura’s first email, but of Ghost standing in the doorway of the forge.
“Hey, some woman from Haven House called, too. Sarah? Asked if you could bring more sandpaper tomorrow.”
Shit. She should’ve pieced it together right then—Sarah had arrived after she changed her phone number, so there was no reason for her to have the one Ghost was monitoring.
“You had my old phone number,” Maggie said slowly. “The one I changed because of Landry’s calls.”
Laura beamed. “Of course. I have all your numbers.” She reached for her keepsake box, lifting the lid to reveal the dark blue velvet interior. “Did I show you the hidden compartment? I made it specially for my collection.”
Maggie knew she should run. Should scream. Should throw something at Laura and make a break for it. But her feet felt cemented to the floor as Laura’s fingers dipped into the box and pressed something beneath the velvet. A small click, and a false bottom slid back, revealing a hidden space.
Laura pulled out a small square and held it up. A Polaroid photograph. “Remember this one? You’re so pretty when you sleep.”
Yes, she remembered it. The image was burned into her consciousness—herself, curled on her side in her Tampa bedroom, the sheets tangled around her legs, her dark hair spilling across the pillow.
The exact photo she’d found on her bedside table four months ago.
The photo that had finally convinced her to flee to Valor Ridge.
“How did you get into my apartment?” The question came out strangled, barely audible.
“You really should lock your balcony door. I climbed up from the apartment below.” Laura smiled, nostalgic, as if recalling a fond memory. “You were so peaceful. I stood there for almost an hour, just watching you breathe.”
This woman had stood over her and watched her sleep.
For. Hours. Her skin crawled, like a thousand spiders racing up her spine, but she forced her gaze away from the photo and glanced around the workshop, searching for anything she could use as a weapon.
Her hammer lay on the workbench six feet away.
Too far. But there was a chisel closer, just within reach if she moved casually enough.
She took a small step sideways, trying to appear natural, and that’s when she noticed them—thin, puckered lines on Laura’s forearm. Cat scratches. Mostly healed now, but unmistakable.
Princess Jellybean.
The muddy footprints outside her cabin.
“It was you,” she breathed, horror rising in her throat. “At the ranch. You hurt Princess.”
Laura’s face darkened. “That stupid cat attacked me when I was trying to get to your window. And after that, Ghost tightened security.” Her mouth twisted. “I couldn’t get close to you anymore.”
“So you came to Haven House,” Maggie said, the pieces falling into sickening place. “You made yourself look like a victim so you could get close to me through my classes.”
“Clever, right?” Pride gleamed in Laura’s eyes. “I knew you taught there. I followed you from the ranch one day, watched you go inside. That’s when I came up with the plan.”
All those bruises. The split lip. The fractured rib that made her wince when she bent over. The fear in her eyes that had seemed so genuine.
“You did that to yourself?”
“Most of it.” Laura shrugged like it was nothing.
“The rib was an accident. I fell harder than I meant to. But the rest was just makeup and careful planning. I’m pretty good with special effects.
Used to work in theater before I got fired for.
..” She trailed off, smile faltering. “Anyway, I drove my car into a ditch, messed up my face, and showed up at Haven House with my sad story about my abusive husband.”
“So Ryan isn’t real, either.”
“Oh, he was real. Ryan Drummond. He just wasn’t my husband.” Her eyes went flat, cold. “But he was my lover. For a while.”
“And where is he now?” She didn’t miss how Laura referred to him in the past tense.
“Dead. A long time ago.”
There. A flicker of… something. Sadness? Regret?
Maybe Maggie could use it to her advantage, so she inwardly braced herself and asked, “What happened?”
Laura scowled. “Why do you care?”
“I’m just trying to understand.” She forced a gentleness she didn’t feel into her voice. “If you’re my biggest fan, you know I always need the full story before I start a project.”
There was that flicker of real emotion again. A hunger for connection, for understanding. For approval.
“Ryan was just like him.” Laura jerked her chin at Landry, who had gone very still on the floor. “Thought he owned me. Thought he could control me.”
“So what happened?”
“He deserved what I did to him,” Laura snapped, face twisting. “Just like Landry deserves this. Just like that bitch deserved what she got.”
Maggie faltered. “What bitch?”
“His wife.” Laura spat the word like it tasted bad. “Ryan’s wife. She tried to keep us apart. Said I was unstable.” Her laugh was high, jagged, and not altogether sane. “Guess she was right about that.”
Oh, God. Laura had killed before. More than once. And she’d manufactured an entire identity around her victim’s name. Sarah Drummond wasn’t a random alias—it was Ryan’s wife’s name.
“Laura,” Maggie said, mouth dry, mind reeling. What could she say to stop this? “Put down that knife. You don’t have to do this. We can get you help.”
“I don’t need help.” Laura looked at the box cutter, then snapped it closed.
“But you’re right. A knife is too good for him.
It was just meant to scare him. I have a better idea.
” She strode to the supply cabinet and rummaged through the shelves.
She emerged with a large plastic container and unscrewed the cap.
“Paint thinner,” Laura explained, and grinned at Landry. “Perfect for removing unwanted stains from your life.”
How could anyone regard another human life so callously? Even Landry’s. “Please, stop.”
“Why? He tortured you, scared you for years. He’s the worst kind of stain.”
What a fucking hypocrite.
Maggie took a moment to swallow back her fury so her voice came out even. “Yes, he is a stain, but I don’t want him removed like this. I want him to face the consequences of his actions.”
If Laura heard her, she gave no indication and upended the container over Landry’s head. He writhed on the floor, screaming behind his gag, the chemical turning his eyes and skin red.
“You know, your boyfriend gave me this idea. Anson? He had it right, setting that warehouse on fire in Virginia.” She tossed the empty container aside and pulled a box of matches from her pocket.
“Fire purifies. Cleanses. It’s the only way to make sure Landry never hurts you again.
” She struck a match, the flame casting dancing shadows across her face.
Maggie lunged forward. “No—”
But Laura was already smiling as she dropped it.