Chapter 41 #4
“She’s at church,” Lila whispers, wiping tears from her face. “They’re putting on A Christmas Carol tonight.”
“And where’s the body?” His voice is chillingly smooth. Clinical.
“In the kitchen,” she answers. “Right by my feet.”
“Listen to me, Lila. In twenty minutes, turn off all the lights and unlock the back door that leads into the kitchen. Then go upstairs and shower. Do you understand?”
She nods, even though he can’t see her. “Okay.”
“I’m going to take care of everything. Don’t worry, sweetheart.”
Max stays on the phone as she rushes to finish the remaining dishes and put the food away, carefully stepping around her uncle’s lifeless body and the widening pool of blood.
All the while, he speaks softly in her ear.
His voice is steady, measured, and impossibly calm.
He asks about the food she made and the small things she did during the day, guiding her through each detail as though nothing unusual had occurred.
At the twenty-minute mark, Lila turns off all the lights and unlocks the door.
A few seconds later, the knob turns.
The stranger from the diner steps inside. Several men dressed in dark clothing stand behind him. He lifts an eyebrow, and she instinctively backs away, watching as he moves through the kitchen with practiced efficiency.
Max had sent him.
This man had been following her.
She turns and rushes upstairs, doing exactly as Max instructed. She strips off her blood-soaked clothes, showers quickly, and changes. When she opens the door, the same man is waiting, holding a trash bag. She drops the bundle inside and slips past him without a word, locking herself in her room.
Her limbs ache. Her body feels hollowed out, drained. She collapses onto her bed.
“Max?” she whispers into the phone.
“I’m here, baby,” he answers immediately. “I’ll take care of everything,” he says softly. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“Don’t leave me alone,” she murmurs, her eyelids growing heavy.
The warmth of his voice fills her ear, quieting the chaos in her mind.
Her grip on the phone loosens as her tears slow.
She presses her face into the pillow, breathing in the faint floral scent of her grandmother’s detergent, clinging to it like a lifeline.
She wants this nightmare to end. Wants to wake up back in New York, in Max’s arms, where she feels safe.
“What else did you do today without me?” he asks, his voice silky, rich, sending tingles through her body. “Tell me everything. I spent every second missing you.”
A sudden wave of guilt washes over her for what she did behind his back.
“Then why didn’t you reach out to me more?” she asks, her voice small, quaking.
“I thought you’d want some space,” he says. “But I guess I was wrong. I’m sorry, baby. I promise I won’t leave you alone ever again.”
40
The body. The pool. The dark smears where it had happened. All gone.
The kitchen looks cleaner than it ever has.
She rubs her bleary eyes, blinking at the sight before her. Morning light filters through the window above the sink, bathing the room in a soft, almost cheerful glow. But she can’t enjoy it. She can’t even think straight. She barely slept.
Silently, she starts a pot of coffee. The familiar fragrance of her grandmother’s favorite blend and the gentle bubbling of the machine ground her as she listens to the sounds around her. Her grandmother’s footsteps pace the hallway just outside, each turn marked by a weary sigh.
“He’s got his phone turned off again!” her grandmother exclaims, frustration cutting through her voice. “He broke curfew, and I swear, he’d better be respecting that no-contact order.”
He can’t pick up the phone, Nana… He’s dead.
“Bethany hasn’t called,” her grandmother adds, exhaling sharply. “I hope that’s a good sign. God, I’m so tired.”
Soon, they begin getting ready, dressing for the Christmas Eve service and the potluck that follows. Despite crying all night, her eyelids still puffy and red, her grandmother seems oblivious, too consumed by her son’s sudden disappearance while out on bond.
Lila layers on makeup with deliberate care, hoping it will disguise her swollen eyes well enough that no one will notice or ask questions. Her grandmother’s church friends are notoriously nosy.
She slips into the dress her grandmother brought down from the attic, where her late daughter’s belongings still rest. The frumpy, puke-green fabric clings awkwardly, doing nothing to make her feel less ugly.
It was the only option her grandmother deemed appropriate, festive enough in color, after dismissing the new dresses Max had bought as “too whore-ish” for church.
She can’t help wondering what Max would think if he saw her now.
Her face is puffy, her hair flat and frizzy, strands stringy from having slept with it wet.
Yet deep down, she knows he would still find a way to make her feel beautiful.
That’s just Max. Maybe… he really is a bit of a sweetheart after all.
Soon, they leave the house, climbing into her grandmother’s old sedan. The tan paint is chipped, and strips of duct tape are holding parts together. Her uncle’s rusty truck is nowhere in sight. Lila sulks quietly, questioning why her grandmother never used the money to fix her own car instead.
Living in a rural area means no neighbors are close enough to have seen or heard anything at the house last night.
Their only neighbors, an elderly couple, are away for the holidays.
Driving past their home on the way to church, Lila scans for CCTV cameras but sees none.
When she’d subtly asked earlier, her grandmother mentioned their daughter had flown them out of state for Christmas.
Ten minutes into the sermon, Lila fakes a stomachache and quietly excuses herself to the restroom. She lowers the toilet lid, sits, and pulls out her phone.
It doesn’t feel right for a recent murderer to be sitting in a pew, listening to the pastor preach about love and peace. It’s the same spiel every year anyway, followed by the same potluck with the same bland food. Nothing ever changes here.
When the service ends, Lila exits the stall and catches her reflection in the mirror as she washes her hands. Yep. Still bloated.
She slips out quietly, spotting her grandmother lingering by the tall wooden doors, animatedly chatting with congregation friends before they head toward the reception hall. Their gleeful chorus of laughter echoes through the corridor.
Taking a deep breath, Lila moves carefully behind a tall hedge facing the parking lot, stepping lightly to avoid attention. She doesn’t want to be cornered by the town’s notorious busybodies, who would immediately sense if something was off and pry mercilessly.
Just as she begins to relax in the chilly December air, she catches sight of a familiar boy sitting alone on a bench nearby.
The pastor had opened the service by asking the congregation to pray for him and his family. His mother had recently died.
Lila presses her lips together as she studies him.
He’s small and skinny, maybe nine, with dark, glassy eyes that seem too heavy for his age.
His hair sticks up in uneven tufts, the way it does when a child stops caring how they look.
Or when a child has been neglected, like she once was.
There’s a hollow stillness to his posture, a quiet grief that makes her chest tighten.
He reminds her of Max, only younger and rougher around the edges. Someone still learning how to hide the hurt.
She slowly walks over to him.
“Hey there,” she says gently. “What do you have there?” She nods toward the book in his arms, trying to sound casual.
“A book?” he replies flatly, frowning at her as if it should be obvious.
Little brat.
“Is it any good?” she asks, forcing her smile to stay in place.
“Yeah, but I can’t really read it myself.”
“Why not?”
He scrunches up his face, as if she’s offended him. “My grandma’s supposed to read it to me, but she’s busy,” he mutters, his gaze drifting past Lila. His eyes follow the group of women walking away, her own grandmother leading them, their voices fading with distance.
Lila glances at the thick book clutched in his hands and guesses, based on its size, that it’s something he needs help reading.
“Want me to read it with you?” she asks softly.
His sullen expression shifts in an instant, replaced by a wide grin.
“Okay! I’ll read one paragraph, and you read the next one. You start.”
As they read, Lila notices him stumble over a few longer words, but his determination never falters as he carefully sounds each one out.
His enthusiasm is genuine, and she finds herself hoping he’ll hold on to that love for reading.
More than art, which can feel inaccessible at times, books have always been her solace during the most challenging moments of her life.
“Nathan!” an older woman calls from across the lot, her arms full of food containers. The boy’s head snaps up, his face lighting at the sound of his name.
“I’m gonna go home now,” he says quickly, springing to his feet. “Peace!”
He dashes off toward the woman, whom Lila assumes is his grandmother, the book clutched tightly in his hands.
She sighs and looks out into the distance, her gaze landing on a tall figure standing alone, leaning nonchalantly against a shiny car parked at the end of the lot. His presence—and the car—contrast sharply with the quaint, humble atmosphere surrounding him.
His face is partially obscured by the shadow of a navy baseball cap and dark sunglasses, but there is no mistaking him.
Dressed in a fitted white sweater and a dark, shirt-style jacket that barely conceals his athletic frame, he cuts a striking figure among the rusted cars.
Dark trousers, suede loafers, and a gleaming wristwatch complete the look.