34. Hellscapes #2
Ripping myself from the windows, I stalk toward the office, reaching into the desk.
There, at the very bottom, pushed far back and rusted from years of not being handled, but I remember.
I polished and ran the action through, loaded, cleaned, and re-familiarized myself with the closest thing I’ve ever had to a friend aside from my sweet Audrey months ago.
When Mom and Dad were asleep, I would dig the revolver from his desk.
I was surprised when I came back to find Jackson had kept it in the same place.
The weight of it comforting in my hand, the fact that I had no plan to use it, but I could.
I could bring it to my chin and the buzzing would stop; Mom might even feel relief for the first time since I was born.
Not that I cared about that either way; it simply became a part of my routine.
Spinning the wheel, putting it to my chin, fingering the trigger and just waiting to see if I’d get the wild impulse to apply pressure to it.
I never did because who would take care of Audrey?
I couldn’t be selfish to her like the rest of the world had.
I tuck the revolver into the back of my pants, storming toward the door to get in my car, fully anticipating a red wedding when the sound of her father’s truck reaches me through the deafening buzz.
I half-stagger to a stop, my hand already reaching for the door.
The pounding of my heart is an odd and uncomfortable sensation.
It’s nearly deafening as she pulls into the drive.
There’s a good distance between us as she climbs out of the cab, and the walls of my home after that, but some sick, confused part of my brain is convinced I can smell him on her.
Of course, my puppet did nothing wrong, but the buzzing is loud.
I watch, untucking the gun from my waistband and pressing it to the glass pointed at my beautiful, perfect girl.
The hammer clicks as I pull it back.
She steps inside, leaving her front door wide open as she scrambles for the phone in the entryway, and I tell myself if it’s not me she’s calling, I’ll—
The phone rings, and I don’t take my eyes off her, nor lower the gun as I take steps backward to answer it. There’s a pause after I pick up, my end silent until she fills it. “Gideon?”
“Yes, puppet.”
I can practically hear her smile, the hornets wavering at the mere thought of it as I finally lower the gun, suddenly, strangely exhausted.
“Hey! The caterer messed up the chocolate fountain! Mr. Johnson was covered by the time we helped get it unclogged. Ally’s mom wouldn’t even help her!
I definitely got some in my hair, so I’m jumping in the shower really quick. ”
“I’ll be over shortly. I’m finishing up some stuff here.”
She squeals. “The decorations are so pretty! I can’t wait to show you! Okay, okay, we’re going to be late, see you in a sec!”
I don’t respond, barely a chance to before she’s hanging up the phone and swinging her chronically unlocked door shut.
I take several long and heavy seconds to calm myself, or whatever emotion my default setting is made of.
It would be grossly inaccurate to consider it calm.
Especially these days with fucking Altman lurking around, because he knows.
Of course he knows.
And I’ve brought him home. To her.
Thankfully, our justice system runs on what you can prove and not what you know.
We’ll cross that bridge when we’re forced to.
Right now, I can’t be fucking bothered with anything that isn’t Audrey.
I’m halfway down my porch, desperate to be close to her, to breathe her in and unknot this horrid fucking ball that’s been building in my gut since the press conference.
My dress shoes crunch on the gravel, the cool weight of the gun pressing my back as I meet grass.
Slinking around the side of her house, I’m going to go in…
but I need to look first. A few more moments to get rid of the gnawing edge of—
Something rustles to my left, making me pause, my head snapping to nothing but empty woods. It is amusing, almost, the way life offers annoying little synchronicities. Here I am alone in the woods again with a scared woman who doesn’t know when to fucking stop.
Another snap and a shaky breath have me fully turning toward where I’m assuming Jessica Jordan is hiding. “Why are you here?”
She’s further back than I thought as she steps out, her skin pallid, sweaty despite the chill. Whatever she’s taking or coming off of is running circles with her. “I need to talk to Audrey.”
“No.”
“No? You don’t fucking own her.”
I do actually. In all the ways that matter, have ever mattered.
And you, Jessica, have picked the wrong day to show up here.
She’s scratching at her arm, a little blood prickling from the force of it.
She’s so out of it she barely notices that I’m approaching her, her eyes scanning the house behind me like she’ll see her.
She won’t.
Her bathroom window is on the other side.
Which was where I was heading when—
The sudden clarity in her glazed-over, puffy eyes is almost jarring when she turns on me. “You did it. You did all of it.”