Chapter 3
THREE
KALANI
Thirty-two-year-old Matthew James Heinz was in town for his niece’s birthday.
I assumed he was staying with his sister, Hannah’s mother, but I was pleased to find out he had reserved a room at a family-owned hotel in Kahakai.
Unfortunately, he had a ticket for a flight departing at four, which didn’t leave me much time to work with.
I did as much research as I could before I had to get ready to leave.
Dressed in all black, I drove to Kahakai armed with a basic idea of the hotel layout and a large knife.
My plan was simple—park at the bar across the street, let myself into Matthew’s hotel room, slit his throat, see myself out, drive home, dispose of all evidence.
That last part is where I went wrong the first time.
I probably would’ve gotten away with it if I’d cared about the aftermath, but at the time, I just wanted him dead.
So, hours after I killed my uncle, I was found in my bedroom—wearing a shirt soaked with Chet’s blood and holding the knife I used to slit his throat.
They said I was in shock. That I had a mental crisis in response to severe grief.
It was a trauma response. The excuses and diagnoses were endless.
It wasn’t any of those things. I was fucking pissed.
Chet killed my mother. I didn’t see him steal her life and ruin mine, but I heard it.
Then, I saw her. I would kill that wannabe motherfucker over and over again if I could just like I do every night in my mind before I fall asleep.
The drive to Kahakai was a blur. All of it was—parking, walking across the street to the hotel, finding Matthew’s room, and reaching for my lock picking set.
Then a hand covered my mouth from behind and an arm went around my waist as I was pulled firmly against a large body. “Make one sound and I’ll snap your fucking neck.”
Without a single sound, I slipped the knife from my pocket and stabbed the man behind me, sinking the blade into his thigh.
“Fuck!” he roared and released his grip on me.
I held on to the knife and shoved myself backward once to push him away from me before I ran like hell.
“Holy fuck! Holy fuck! Holy fuck!” I chanted—maybe out loud, maybe not—as I sprinted through the trees.
“Sugar!” I heard someone yell in the distance.
“Find him!” he bellowed. “Fucking find him! God damn it!”
Him.
Him.
When I got close to the road, I pulled my shirt and beanie off at the same time, shoving the hat into my pocket and tying the shirt around my waist. Then I took my hair down and shook it out, hoping I looked like a completely different person as I walked across the street to my car.