Chapter 29
Ryan pressed his foot to the floor, forcing his truck to move far beyond the speed limit as he sped to the house.
He used the truck’s Bluetooth to call her again.
Come on, Emily. Answer my call. Tell me you’re okay.
The call went to voicemail.
Dammit.
He turned onto his street, but there were no cars in the drive or on the road.
Was she home? Was she with her mother? Maybe she just hadn’t had a chance to look at the screen.
Please, God, say that’s the case.
He climbed from his truck, Glock in hand, and raced toward the door, the sound of another truck pulling up behind him.
He turned the knob.
Unlocked.
He entered the house low and fast, clearing left then right before he was fully through the door. He was scanning the living room and kitchen when he saw her…
Melanie Prior.
She lay beside the island, on her stomach, blood matting the hair at the back of her head.
Fuck.
He crossed toward her, Glock against chest, gaze taking in the house around him, looking for movement. When there was none, he dropped to her side and lifted her wrist just as Zac entered the house.
Dull thuds hit the pads of Ryan’s fingers. “She’s alive.”
Zac dropped to her other side. “Go. Search the house. I’ll take care of her.”
Ryan stood as the door opened and the rest of the guys filtered in, each of them armed and alert. He pointed two fingers and separated them, a silent signal for his team to split up and sweep the house.
Ryan started with the pantry, then the laundry. When he stepped back into the kitchen, he noticed Emily’s phone on the kitchen counter.
Everything in him rebelled at the sight. But he didn’t let that stop him. He stepped outside, checking every crevice of the yard.
Empty.
He was just stepping back inside when his team returned to the living room.
“Empty,” Ethan growled.
She wasn’t here. She wasn’t fucking here!
A moan sounded from the kitchen.
“Easy,” Zac urged, as Melanie tried to roll over.
“My head,” she breathed.
Ryan closed the space between them and lowered beside her. “Melanie, it’s Ryan.”
“Ryan?” she frowned, sitting up slowly, her fingers gingerly touching her head, and Zac’s hand on her back. “What happened?”
“That’s what I was hoping you could tell me. We got here to find you on the floor and Emily gone.”
Melanie’s eyes widened, a bit more clarity in them now. “Gone? What do you mean gone?”
“She’s not here. Her phone is, but she isn’t. Did you see what happened?”
“No, Emily was making coffee, and I was talking to Roscoe when—”
“Roscoe was here?”
“Yes, why?” Melanie looked from him to Zac. “You think he did this?”
“Yes.” A muscle in Ryan’s jaw twitched. “He hit you and took Emily.”
She shook her head. “No, he wouldn’t—”
“He did. And I need you to tell me if you know where he might have taken her.”
“I…I don’t know. He only ever talks about his stupid movie.”
“If he were trying to finish the movie, where would he go?”
Melanie frowned, only for a second, before her eyes widened.
“Just after we’d learned Preston was stabbed, after it was announced the movie was being canceled, I had a drink with Roscoe at the bar.
I told him how sorry I was that he didn’t get to finish the film, that maybe one day he would.
He said, ‘I know I will.’ And he was talking about how the final edit will be even better than the original. ”
Ryan leaned closer. “Melanie—where?”
“I don’t know! He loves the forest. He talks about the river a lot, near where the trailers were. But he also loved that big old deserted house.”
The river near the trailers or the old Connoway mansion. It was the best they had.
He rose and turned to his team as an ambulance pulled up out front. “Ethan, Connor, and Joel, I want you three down at the river, in the forest, east of where the trailers were located.” He turned to Zac. “We’re going to the Connoway mansion.”
They were going to find her. They had to.
Emily groaned as she rolled from her side to her back. Her body hurt. Her head ached. God, she wanted to be sick. And why was her mouth so dry?
She scrunched her eyes, hard floor pressing at her back.
Slowly, she forced her eyes open. Dark floorboards. A dusty old couch. A wooden coffee table. But just a dull light from…candles?
She blinked. She knew this room. She’d been inside this living room.
This was the deserted mansion.
Then it hit her. All of it. Like a steam train she couldn’t step away from.
Roscoe. The soles of her mother’s shoes, followed by the arm around her throat and the cloth over her mouth.
Oh, God. Roscoe had attacked her. Taken her.
Why? Why would he hit her mother and drag her here?
With a groan, she pushed to her feet.
Out. She needed to get out of this house now.
But where was he?
A chill slipped over her skin as she glanced at the flickers of light from the candles on the fireplace. At the empty room.
Why put her here and leave?
No, he wouldn’t go to all this trouble just to leave her here alive.
The fine hairs on her arms stood on end as she scanned the room.
That’s when she saw something else. A small red light from a camera, affixed in the top right corner of the room.
He was filming her. The sick bastard.
Screw this. Screw him.
She stumbled into the hall, toward the front door, needing to grab at a wall to catch herself when a wave of dizziness almost had her falling.
You’ve got this, Emily. Keep going.
One more step and she reached the handle. She turned. It didn’t open.
Then she saw the shiny, new hasp attached to the door…and the heavy-duty padlock hanging from the staple.
No.
And she already knew the windows were boarded over. Shit, shit, shit.
A sound from down the hall had her spinning around. What was that? Heavy breathing? A moan? Some distant voices.
It was a whole bunch of sounds mixed together.
Fear almost rooted her to the spot.
She forced one foot forward. Then another. Slowly, she crossed the hall toward the room past the stairs.
Another camera pointed down at her from the top corner in the hall.
He was watching her. He wanted her to see what was in this room. And maybe that meant she should stop. She should find another way.
But she couldn’t seem to pull herself back.
She paused at a closed door. The sounds were louder now. Breathing and wind and the thump of footsteps—all coming from the other side.
With shaking fingers, she touched the knob.
One. Two.
On three, she shoved. The door flew open.
Flat screens. Half a dozen of them on desks. All playing footage.
Of Preston being chased in the woods. Of Faye being knocked unconscious in the bathroom. Her mother, in her bedroom at the inn. There was even body cam of Emily being attacked at Polly’s house.
For a second, she just stood there, barely able to get air in and out of her lungs as she watched every attack that had taken place in Deep River since she’d arrived.
Finally, she stepped into the room, forcing her eyes off the screen. To the pile of paper stacked in the center of the table.
“Winter Waters,” Emily read quietly, her throat feeling raw and dry. “Revised draft with new ending.”
A sticky note poked out of the top, marking a page.
It took her five breaths before she gained the courage to open the script. But she didn’t need to read that page—there was a handwritten note at the top.
Changes:
The killer who was arrested is revealed to be innocent—she was framed.
Finale changed to a haunted, deserted mansion.
Heroine forced to endure a life-or-death confrontation inside the house. She doesn’t make it.
Her heart stopped.
The creak of a floorboard had Emily’s gaze shooting to the doorway.
Then all the blood drained from her head as someone stepped inside.
Pale blue mask.
Black cloak.
Knife.
She stumbled back. “Roscoe, what are you doing?”
He stepped forward, knife raised and glinting in the candlelight.
“You don’t need to do this,” she whispered, the backs of her legs hitting the table behind her, one of the screens rocking. “You don’t have to hurt me.”
“You should run now.”
His familiar voice barely had time to register before he swung the knife.
She lunged to the side, falling into a small desk, a screen crashing to the floor.
As Roscoe drew the knife back again, she grabbed a monitor as he swung and used it as a shield. The knife hit the screen.
She kicked wildly, getting him in the shin.
He swore and doubled over.
Emily threw the monitor at him before racing out of the room. She ran straight to the kitchen, noticing another red light in the far corner of the ceiling. Surely there was a weapon somewhere? A knife. Something hard or heavy she could use to defend herself.
She opened the top drawer. Cutlery. Spoons, forks, butter knives. She opened the second drawer. Big spoons. Spatulas. Nothing useful.
Shit.
Footsteps pounded down the hall.
She opened the third drawer.
Three big knives.
Yes. She grabbed the biggest and turned, holding it in front of her as Roscoe inched forward.
“Why don’t you show your face? Show the cameras who’s behind the mask.”
He stepped closer, silence following his movement.
“Scared to be in your own film?” She lifted a brow, inching back a step. “Why? Isn’t being the center of attention the entire point? You’re showing everyone that you can write and direct and bring your own art to life.”
He stopped. Froze. For a second, he just remained completely unmoving.
Then he reached for the mask and tugged it off.
Roscoe smiled at her. The asshole was actually holding a knife and smiling, while filming himself doing it.
“You’re spot on, Emily. It is the whole point. To show Hollywood, to show the world, that I’m the best writer and director who ever lived. That my movies are not obsolete, like the fucking media has been spewing! I am, and always will be, the greatest.”
She inched back. “Why me? I mean, I presume you caused the actress who first signed on to play this role to crash her car. Why did you want me?”
“Because you’re Emily Prior. If I want to make the best movie, I need the best cast.” He cocked his head.
“You said no, and at first I thought I could do it without you. But then I saw her chemistry reads. I couldn’t have her.
I needed you. The queen of Hollywood. The only person who can truly bring my character to life. ”
Then he lunged, the knife gleaming in the flicker of candlelight as he aimed for her chest.