Chapter 32
Jolie—aged eighteen
My eyes followed Woodrow’s to the ceiling, beyond the damaged patch of artex where his head had hit.
Noises moved above me. Two sets of feet, heavy from the weight they carried, shifted from the Heavens’ bedroom.
There was no way the second set of feet belonged to Wynter.
Though I could hear her again, alert and alive, unfortunately.
“Get out! Now!” Woodrow shouted as loud as he could.
He wasn’t gentle, his fingers embedding into my skin as he pulled me from my spot and shoved me into the hallway. When his hands left my body, he pushed me again, trying to get me as far away from him as possible.
“Get. Out!” Woodrow spat his words in my face before turning away from me.
I wasn’t sure what the hell was happening, but it scared me. Everything scared me; the switch in Hell, how he went from promising protection to trying to kill me. The rapid switching between him and Woodrow, and the destruction of the kitchen because of it.
The kitchen glowed in a new orange light, as a blaze swallowed up the curtains and the wooden pole they were attached to.
I stood for a moment, still and silent, and in shock with all I’d gone through today. I watched as the fire grew, swallowing the oily scent of lavender the candle once showcased and all of the kitchen furniture. Woodrow pulled open the door beneath the staircase, blocking the sight of it.
The air escaped my lungs, and it didn’t return until I was gasping for breath, my hand on my chest trying to coax my lungs to allow me to breathe in the toxic air.
“Woodrow.” I shook my head in disbelief as he stood in front of me with a shotgun pointed at me, extra shells that he wouldn’t need to kill me, draped around his body.
“Run,” was the word to rush from his mouth first. “Run fast.”
It was a cruel taunt that I thought only Hell was capable of, because Woodrow knew I couldn’t run, not with my leg or stomach hurting me the way they were.
I didn’t hang around to beg or question him.
I turned, not wanting to see the look in his pretty eyes as he ended my life, because his gun was already correctly aimed, judging by what I’d seen in movies. Pressed snuggly against his shoulder, his cheek to the weld, and his feet shoulder width apart.
I rushed out, yanking open the doors as I ignored the rush of feet moving down the stairs.
I heard Ville tell someone else, “You catch her, and you can do what you want with her.”
The doors swung shut behind me, the cracked glass rattling as they banged loud enough to wake the house.
I hopped down the wooden steps. They creaked under my weight, screaming that I shouldn’t leave. . . that I'd be caught, regardless, and should save my energy. That I’d be hurt. Killed.
I didn’t care.
I needed to get away from here. I needed to believe that I could, even if my life ended while trying.
I didn’t dare glance back to the house, or to the man on my heels, advancing on me. There was nothing left to see. Cruel destiny had set fire to my future. The boy I wanted to spend it with would be wrapped in the flames soon.
I had nothing left, and there was only one way this was ending. . . and I knew that, even if I wouldn’t admit to it.
I didn’t have the ability to run from the pain, but I limped on, eager to escape in the direction I remembered the main road.
I heard someone shout “Stop,” and I could have sworn it was Hell, but I didn’t listen because Woodrow told me to go.
The long grass scratched at the cuts on my feet, gifted by the wreckage of kitchenware. Daisy petals soothed the welts as I continued on.
I picked up pace, ignoring the intensity of my pain as determination to break free pulled me forward. Guilt over leaving Nessie behind tried to hold me back. . . but my broken mind tried convincing me she'd be safe here in a house full of monsters until I could get to the police.
But deep down, I knew I’d never get to them.
I knew the person behind would catch me.
He was so close. . .
My ears only took in the sound of a barn owl, who was rapidly voicing its terror.
I didn’t register the sound of a small explosion popping through the midnight air.
I forced myself to block it out. But I soon realized the shot that caused it hadn’t hit me, and I could no longer feel someone else’s shadow on my back, and as I focused more on the noise around me, I couldn’t hear his feet moving behind mine, either.
I kept going, grateful for each step, feeling that Woodrow was back to his senses and had fired, assisting my getaway.
Freedom felt closer and closer. I breathed harder, my cheeks roseate with the effort I’d put into getting away.
The starless sky looked down on me. A light breeze ran with me as I rushed, hobbling barefoot through the grass. The sound of owls and other creatures of the night continued echoing ominously in the dark, but I no longer felt their fear.
And I no longer felt mine.
I was finally free. Free to live, when all I wanted was to die.
I slowed to a sight in the distance. My tired body dropped to the ground. Creepy crawlies snaked my skin, little feet traipsing over my leg, questioning my disruption of their peaceful night.
Blackness gave way to illumination. Gravel crunched ahead as a vehicle slowed to a stop.
And just when I thought it was all over, I was lifted by my arms and tossed into the back of a truck for this to start all over again.
Woodrow
The shot had taken him down. I had no idea who he was or why he was upstairs. I hadn’t even heard him come in. He must have been here for hours, arriving while I sat in the yard with mud up to my elbows. A sickening feeling washed over me as I wondered if he was here to abuse my girl.
That made the vision of the hole in his chest easier to look at, the remains of his black heart leaking from it.
I was never meant to be a killer. The violence was always Hell’s thing.
. . but he’d given up fighting with me, feeling rejected by me.
There was only me here. Me and a shotgun, intent on saving those I loved.
“Please, God, let her find help,” I prayed, watching through the doors as her hobbling image got smaller and smaller.
I kept the gun in place, knowing I’d find my father standing behind me. And I turned to find him exactly where I thought he’d be, standing in my shadow.
“That was a mighty good shot, kid.”
I swallowed hard, because every swallow was hard since he wrapped his giant hands around my throat.
He saw my struggle, and it brought a smile to his lips. “Go get your girl.”
“No.” I point blank refused.
“She’s not leaving.”
“She is leaving.”
A bang rattled something in the kitchen. It sounded like glass combusting under the pressure of the growing heat, and that was exactly what it was.
My father turned, not caring that I had a gun on him. His own—much smaller than mine—was hanging out of the waistband of his checkered boxers. They looked like the tablecloth, and they were filled with just as much grime.
His eyes moved back to me from the flames in the kitchen. “What the fuck have you done?” he asked in his intoxicated state, only now realizing the house was on fire.
“Your empire crumbles tonight. Now, do the decent fucking thing and go upstairs to get your daughter.”
“She won't come to me.” He laughed. “God, kid, you missed a lot while you were away.”
My eyes squinted, trying to see the meaning hidden in his words, when I was distracted by a floorboard delivering the alert of someone else present.
I had no choice with my throat in its condition to angle my whole body in the direction of a small sniffle.
Nessie froze; her fright coming out in a brutal gasp as she saw my gun on her.
“Nessie,” I spoke softly, lowering my gun to prevent her fear escalating.
She had enough terror already rattling her tiny body.
“It’s okay, Ness.”
“No, it’s not.” Her brown eyes—like our father’s but so much more beautiful—landed on him. Her lower lip stuck out, vibrating as she forced out more words. “I need to reach Hell, Woodrow.”
“What? Why?”
“I need Hell.” She stepped forward, moving down another step, and something fell from beneath her pink nightdress with her favorite princesses on the torso. My eyes moved over them, following the clack as the cross bounced down every single step.
“No. . .” My attention moved to my father. My anger on him as quickly as my gun.
I now realized why there was another man in this house.
He wasn’t here for my girl; she was a bonus prize.
The creep was here for Nessie, because the sick fuck in front of me was allowing his daughter to be pimped out.
His eight-year-old daughter. And, for what, because we didn’t need fucking money.
He had enough of it buried all over this land.
I’d found a few grand rolled up when I’d dug my baby’s grave. It was still in my pocket, ready for the therapy Jolie and I would need when I caught up to her and we were finally free. . . Nessie, too.
I didn’t ask my father questions. Nothing he could ever say would be enough. I quickly lifted my gun, pumping another shell into place. His gun was up, too, but his delayed reactions thanks to the alcohol in his system, meant it wasn’t aimed at me when I pulled the trigger.
Bang.
His blood splattered my face. His arms flew back, his gun firing off in the distance. He didn’t go down instantly, despite the garnet smudge staining his bedraggled tank top. I hit him in the stomach, not having the time to angle my shot where I’d have preferred.
My shoulder ached from the poor positioning of my gun, reminding me of my healing wound. I was more careful lining the gun up to my body the next time.
Seconds later, another shot hit him, taking off half of his head.
His brain stained the walls, dripping from picture frames that showed off much nicer relatives of mine.
I lowered my gun, remembering Nessie’s fear, and I turned back to her direction. . .
But she was no longer standing on the stairs.