Chapter 24
ON BORROWED TIME
Sometimes being in time, can be too late
Dorian
“Twenty-two minutes to destination.”
The navigation system’s calm voice scrapes at my nerves. Every minute feels like an eternity while my heart tries to punch its way out of my chest.
My fingers clamp the dashboard so hard, my knuckles are bone white. I’m wound up so tight, I half-expect the carbon fiber to snap in my grip.
Four hours and forty-seven minutes stuck in that damn jet, grounded by a storm at Chicago Executive—those hours chewed right through whatever patience I had left. Now, there’s nothing but this raw, churning cocktail of impotent rage and sheer terror.
I keep replaying the same loop—what the hell is Leah up to? The not-knowing is eating me alive. All I know is that I have to get to Della.
And it happens.
A sudden, violent pain lances through my ribs, like someone drives an ice pick through my heart, stealing the air from my lungs. I gasp, my hand instinctively clutching my chest as a wave of pure panic washes over me.
“Della,” I choke out, barely a whisper.
I don’t know how, I don’t care about the logic, but I know it with a terrifying certainty that Della is in danger.
“Dave, something’s happened. Step on it. Now.”
David’s head snaps toward me. One look at my face is enough for him. He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t hesitate. He just floors it. The SUV’s powerful engine roars, and the world outside becomes a frantic blur. He understands.
My hands are shaking, wild and stupid, like those dried-up leaves you see skittering across the sidewalk in October. I fumble for my phone. I didn’t want to call her, didn’t want to scare her. Maybe I’m overreacting about Leah. But right now—I just need to hear her voice. Just a second. That’s it.
It rings. Once. Twice. Voicemail. My blood runs cold. I call again. Nothing.
“Five minutes to destination,” the GPS chirps.
My brain runs in circles, replaying the last days with Della, the promises I made her, Leah’s lies… and I cannot lose this feeling of something bad happening.
“We’re here.” David’s voice cuts through my spiral. He points to this house at the end of the street, porch light burning like it’s the only star left in the sky. He pulls the car just in front of the house and I step outside.
Something feels off.
The quietness of the street is in full contrast with the noise in my mind. I go for the front door finding it slightly open to my surprise.
“Della? Silvia?” I call out, pushing the door open and stepping inside.
Inside, it’s… weirdly normal. Cozy, even. Lamp glowing, book on the coffee table—like someone was just here, reading, not giving a damn about my internal chaos.
Then I hear it— a woman’s voice, upstairs somewhere. For a second, my racing heart stumbles in confusion. I overreacted.
A woman appears at the top of the stairs, talking on the phone as she descends.
I take two steps forward, a smile blooming on my face, Della’s name ready on my lips.
But I stop dead.
It’s not her. It’s Silvia. And in the same, world-shattering instant, I process her panicked words.
“...Please, hurry! My friend is gone!”
A startling scream follows as Silvia sees me and David in her living room. She freezes when she sees us, her eyes wide with shock and fear.
“Dorian?! What… ?” Silvia’s face is pale and her voice is trembling “Della’s missing and…”
“Ma’am, are you ok?” I can hear the operator asking at the phone.
“Someone entered my living room,” Silvia replies “Please, hurry!” and hangs up. “Now they’ll come for sure.”
I cross the room in three strides, my voice sharp, cutting through her panic. “Silvia. Tell me everything. Where did you last see her?”
“The beach bar,” she sobs. “She left an hour ago to walk home. I wanted to leave with her but she asked to be alone, to walk on the beach. I just got back and couldn’t find her. I went looking outside and I… found her purse and sweater on the deck.” She starts shaking and I hold her hands.
“Show me.”
We step on the back porch and I see her sweater crumpled on the floor. My heart tightens. David kneels, using a pen to take a look at the contents of her overturned purse.
“The phone isn’t here, Dorian.” He says.
Instantly, I pull out my phone and open the tracking app I installed in our last day at Lake Geneva. “This way, I will never lose you again.” We laughed and joked at that point and never would have thought I will use it like this.
A single red dot pulses on the screen. Not moving.
“I’ve got her.” I say and turn to Silvia and give her instructions “Go inside, wait for the cops and tell them everything. Give them this address. We’re going now.”
Silvia’s in shock “I don’t understand. Who would…?”
“I will find her,” I cut her off and grab her hands “Now go inside.”
We run back to the car and David drives like crazy.
That red, flickering dot on my screen isn't just a location.
It is everything.
* * *
Della
Red. The first thing I see is a single, pulsing red dot.
It fades, then flares up again in the dark like a heartbeat. Or maybe a warning.
My thoughts are lost in a thick fog, and my body feels disconnected, like I’ve slipped out of myself.
Where am I?
There’s that red light again. My vision sharpens, just a little. It’s a cigarette. Someone’s out there, sitting in the dark and watching me.
This realization crushes me like a winter wave, and I can barely breathe as everything rushes in at once.
My head throbs, a dull, heavy pain blooming behind my eyes, like wet cement packed into my skull.
My throat burns, tastes sharp and bitter, like battery acid.
My arms and legs are dead weight. And the ropes—they cut into the raw skin at my wrists, binding me tight to a chair.
No. No. This isn’t happening.
This feeling, this sickening, damn helplessness—it isn’t happening again.
The memory of Andy slams into me, not as a thought, but as a physical sensation—of being pinned down, of my screams being useless, of my body not being my own.
For a split second, the warehouse fades, and I’m back in that dark night, the smell of gas, the pain...
Not again. I will not be that girl again.
The thought cuts through the fog like fire through ice.
And then, like a film snapping into focus—
God. I remember.
The beach. Waves rolling in. Footsteps, way too fast, closing in behind me. A hand over my mouth. That awful, sickly-sweet smell—chloroform, I guess—clogging my lungs, drowning out the scream. Terror. Fighting.
And then… darkness. Nothing.
My stomach flips. Bile rises, and I gag, swallowing it back.
Panic claws up my throat, primal and raw.
I want to scream, to thrash, to fight my way free—but the ropes don’t give.
Come on, Della. Breathe. Think. Fight.
I drag air into my lungs, shaky and thin.
My eyes dart around, adjusting to the gloom. Shapes slowly emerge. A vast, open space with concrete floor and high, grimy windows. Moonlight slants through, catching on what looks like the skeletons of old machinery.
Everything smells like saltwater, rust, and rot.
I shift, just a fraction. The chair beneath me creaks. My wrists test the ropes again. No give. They're tight. Too tight.
That’s the moment it becomes clear. This wasn’t rushed or random. This was planned.
But why? Who would…
Then I hear it. Footsteps. Careful and deliberate.
A female figure moves through the darkness. Not rushing. Not hesitant. Just... gliding. She steps into the thin halo of a single, hanging lightbulb wearing tailored dark clothes and an impeccable posture.
Leah.
My breath catches and my heart hammers in my chest, so loud I’m sure she can hear it. My brain refuses to believe what’s right in front of me wearing a smug, nightmare style smile.
Doesn’t matter. I won’t let her in.
Not into my dreams, not into my head, not anymore.
I’m done being afraid. I can feel how rage is starting to bubble just beneath my skin.
She’s got my phone in her hand, swinging it casually from her fingers. Her thumb makes lazy little circles on the screen, like she’s petting something she owns. That smile hasn't budged. It's tight, controlled, and in love with its own power.
She steps in so close I can feel her energy prickling over my skin. Her eyes catch the light—hard and sharp as broken glass. Her voice is soft and sweet, but it's rotten to the core.
“Welcome back, darling,” she says, like we’re old friends meeting for brunch. “I was starting to worry you’d miss the grand finale.”
* * *
Leah
Seeing her strapped to that chair is so… tremendously satisfying. I wanted this for so long. I’m finally going to erase her from our lives.
Still, I have to admit, her attitude is irritating.
"You're quiet," I say, pacing slowly in front of her. "I expected more... crying, perhaps? A little begging?"
Della lifts her head. Her hair is tousled, her face is pale, but her eyes... her eyes are burning like two hot coals. The terror is there, but there’s something else. A defiant fire I find intensely irritating.
"The grand finale?" she rasps, her voice rough. "This whole... production? Seems a little desperate, even for you, Leah."
My smile tightens. The little stray has claws.
"Desperate? No, darling. This is meticulous. This is what happens when you try to take something that doesn't belong to you."
As if summoned, a trilling sound cuts through the silence. I pull Della's phone from my pocket. The screen lights up—Dorian’s calling. I can’t help it; my grin stretches wider, mean and slow.
“Well, look who it is. Right on time. So nice of him to join our party."
I hold the phone up so that she can see the screen.
She jerks against the ropes, a strangled noise slipping out. I watch her face for a beat—there it is. That quick, dark shadow of pain, something deeper than plain old fear. Terror, real and raw.
Does she honestly think he'll stop me? Does she actually believe he’ll save her? Pathetic.
I let the call ring twice, savoring the sound, before my thumb seals his fate with the red 'decline' button.