Chapter 17
Sleep never came.
I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, replaying the events of the evening for what felt like the hundredth time.
Somewhere in the darkness next door, the man from those photographs may have been sleeping while I lay awake, trying to figure out how to bring him down.
Every plan I came up with unraveled the moment I thought it through.
Take the photographs to the police.
Preston’s family would bury them.
Confront him.
He’d deny everything.
Go public.
Without a body or a confession, all I had were twenty-year-old photographs taken through a window.
The truth was, I had no idea what to do next.
I turned onto my side and glanced at the clock on my nightstand.
12:43 a.m.
Then I heard it.
A creak, soft and deliberate.
A sound like someone walking across the floor downstairs.
I sat upright, every muscle in my body tightening.
For several seconds, I listened.
But the house had gone quiet again.
It’s nothing.
You’re imagining things.
The house was old, and old houses made noise.
Then I heard it again.
A second creak.
My heart was now racing.
I slid out of bed and crossed the room, careful not to make a sound. I opened my bedroom door and stepped into the hallway. The house was dark. Moonlight spilled through the downstairs windows, casting pale shadows across the floor.
Holding my breath, I descended the stairs one step at a time.
The living room was empty.
The dining room too.
I checked the front door.
Locked.
The back door.
Locked.
I checked the rest of the rooms but saw nothing.
Still, the uneasy feeling remained.
I entered the kitchen and reached for the knife block on the counter, wrapping my fingers around the handle of the largest knife I could find.
Then I went back upstairs, laying the knife on the nightstand beside me.
Minutes stretched into hours, every groan and distant noise sending a jolt through me.
The creak of the air conditioner.
The rustle of leaves outside.
The distant bark of a dog.
At some point, exhaustion gave way to frustration.
I glanced at the clock.
2:57 a.m.
Knowing sleep would elude me tonight, I decided to make a cup of tea.
I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and slipped out of bed.
Only after I reached the hallway did I realize I’d left the knife on my nightstand. I considered going back for it. Then I shook my head.
You’re being ridiculous.
He doesn’t know what you know.
How could he?
Half asleep, I made my way downstairs. As I reached the bottom step and entered the kitchen, I stopped cold.
A man was standing behind the dining room table, his silhouette illuminated by the faint moonlight pouring through the window.
His attention was on the photographs I’d left scattered across the table when I’d come home.
I took a step backward toward the stairs.
“Don’t.” His voice cut through the darkness. “Don’t move, and don’t turn around. If you take another step, I’ll shoot you.”
My entire body stiffened.
Did he really have a gun?
I didn’t know.
“You’ve been busy today, Miss Nightingale,” he said. “Or should I say, Miss Caraway.”
The sound of my maiden name on his lips sent chills through me.
“I have to admit,” he said, “I find it amusing that you thought I wouldn’t bother vetting my new neighbor before inviting her into my home.”
“You’ve known all this time?”
“Of course I knew. I know all about you, Olivia.”
“What do you want?”
A soft laugh echoed through the room. “What do you think I want?”
“I don’t know.”
“I want to live my life without people like you and your father prying into matters that aren’t their concern.”
Questions escaped my lips before I had a chance to stop them. “Was it you? Did you kill him?”
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he sighed. “He left me no choice.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“As soon as Julian left the house that night, I knew where he was going,” he said. “I knew what he intended to do."
I squeezed my eyes shut. “And you stopped him.”
“I did what I had to do to protect myself.”
In that moment, a horrible realization washed over me. He wouldn’t be telling me any of this unless he planned to make sure I never repeated it.
He was going to kill me.
If I was going to make a move, I needed to do it now.
I sprinted down the hallway, making it only a few feet before something slammed into my back, the force sending me crashing to the floor.
Pain exploded through my shoulder as my cheek struck the hardwood. I screamed and tried to crawl away, but Preston grabbed my arm and yanked it behind my back.
“Stop fighting,” he said. “You’ll only make things worse.”
Panic consumed me as tears streamed down my face. “Please, Preston, whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t.”
He reached for my other arm, forcing it behind me.
A metallic click echoed through the hallway.
Handcuffs.
My wrists burned as the steel tightened around them.
I lay there gasping for air, my heart hammering against my ribs.
This is it.
This is how it ends.
Not with answers.
Not with justice.
With me dying on the floor of my childhood home.