Chapter 49 Ellie
FORTY-NINE
Ellie
The back of my skull throbbed as I forced my eyes open. Panic rose like smoke, curling around my chest, but I held it down—swallowed it whole until it sat heavy in my stomach.
Something rough pressed between my teeth, the sour taste of cloth filling my mouth. I tried to spit it out, but the knot at the back of my head held it tight, forcing me to breathe through my nose.
I blinked, taking in my surroundings. The warehouse stretched out around me.
Concrete ran in every direction, scarred with cracks that spider-webbed toward the walls.
Grime streaked down from broken windows high above, and debris lay scattered everywhere—broken pallets, cardboard boxes, and twisted metal that caught the harsh light from a single bulb swaying overhead.
My ankles were tied to the chair legs with duct tape that bit into my skin. Rope circled my wrists so tight, I could feel each pulse throb against it. Every shift only made it cut deeper.
Maybe six feet away, sitting on an overturned crate as if it were a velvet throne, a woman watched me.
She hadn't moved when I stirred, hadn't even blinked.
Her posture was too relaxed—one leg crossed over the other, hands folded in her lap like she was waiting for afternoon tea instead of holding someone gagged and bound.
But it was what sat beside her that made my blood turn to ice—a red plastic gas can. My muffled sound barely made it past the gag. Her lips curved the slightest bit.
“Good. You're up.”
She stood, the scrape of the crate legs echoing in the space. My pulse hammered as she crossed the short distance between us. Without a word, she reached behind my head, fingers brushing my neck as she tugged at the knot. The gag came loose, and I sucked in a shaky breath.
The air smelled like gasoline. My stomach dropped.
For a second, she watched me like she was studying what I'd do with the small mercy she'd given.
Then, I saw it—something in the shape of her mouth. The way her chin tilted just slightly to the right. Features I'd memorized from a grainy newspaper photo, imagining them softened by years of pain.
My mind scrambled to catch up. She looked normal. Clean, brown hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. Properly fitting clothes, no tears or stains. This wasn't the broken woman I'd constructed in my mind from those desperate letters.
“Lauren?” The name felt strange in my mouth, like speaking to a ghost.
A smile unfurled across her face—not warm or pleased, but entertained, like I was a particularly amusing puzzle she'd solved.
“I was worried,” she said, examining her nails absently. “Thought maybe I'd hit you too hard. Would've been inconvenient if you'd died before we had our little chat.”
She walked back to the crate, picked up the gas can with casual ease, and unscrewed the cap. The chemical smell intensified, and my eyes watered.
“Lauren.” My voice cracked, the sound bouncing off the walls.
She tilted the can, and liquid sloshed onto the concrete floor between us. A puddle formed, spreading slowly toward my chair.
“Stop!” The word ripped out of me.
She paused, the can still tilted. “Why? You wanted the truth, didn't you? That's why you kept digging, why you read my journal, broke into my house, and got your hands on the police report.” She poured more gas around me. “Well, here we are. Truth time.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks. “I thought…” I shook my head, making me dizzy. “The entries. You sounded like you were…”
She laughed, not unkindly, setting the can down with a hollow thunk. “Oh, that damn journal.” She took a step closer, her heels clicking against the floor. “I didn't even know I'd left it until it was too late to go back.”
The casualness of her tone made my skin crawl. “I don't understand…”
Lauren's smile turned wry. “I meant to burn that damn journal, actually. I was a different woman back when I wrote it.”
She crouched, and my heart thudded in my chest.
“So it wasn't a call for help?” I asked, my eyes locked on her hand.
“I mean, at the time, it was, I guess. I needed to get it out somehow. That was the only outlet I had. But I left it,” she repeated, her voice sharpening. She stood, wiping her hand on her pants. “And I prayed no one would ever be stupid enough to go looking.”
“I thought you were a victim.” The words were heavier than I expected.
She nodded like she'd been waiting for them.
“I was a victim. I am a victim, but not from the neat, simple version people like to hand out.” She folded her hands. “My life wasn't clean. It was messy. Dangerous. And sometimes, messy requires a messy answer. Hence this.” She gestured around us. “Can't leave loose ends this time.”
I searched her face for the woman from the journal—the mother who wanted to protect her child. Instead, I found a practiced storyteller. The bulb overhead buzzed then steadied.
“Your son…he died.”
“Yes.” Her voice didn't change. “He did.”
“You said you were trying to leave, to protect him.”
“I said a lot of things when I was scared.” She folded her fingers, glancing down at her hands as if tracing a memory. Then, she picked up the box of matches, shaking it.
My heart slammed against my ribs. “What are you doing?”
“You talk, I light. Pretty simple, actually.”
“What changed?” My voice wavered, attempting to stall as long as I could. “You loved him. You wanted to save him.”
“Everything.”
“Your husband. He found the photo.”
“Yes.” She pulled out a single match, holding it between her fingers like a cigarette.
“What happened?” I asked again, more stern this time, trying to keep my voice steady despite the match in her hand.
“A lot happened back then.”
“What. Happened?”
Her jaw tightened. She struck the match, and the flame caught. “Patrick found out. He confronted me, threatened me.”
“So you killed him.” I said it flat, matter-of-fact, watching that flame dance.
“He went for the gun first.” Her voice rose. “I just got there faster! He ran like a coward, and I chased him outside and—” She stopped herself, chest heaving. The match burned closer to her fingers.
“And you shot him.”
“Yes.” She glared at me, shaking out the match. “I shot him.”
I held her gaze, unblinking, trying to ignore the relief flooding through me. “And your son?”
Something flickered across her face: fear. “That's different.”
“He saw it, didn't he? He saw you murder his father.”
“He wasn't his real father.”
“What did you do to him?”
“He was screaming.” It exploded out of her. She pulled out another match and struck it hard. “He was on the porch, and he wouldn't stop. He ran inside, I followed, and he kept screaming that I killed his father over and over. I couldn't—I needed him to stop.”
“So you stopped him.”
“I just wanted him to shut up.” Her hands shook, the flame trembling. “I grabbed a pillow, and I just—I put it over his face to make him pass out, to get him quiet for one second, but—” Her voice cracked. “None of this would've been so complicated without him! I could've just left. I could've—”
“But he never woke up,” I finished coldly.
A figure stepped out of the shadows—tall, broad-shouldered, unmistakably Ben, but his face looked wrong somehow.
His eyes were wide, horror-struck, fixed on Lauren as if she'd grown a second head. “You told me Patrick killed him.”
Lauren turned toward his voice, and for the first time since I'd woken up, she looked genuinely surprised. “Ben…I thought you were checking the perimeter still.”
My jaw dropped. “B—Ben…”
“I heard…” His voice came out strangled as he slipped his phone into his pocket. “I heard what you said. About my son. Tell me I misunderstood.”
She didn't respond; she just pulled out another match as the other one burnt out.
“Lauren…” Ben's voice broke. “Put the matches down.”
“Why?” She struck it, the flame casting dancing shadows across her face. “So she can run to the police? So she can tell everyone what I did? I don't think so.”
Ben stepped directly in front of her, and his shoulders shook. “You let me think he died in a struggle,” he said, his voice rough as sandpaper.
Her expression didn't change. “Yeah, well, that version served you better.”
She waved the match dangerously close to the puddle's edge.
“You used me.” His words came out broken.
“I needed you.”
“I loved you.” The shout bounced off the walls like a physical thing. “And you killed our son! For what?” His voice cracked completely. “Put down the fucking match.”
“You wouldn't leave your wife for me. You never loved me,” she yelled at him before turning to me. “I loved him. My son. I did. But it was never…easy. Sometimes, I looked at him and saw my mistake staring back at me.”
Bile rose in my throat. The rope around my wrists felt like it was cutting off circulation to my hands. The match in her hand burned lower.
Ben's voice dropped to a whisper that somehow carried more weight than his shout. “You said you wanted a future with us.”
“I did.” She reached toward him with her free hand, but he stepped back like she'd struck him.
The match burned down to her fingers. She dropped it—this time dangerously close to the main puddle. It sizzled out just inches from the gasoline.
Her head tilted to me, and that predatory smile returned. “Have you ever been so trapped, you'd do anything to claw your way out?”
“Yes.” The words came from somewhere deep in my chest, somewhere that had been locked away for years. “But I've never murdered a fucking child.”
She shook out the match and pulled out another. “You still don't get it.”
“No.” I met her gaze and didn't look away, even though everything in me wanted to. “I do. You snapped. You killed your son, spun some story to the cops, then lied to the father of your child to make it all seem like a mistake.”
“Well, at least you're smarter than you look.” She struck the match.
“And you're sicker than I thought.”
Ben's hands were shaking visibly, and he kept clenching and unclenching his fists. “How? How did you get away with this?”