Chapter 49 Ellie #2
Lauren's voice took on an almost dreamy quality.
“It's not that hard.” She feigned an innocent voice.
“I found Patrick killing our son, so I grabbed the gun and shot him in self-defense after he went after me.” The match burned.
“The cops ate it up. Traumatized wife, dead child—clear-cut case of domestic violence gone wrong.”
She turned back to me, and her smile returned sharper, more focused.
“Except you,” she turned to me, holding the match closer, “started to dig a little too deep. You found my journal and somehow got your hands on the fucking police report. You were taking it too far, and I knew you wouldn't let it go.”
“How do you know that?” My voice came out smaller than I intended.
“I may have asked Ben to plant a bug on your phone.” She shrugged like she was discussing the weather. “I’ve been listening all along.” She waved the match in a small circle, leaving a trail of light in the darkness.
"But…I thought he was my bodyguard?”
“You think that was a coincidence?" She let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “A stupid football player buys that house—my house—and suddenly, he's dating you? I had to do something.”
“Ben,” I said, staring at him.
“Yup. He worked for my husband's father years ago. That's how I met him. So, when your little boyfriend bought my house, I called him, got him on your team—”
“Because of the journal.”
“To make sure no one else found it first.” Her voice cracked higher.
“I didn't need anyone digging around, finding out about the affair, pointing fingers at me. But you.” She jabbed a finger toward me, pulling out another match.
“You found it anyway. You couldn't just leave it alone.
You had to play detective, break into my house.
You wouldn't stop! You just kept digging and digging.”
Ben scoffed, stepping forward. “I thought I was helping you. You told me it was an accident. You told me Patrick killed him. I thought I was helping you protect yourself.”
Lauren shot him a look—more disappointed than angry, like a parent whose child had broken something valuable.
“You think you're still the hero?” she said. “You helped me get her here. You loaded her in the car and drove her to this warehouse. You're in this as deep as I am.”
Ben's face went white. “I didn't know—”
“You did know. You knew something was wrong, and you came anyway, because some part of you still loved me even after years apart. Even if you never would leave your damn wife.”
She held the match higher. “God, I thought someone would get it. If not you, then her!”
She pointed at me with the match, and I flinched despite myself.
“How in the world would I understand you?” I asked, my voice shaking.
“Because you do.” She took another step closer, the match still burning, close enough that I could see the fine lines around her eyes and the way her lipstick had started to fade.
“You know what it's like to build your whole life around an image.
Around being perfect. You know what it's like to sell yourself to survive.”
The words hit too close to home, and something cracked open in my chest—raw and painful, something I'd kept buried for years.
“You're right.” The admission tore out of me. “I know what it's like to feel trapped. To build everything around an image that isn't real. I've spent my whole life performing, trying to prove I was worth something.”
Lauren's eyes lit up. She lowered the match.
“I thought if I worked hard enough, sang loud enough, stayed on every headline and tour and red carpet, maybe I'd matter. That I'd prove to everyone that I was enough.” My throat tightened, but I kept going, the words spilling out like blood from a wound.
Lauren's gaze sharpened, predatory. She was waiting—waiting for me to admit she was right, that we were the same, that I understood her choices.
But I didn't.
“I don't want to live that way anymore.” The words came out stronger than I felt. “I’m done chasing it, done thinking I need to accomplish more to be worthy. You think we're the same, but we're not. You killed people to protect a lie. I'm choosing to stop living one.”
For a moment that stretched like eternity, Lauren didn't speak. Her expression faltered—barely, like a mask slipping—and I saw it. The hollow place where a person used to be. The empty space where empathy, love, and basic human decency should have lived.
She shook out the match once again. The warehouse closed in around me.
“What are you planning to do with me?” I asked.
She tilted her head like I'd asked the most boring question. She picked up the gas can again, this time carrying it around my chair. I couldn't see her anymore; I could only hear the slosh of liquid, smell the intensifying fumes.
“Isn’t it obvious?” she said from behind me. Cold liquid splashed against my back, soaking through my shirt. I jerked forward, but the ropes held. “I obviously can't let you walk away from this.”
Ben moved forward. “Lauren, don’t.”
“Stay back!” She came around to my side, and I could see she'd poured gasoline near my feet, creating a trail back to the main puddle. “You don't get to grow a conscience suddenly, not after everything.”
She pulled out the entire box of matches, shaking them into her hand.
“Wait—” My voice came out strangled. “Please…”
“You couldn't leave it alone,” she hissed, pulling out a match. “I told myself I wouldn't do this. I told myself there had to be another way.” She struck it. The flame caught. “But you left me no choice.”
She held it up; the small flame reflected in her dead eyes.
“No!” Ben lunged forward.
Time slowed. The match arced through the air toward the gasoline trail. Ben's hands closed around her wrist, yanking it back. The match landed on concrete, three feet from the nearest gasoline, sputtering out harmlessly.
Ben slammed into her, sending them both crashing to the floor. The box of matches scattered, skittering about. He pinned her down, one hand on her wrist, the other grabbing for his phone.
“You will not hurt her,” he barked, his voice shaking. “I’m not letting you kill her!”
A sound cut through the warehouse—a distant wail that grew quickly louder. Sirens. Red and blue light flickered through the broken windows.
Lauren's eyes went wide beneath Ben. “You…you called someone,” she hissed, disbelief lacing her voice. “You actually called someone!”
“I called 911 the moment I heard you confess,” Ben said, his voice steadier than it had been all night.
All her control shattered. She bucked beneath him, shoving him off with surprising strength, and ran. Ben lunged after her, his boots pounding against the concrete.
“Police! Don't move!”
Two officers stood silhouetted in the doorway, weapons raised, their voices cutting through the warehouse.
Lauren made it maybe ten steps before they tackled her. The impact of bodies hitting the floor echoed through the space, followed by the metallic click of handcuffs.
She didn't scream. Didn't cry. Didn't beg or bargain or make excuses. She went still as they cuffed her. That predatory smile was finally completely gone.
More officers flooded in. One rushed to me, working on the ropes behind my back. Blood rushed back to my wrists with a painful tingle.
Another cuffed Ben.
“Are you okay?” Ben asked me.
I nodded, flexing my fingers as feeling returned to them, my shirt still damp with gasoline.
“You’re fired,” I managed to say, my voice hoarse but steady. "And going to jail. But yeah, I think I'm fine.”
Ben turned to look at me as they walked him toward the door. Our eyes met. I saw it—the apology, the regret, the knowledge there was nothing he could say that would make any of this right.
The sirens were louder now, filling the warehouse.
Red and blue lights flashed through the broken windows, painting everything in shifting colors.
An officer draped a blanket around my shoulders, guiding me toward the door and away from the gasoline, away from the matches still scattered across the floor, away from the woman who'd been willing to burn me alive to protect her secrets.
I was alive.
I was free.
And for the first time in longer than I could remember, it felt like I could finally breathe.