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It occurred to him that he had not touched her at any point. If he was careful with the wrap, he could avoid getting his fingerprints on it. He opened the wrapping package and used a tissue to pull it loose. Then he proceeded to wrap the stuff around Ava’s head, circling her bloody skull at least a dozen times before using the package’s teeth to rip it free. He could no longer hear her.
That would have to do. Someone might come by at any minute. Someone might lock the gates to the park. He had to go. He was about to pick up the vase when he noticed Ava’s phone lying next to it on the grass.
It had a record of their calls and texts. He thought about taking it but worried that someone might be able to track it to him. But he couldn’t just leave it here as evidence. So he did the only thing he could of: he grabbed the vase and smashed it into the phone repeatedly until the thing was unrecognizable. Now maybe someone would think it had been destroyed in the crash.
With that done, he returned to his car without looking back, threw the stained vase and the wrapping in the trunk, and slammed it shut. He got in the car and turned around, making sure not to turn on his headlights. To his relief, he found that the main gate was still up. He left the parking lot and waited until he was halfway down the road to turn on his headlights.
He held off until he was halfway home before dumping the crystal vase in a dumpster behind a strip mall. He went another quarter mile before doing the same with the plastic wrap packaging. It was only after both tasks were complete that allowed himself to think about what he’d done. He’d killed, or come very close to killing, another person.
In the moment, he’d been fully committed, full of power and purpose about what needed to be done. But now, as he rushed home while still trying to carefully follow every traffic law, the frenzy of righteous anger had faded, replaced by apprehension about what clues he might have left behind.
He set that aside in his mind, as there was nothing to do about it now. In its place a new thought emerged—had he really needed to take such drastic action? Would Ava really have said anything?
The truth was that he just couldn’t take that chance. Their entire livelihood, perhaps even their freedom, depended on their credibility in the community. And Ava threatened that.
He didn’t want to harm her, but she left him no choice. Nina had been in a state over the whole lunch thing and on the verge of melting down. What kind of husband would he have been if he hadn’t come to her rescue?
So he drove home to her, where she was waiting with Chinese takeout, wine for her and a beer for him, and the Monday Night Football game already on the TV for him. She was doing her best not to let her terrible day ruin his. He had, in the most awful way possible, returned the favor.
And now, looking across the drawing room of their house at her, he could tell that he'd done the right thing. As shocked as Nina was when she'd learned about Ava's murder, Rhett suspected that some part of her was relieved too. There was no way she could have held court with Charlotte Stevenson at tonight's party if the fear of Ava's revelation had been hanging over her head.
But now they were in potential danger again. Between his home sale lie and whatever art mistake he’d made, his conversation with Gabby Silva had gone horribly awry. If she started to gossip about his errors, she could undo their future too.
They were teetering on the edge of a cliff and Gabby had the power to push them over. And though he was appalled at himself for even thinking it, he couldn’t help but wonder if he might be able to prevent that outcome.
He grabbed a glass of Merlot from a passing waiter and took a slow sip, pondering just how far he was willing to go.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Hannah stood outside the Omega Sigma fraternity house, trying to look casual, worried she was failing miserably.
She wanted to give off the vibe that she was just there for a good time and not to potentially take the whole place down. But the animosity she felt simmering just below the surface was threatening to bubble over. She had to chill.
She walked over to a small fountain a few paces past the frat house, sat down, and pulled out her makeup mirror, pretending to look herself over. Instead, she used the opportunity to take several long, slow, meditative breaths.
She couldn’t go into this endeavor charged up. If she was going to find out what happened, then these guys, and everyone else at the house, needed to believe she was there to party, with no hidden agenda.
She thought she looked the part. Even though it was November and on the chilly side, she had decided to dress to impress, or at least draw the attention of college boys. She didn’t want any trouble getting in.
She chose to go with tight, faded jeans, and a black crop top that revealed the stomach she worked out assiduously to maintain. She was tall and lean, which she knew wouldn’t hurt, nor would how she let her blonde hair fall loosely just below her shoulders.
She put the makeup mirror back in the crossbody mini bag that hung strategically across her chest and headed for the frat house entrance. As she approached the line to get in, she reminded herself to stay focused on her reason for being there: to help Eliza.
She’d only known Eliza Dempsey for two months. But the two of them, who lived on the same residence hall floor, had hit it off after quickly discovering they had the same taste in clothes and a shared affinity for microwave-friendly spicy miso ramen noodle soup.
Eliza, or Lizzie, as she liked to be called, was dark-haired and pale, with a quiet demeanor and a sweet smile. She was easy to like but hard to get to know. She seemed to intentionally keep conversations on the surface level, so much so that Hannah began to wonder what was hiding underneath.
But she didn’t push. Instead they mostly just hung out watching terrible reality shows and studying for the one class they shared. It was only last week, almost two full months into school, when Lizzie finally shared something intimate. And it was a whopper.
“Your sister is Jessie Hunt, right?” she had asked while they sat in a sound-proofed study room in the library, not making much progress on their Critical Reading and Rhetoric papers.
“Yeah, why?” Hannah asked guardedly.
“Sorry to pry but I’ve read about some of your family stuff in the papers, how you helped rescue her when she was kidnapped by that crazy woman, Andrea Robinson, last spring,” Lizzie said, struggling to get to the point. “It made me wonder if maybe you could help talk me through an issue I’ve been having.”
Relieved that her new friend wasn’t going to press her for the gory details of her pre-college life, Hannah smiled.
“Sure, I can try,” she said.
