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“Braydon, wha—what are you doing?”
He doesn’t bother answering me and walks through the kitchen, leaving out the same door as his father. The second I hear the backdoor slam against its hinges, it’s fight or flight. If I don’t try to move now, I’m as good as dead. My adrenaline kicks into overdrive, and I fight through the pain. Pushing my limp body off the ground, I jam my foot into the carpet and stand in a sprinting formation, only to lose my breath. I fall sideways into the couch, a guttural sound I don’t recognize as my own vibrating my eardrums.
I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I’m going to die here.
Blackness surrounds me, and I’m close to passing out. You’re a fighter, Hannah. Push through it. Time ticks in slow motion, and images of my family come into view. I swear I see Kipley in the distance, hear Levi begging me not to give up. I see my mother’s face smiling at me, and my dad’s proud smile giving me the fuel I need. Hope blooms inside me. With another rough intake of breath, I get myself on two feet, pushing through the pain. Each foot is like lead as I force my legs to move. Three feet, two feet, one—
Rough hands wrap around my neck, fingers lacing in my hair. Braydon’s grip is vicious as he wrenches me back. My scream is wild with desperation as my body slams into the coffee table. The collision knocks the air out of my lungs. The stabbing in my side blinds me. I blink away the blackness, fearing I’m about to pass out. If I do, I’m dead.
“Braydon…you don’t have to do this…” I cry. Warmth soaks my cheek, and I fear I’m bleeding from where my head hit the corner of the table. I’m scared. I don’t want to die, but I’m drained of all hope this is going to end any other way. My tears of despair spill over and soak my face, the saltiness mixing with blood from my wounds. I want to urge myself to continue to fight, but my body is too broken. Braydon continues to walk around the living room. It’s not until I smell the fumes, I realize what he’s doing.
“No...no, no, no... please, God no!” My vocal chords burn as I begin to sob. The retched stench of gasoline fills the room. Braydon’s holding a gas can, soaking the furniture.
He’s going to set the house on fire.
I’m going to burn to death.
“Hannah, understand. I wouldn’t choose this for you. But it’s not going to work out. And if I can’t have you, I’m certainly not going to let him.” He tosses the gas can, followed by the cruel sound of a lighter flickering. “Plus, now you know too much.”
Levi
It takes pointing out someone is a killer to get anyone to take us seriously. Officer Douchebag gets on his radio, calling into the station. I hear the muffled words of missing girl, possible murder, out of jurisdiction. Regardless of my fight to stay positive, my mind is at war, battling away the negative thoughts. She’s been missing since last night. She’s in the hands of a killer. She could already be dead.
This is my fault.
I should have done more to push my theories. Gone to Jim when I first had an inkling of uncertainty about Braydon. Or should I use his real name, Connor Miller—Benjamin Miller’s son. A criminal’s son, placed in Matthews and Associates to sabotage our case. Jim takes call after call from the office, HR, legal, searching for how this could have happened. How did Braydon—Connor—find a job inside the law firm?
It takes a simple Google search to learn he’s no more than a high school dropout, still being cradled under his daddy’s wing. The prodigal son notorious for doing his father’s dirty work. Furthermore, an FBI agent shows up and informs us Miller Industries has been under investigation for years, way before the Crete incident. It’s a shock his botched project even made it off the production floor before being shut down by the feds.
Anger simmers through my veins. This could have been avoided. People didn’t have to die if certain people had been doing their jobs. My mind takes another dark turn as Connor’s comment from the bathroom the other night comes to par.
“Once you’re out of the way, I’m taking your place. Get a taste of the sweet Hannah Matthews.”
His comment is the match that sets fire to the gasoline that’s been poured over my patience and emotions.
“Why the fuck hasn’t anyone gotten to Clara Hill’s house? It’s been almost two fucking hours!” I snap at the closest officer near to me. A detective steps up to me, holding a pad of paper. He introduces himself as Detective Shaw. “It seems her phone is or has been disconnected. We’re working on getting a local officer to make a wellness call, but it’s not that easy when the town is small staffed. The only working officer out there right now is on a traffic call. Once he’s done—”
