“Hello?”
“I knew you’d come.”
My mouth goes dry. “You can see me?”
“Always.”
“Did you kill Mary?”
“Does it matter?” John says softly. “She died the moment she realized she failed you.”
My grip tightens on the receiver.
“I think I loved your aunt,” he adds. “She lasted longer than any other woman I’ve been with.”
Something in my chest twists.
“You sick son of a bitch,” I snap. “I’m going to find you. I don’t know where you are yet, but I will. And when I do, I’ll kill you.”
A quiet, amused chuckle slips from him.
“Stay sharp. It’s the only way you’ll survive.” He pauses. “Goodbye Brooke.”
My chest tightens.
The line goes quiet.
Seth walks over and takes the phone from my hand. “You okay?”
“Yeah, let's go.”
We didn't stay long after that. There’s nothing left here. Seth burned the letter after I read it twice, the words still fresh in my head as the paper curled in on itself and turned to ash. We scrub the place of fingerprints. Mary’s body gets reported anonymously.
By the time we’re on the road again, the sun’s setting behind us.
This isn’t closure. This isn’t peace.
It’s a pause.
Chapter 78
Seth
Three months pass like minutes.
The fake deaths stuck.
That’s the thing about the system. It doesn’t dig very deep when the bodies are burned, the dental records line up, and no one important keeps pushing. If you stage it correctly, mix in DNA, and let the fire erase what is left, people accept the version of events placed in front of them. It's easier to believe in a tragic accident than to entertain the idea of something calculated. Brooke and I, the Stratford Slashers, finally met our end in a fiery crash on a mountain road.
We used a wrecked SUV in the mountains. One male, one female, unclaimed morgue bodies, close enough in height and build. I set the fire myself. Brooke slid her old bracelet onto the female corpse’s wrist. I left my knife and one of my rings in the ash. That was enough. A few weeks later the manhunt officially ended. Kincaid and Sinclair, presumed dead. No longer active threats.
Elise and Ryan were never officially found. A few missing kid flyers went up to make it look thorough, but no one hunts very hard for two teenagers without a recognizable last name or political value. The world forgets quickly when the narrative loses traction.
Now we are ghosts living under new names.
On paper, under the names Devin and Veronica Rhodes, Brooke and I are legally married. The records say we signed the documents in a quiet county office months ago. The paperwork makes us ordinary. It makes us legitimate. It makes us harder to find.
I chose the last name.
