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The gates closed and the black Civic sedan disappeared down the road.
I felt a slight pulling in my chest. It was a hollow, dull ache. A deep hole of longing.
I didn’t have many friends, except I counted my newest, Carla Whitlow. The brief conversation with Jett made me feel light like I had shed some weight off my shoulders.
It felt great, but only temporarily. If I were to have another shot at making another friend, that would have been the best time to do so. Too bad, I blew it. I always did.
Now, I had to face my reality.
I sighed. Back to giving a full report of the event to my father.
My nude stiletto heels clicked on the first marble step by the porch. Above, a vintage ceiling light glowed golden, casting warm illumination against the green wall flowerpots and translucent screen doors. The cool breeze bit harshly against my skin ruffled my hair and brushed soft strands against my cheek.
I peeped at the open garage door.
The black Maserati Quattroporte was gone.
It was my father’s favorite. His baby. If it wasn’t there, that meant only one thing: he wasn’t at home. Strange.
I raised my hand, waving to grab the attention of the guards. They turned and craned their necks. “How long has he been out?”
The breeze carried my voice—small, light, and soprano-like. It echoed under the black starless sky. At a younger age, I’d never been a fan of my voice. I always thought it sounded too high-pitched. Until my mother, bless her soul, taught me to appreciateallof me. That way, true beauty shone. It sounded like one of those ancient quotes, but I’d listened.
My father might not have loved me, but my mother did. With all her heart. Even unto death.
“About an hour now, Miss. Collins.”
I cinched the coat tighter around my body with a viselike grip. “It’s Vanessa, Mr. Grey. And thank you.”
I glanced at the rose-gold watch strapped on my wrist. Nine o’clock. I sighed again and turned around. Might as well wait until he returns.
I typed the numbers into the security lock. After the fourth beep, the doors unlocked, and I carefully pushed them open.
Ceiling lights came on and the purple, red, and blue flames flickered to life at the artificial fireplace. I kicked off my shoesand bent to pick them up. The house was warm, and smelled of a mixture of vanilla, oranges, and coffee; it was cozy.
I threw my coat and cell phone on the couch, slumped down, and closed my eyes.
This house had never felt like home. Not before my mother and not after. But there was no lack of comfort or decent food.
After an eventful evening, it was a perfect, quiet night. One well deserved. Or so I thought. After a short pause, I got up and made my way to the kitchen to make a tomato and cucumber salad when I heard the black iron gate swing open. Ah, that must be Dad.
My stomach rumbled and I stifled a grin. “The report can wait until I’m done with the—.”
Bang. Bang. Bang.
My heart, like a dying wall clock, slowly stopped beating. The smile fell from my lips and my blood froze in my veins. That wasn't the smooth purr of a Maserati engine or its tires crunching the gravel on the driveway.
The steady pops of an automatic rifle echoed outside. Rapid fire gunshots.
My heart dropped to my stomach and a sickening thud reechoed in my chest which each sound of a bullet fired in the air.
With a force out of nowhere, I moved my feet. Slowly, at first, I almost tripped over my shoes. Then, rushed to the tall glass windows.
Gingerly and with shaky hands, I shifted the curtain, just narrowly enough to peek through. There was a lineup of shiny black cars through the gate and up the driveway. My father’s men rushed out from every corner of the house, cocking guns at the intruders, their deep voices yelling loudly over each other.
The black car leading the fleet was sleek and blended into the night like a chameleon. The doors opened and before I couldsee the faces of the driver and passenger, a silver gun flung into the air.
No blink. No word exchanges. No hesitation.
