“Imagine my surprise when I was about to intervene and discovered that little dimwit was doing the job for me,” Arthur says lightly, like he’s commenting on a misplaced step. My blood runs cold. He didn’t give a name, but I know he’s referring to Kenneth. “It was poetic really, and far too easy to take over. A few bottles of pills and he was crawling at my knees, willing to do whatever I wanted. And what I want is for this bitch to stop being a thorn in my side.”
Time becomes meaningless after that. The engine drones, the road's bounce becoming rhythmic beneath me. Arthur talks. Sometimes he laughs. Sometimes he goes quiet, only to start again, circling his own brilliance, his justifications, hisresentments. I listen to every word, fear slowly giving way to something hollow and numb as the reality sinks in. He’s told me everything. We’ve got our confession, and it doesn’t matter. I’m not the one wearing a wire tonight. I wasn’t supposed to be involved.
Eventually, the car slows. The engine changes pitch, gravel crunching beneath the wheels once more. Arthur exhales, a faint click signaling his fingers tapping the steering wheel. The car comes to a stop, and the low words that follow are heavier than everything else he’s said tonight.
“I should have tied up loose ends a long time ago.” Cracking sounds, maybe from his knuckles or his neck. “We had a deal, brother, and you’ve broken your promise to stay the fuck away.” With that, Arthur shifts, the sound of the car door opening and slamming closed, and the silence that envelopes me feels all kinds of wrong.
It presses in on until my inner ears ring, until the darkness feels thick enough to choke on. I don’t need to see Arthur to know what he’s doing. Every word he muttered, every self-righteous confession, every careful mile driven has been leading here. To his loose ends. To Della Mae and Phillip.
The numbness encasing my body fractures, terror flooding back in a violent surge that snaps me fully awake, my heart slamming so hard it hurts. I can’t just lie here. I can’t let it end like this. Driven by something feral and frantic, I twist in the trunk, knees knocking into metal, my head screaming in protest as pain explodes behind my eyes again.
Scrabbling to feel along the trunk’s inner walls, my arms slick with a cold sweat, I search for…well, anything that might give me a chance. My heel catches on the lining of the trunk, and suddenly I remember my shoes. These stupid, impractical and ridiculously expensive heels that I almost didn’t wear tonight. I fumble, fingers shaking so badly that I drop the strap twice,before I manage to yank one off my foot. There’s no time for relief or the foolish ideal that holding my heel gives me any kind of upper hand.
Contorting my body in the cramped space, my palm grazes cold metal, wires, and then something sunken and boxy near the back corner. My brain latches onto it with irrational certainty. I’m no car expert, but I know what a fuse box feels like. Without giving it much thought, I draw my arm back and slam the heel into it with everything I have. I don’t know what I’m doing, don’t know if this will work, don’t even know if I’ve found the right thing, but knowing hasn’t saved me so far.
Pain ricochets up my arm, brutal and jarring, but I barely register it. I hit it again and again. Each strike is punctuated by a sob I don’t bother swallowing, my throat raw and my lungs burning. The trunk rattles with the force of my blows, the impact of the strikes limited in the confined space. My wrist screams, my shoulder protests, my vision swims. Still, I don’t stop. Somewhere out there, Arthur is walking away from the car, toward a house filled with two people who have no idea what’s coming. What deadly events we’ve set into motion.
I scream Della’s name, even though I know she won’t be able to hear me. The third, or maybe the tenth, blow lands differently. There’s a sharp crack that ricochets up my arm, feeling like it’s shattered the bone, followed by a sudden shift in pressure. This time, I scream in agony, blinded by the pain as I hold my arm against me.
Vaguely, I notice the trunk spring open just enough for cold night air to rush in and steal my breath. Despite what it costs me, I lurch forward, half-falling and half-crawling out of the trunk. My legs buckle beneath me as I spill onto the gravel, barely getting my bearings before hands are on me once again. Strong, unyielding hands that hook beneath my arms and haul me upright, lifting me clear off the ground.
An ugly, animalistic sound is torn straight from my chest, and with one arm, I fight with everything I have. I claw and punch and kick wildly. I rake my nails across fabric and skin, thrashing and sobbing incoherently, convinced that Arthur has me again.
“Harper! Harper, stop!” The voice cuts through my panic like a blade. The familiar, terrified voice I weakly recognize. With considerable effort, I still my movements and strain to focus my eyes.
Red and blue lights strobe violently across the yard, painting the night in confusion. Police cruisers line the dirt road, doors flung open, officers shouting commands I can’t hear. Clay’s glossy black Raptor is there, parked crookedly near the drive as if abandoned in a rush. My gaze snags on it, convinced that if I blink enough, it’ll fade like the mirage it actually is. It doesn’t.
All the way across the yard, Arthur is pinned face-down in the dirt by two officers, his arms wrenched behind his back as cuffs are snapped into place around his wrists. He’s shouting now, furious and unhinged words that are just far enough away to not quite catch the mic clips that are back in range. Catching sight of me, his rambling grows harsh, and he’s practically frothing at the mouth. I shrink into the arms holding me, thankful I won’t be revisited by those words in my nightmares. Just like that, I love being deaf again.
Movement draws my gaze upward to the porch of a house bathed in flashing light. At the top of the steps, Arthur’s doppelgänger and Della Mae stand frozen, wrapped in each other’s arms in their nightclothes. Wearing joint expressions of disbelief, they stare at the scene unfolding in their front yard. At long last, I sag. The strength drains out of me all at once. My body goes boneless, the fight evaporating from my bones as reality crashes in too fast, too overwhelming to keep up with.The hands holding me tighten, cradling me closer instead of restraining.
Instinctively, I already know who it is before I look up. The solid warmth of his chest, the familiar scent of soap and safety, the way his arms wrap around me like he’s trying to shield me from the entire world. My fingers peel out of the fist I was clinging to as my forehead drops against his shoulder. His mouth presses a trembling kiss to my temple, and as if I’ve been given permission to fall about, the tears come again. I cry into him without restraint, my entire body shaking and my good hand tugging on the fabric of his shirt.
“How are you here?” I whimper, my voice barely more than a squeak. “How…”
“Shh, sweetheart. It’s okay,” Clay murmurs, his voice breaking despite the effort to keep it steady. “We knew where Arthur would go and headed him off. You’re safe now. We’ve got you.”
Rhys appears, seemingly holding himself back as not to overwhelm me. Noticing the arm that cradled against my body, he gently rolls it over in his fingers, assessing the damage.
“When you’ve recovered, I’m going to tie you to the bed and never let you out of my sight again,” he mutters darkly. Despite the tic in his clenched jaw, his blue eyes are swimming with relief.
“I’d hold off on that,” I force through my dry, burning throat. “I might develop PTSD at this rate.” Rhys’ face blanches, and Clay gives me a slight shake.
“It’s far too soon for jokes,” Clay chastises. I press my lips together, salty tears managing to slip through the cracks. Perhaps he’s right, but after what I’ve just been through, the sight of Arthur being shoved into a police car is too much of a reprieve to deny.
Police move around us, voices overlapping, radios crackling. Someone drapes a blanket over my shoulders, the rough fabric warm and comforting. Della Mae’s voice carries faintly from the porch, trembling but alive as she calls for Rhys. He slips away, running to the porch to embrace his mom with the same care Clay is holding me.
Turning me away from the scene, Clay pauses long enough to tell an officer he’s taking me to the nearest hospital to be checked over. The officer agrees to meet us there later to take our statements, and my body deflates. Our statements, Arthur’s confessions. It’s all circumstantial. A ‘he said, she said,’ and when Arthur lawyers up, he’ll be untouchable. Clay feels the shift in my posture and gently sits me on the hood of his truck. Rhys isn’t far behind, jogging back over to return to my side. I shudder, trying and failing to find a modicum of composure.
“Hey, it’s okay. We’ll be right there with you,” Clay reassures me whilst brushing the hair from my face. “We’ll never leave your side again.”
“As long as you don’t run off,” Rhys adds bitterly. Clay glares at him, but I sigh.
“No, Rhys is right. I’m sorry. I have no idea what I was thinking.” This time, it’s Rhys who steps forward to rub circles against my thigh. Black satin clings uselessly to my waist, the material torn across my breasts, and where the leg slit is supposed to be is a gaping hole all the way up to my hip.
“You were thinking of me,” Rhys clarifies hoarsely, leaning in close enough that I can feel his breath against my temple. “Just don’t ever do it again.” I smile weakly, knowing that despite my apology, I would. It’d throw myself into the line of fire as many times as it takes to free my men from the grief that consumes them.
“We’re just glad you’re okay,” Clay adds. He doesn’t pull me away from me, his thumb stroking over my pulse point onmy wrist, his touch vibrating with barely contained emotion. Beneath the blond waves that have escaped his tie, his face is pale, his eyes achingly dark as he fights to keep himself together for me.
