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I want to believe her. God, some part of me desperately wants to believe that Preston is just a man and not the fucking boogeyman. Not Ghost.

Every interaction between us, outside of this nightmare, has always been pleasant. He’s polite and kind, always throwing out random jokes that make me laugh. He’s handsome and clean-cut in such a way that mothers had to have been pushing their daughters towards him, not just for the money, but for beautiful grandbabies, too.

But I cannot afford grace any longer. Not after losing two people; even if he did save me from a life of continued abuse, he has to pay for what he’s done.

While she sits there, paralyzed by what I’m telling her, black streams of tears rolling down her cheeks… something inside of me finally snaps.

“Well, congratulations, Ellie. You’re my payback.” I clap my hands on my legs, giving her a smug smile.

What I said seems to have flipped a switch in her as well. She drops her drink, leaving a red stain spreading across the table. Then, she shoves the glass bottles off the table, causing them to shatter. While the sound is beautiful outside when I’m throwing vases, it’s deafening in such an enclosed space, an explosion of sharp cracks and tinkling fragments that scatter across the floor, a deadly confetti. The smell of alcohol now permeates the air, stinging my nostrils.

She stands up to run; she’s already clumsy in the heels, but alcohol and panic make her even more unsteady. I’m able to catch her easily, grabbing her wrist and twisting her away from the exit.

“Let me go!” She screams. “Please! Let me go! I won’t tell anyone!”

Ellie stumbles backward, hitting the concrete floor with a dull thud that makes me grimace.

“You’re not going anywhere,” I bark with fury I don’t recognize as my own. It’s far colder than I’ve ever been. “You are staying here until your brother gets here!”

She’s crying in earnest now, tears continuing to remove her mascara and ungluing the inside corner of her fake lashes. Her whole body shakes while she stays pressed against the wall. Sitting there, she looks so small, so wrecked. She’s heartbreakingly human.

I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing anymore. This isn’t justice—this isn’t even revenge… this is cruelty, plain and simple.

“Preston’s a good guy. He gives to charities, and he’s always taken good care of Robert and me. When our dad died, he fought so hard to keep things normal and make sure we were taken care of. He hates Grant Guard; he’s ready to leave, but he hasn’t yet because he wants to make sure I’m secure after college. You have him all wrong.” She whispers, almost to herself and the wall, but I’m close enough to hear it as well.

The Preston she describes is a saint, working himself to the bone to keep the family and the business together. But saints don’t wear masks. Saints don’t break into people’s homes in the middle of the night.

“I promise you, you don’t know him like I do…. Ghost made me that way…. No, Preston made me this way. The way you say that isn’t Preston—this isn’t me! I used to be different too!”

The cadence of Ellie’s broken sobs fills the basement, and the clock ticks down to the final moments until Preston’s arrival. As I count them down, I realize, with crystal clarity, there’s no saving the girl I used to be. She’s as dead as Caleb and Blaire.

For the next few minutes, the room around me feels impossible still, as I pace the floor, preparing for what exactly I’m going to do next. Ellie has gone quiet as well, but I’m positive it’s not surrender. I can almost see her mind working, calculating. I’ve seen that look before in the mirror while planning Preston’s downfall.

She’s hunched over, knees pulled into herself, and shoulders trembling in the dim LED glow of the string lights. Her tears have stopped, and her eyes take on a focused quality that makes my chest tighten.

I don’t move from across the room, arms folded over my chest; a hawk watching her. The broken glass litters the floor between us in a glittering minefield. I let the suspense sit, waiting to see what she does next.

Just as I suspect, she runs.

In the snap of a moment, she snatches one of the larger shards of glass, gripping it in her small fist. Blood seeps between her fingers, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her movements are fast, survival-fueled as she scrambles for the stairs.

“Don’t!” I shout, but she’s already charging up the first few steps, her heels slipping on the wood.

I launch myself at her, my longer legs giving me the advantage. I slam into her from behind before she can even reach the halfway point, and we both tumble down to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Her elbow connects with my ribs, forcing the air out of my lungs, but I still manage to wrap my arms around her waist. The glass shard she holds skitters across the floor, leaving a trail of her blood behind it.

“Please!” she gasps, struggling against my grip. “Please, I just want to see my brothers!”

I grab a fistful of her dark, previously curled, and mostly fake hair. I use all my strength to pull her to the back corner, but Ellie fights. Her manicured nails dig into me, leaving red scratches down my wrists.

When I finally get her right where I want her, I climb on top of her, trying to wear her down.

“I’m sorry!” she squeals, and for a single beat, I think it’s surrender.

Her strike comes from below, slashing sideways, and I’m a half-second too slow to move out of the way. While we fought, she must have grabbed another, smaller piece of glass, though no less sharp. The edge tears through my cheek in one clean, burning line that feels akin to fire. The pain is immediate and overwhelming. I freeze for a moment, shocked by the warmth spreading down my face. Blood spills fast; I can taste it in my mouth, and I can feel my heartbeat pounding inside the wound, having its own heart.

Ellie’s eyes widen in horror when she sees what she’s done; her face goes pale beneath her streaked makeup. Possibly it’s regret I see in her, or just shock at her own capacity for violence. But that flash of hesitation from her is all I need. I wipe the blood from my face with the back of my hand; the cut throbs, but it seems to sharpen my focus. I physically feel something essential shift inside of me. The last restraints of humanity snap.

I grab the collar of her dress and drag her until she’s sitting upright in the corner. The fabric rips slightly under my grip as she thrashes and screams.