I turn slowly, like I’m stuck in some nightmare, and if I move too fast, it’ll make the monster real.
But the nightmare is real, and the monster’s alive.
Mike Bishop, my former landlord from hell, steps from behind a weeping willow, all smirk, swagger, and venom dressed up in expensive cologne. His eyes gleam with cruelty.
My stomach twists in on itself.
“Mike,” I swallow, a worthless sound.
He crosses the last yard in two strides. “I knew you’d try to slip away.” He reaches out and drags my suitcase free.
“Give it back.” I lunge.
He sidesteps, amused, his glare dipped in gasoline. “We’re going back to San Francisco.”
“No.” My voice cracks. “My lease is up. I’m going home.”
His laugher echoes as he opens up his coat and removes my black journal from within.
“How did you get that?” I snatch it.
He smirks. “You think I didn't see you writing in it? Cameras in your apartment catch everything, and I kno-o-o-w what you did…” His tone drips with taunt before snapping deadly serious, intimate in the worst possible way.
The world tilts, and I sway.
“You’re lying,” I whisper, but even I don’t believe it.
“Am I?” He yanks it back and swings open his coat on the other side. My revolver is nestled against his hip.
“You left this too. Tss, tss, tss…sloppy, Belle,” he sneers. “My brother Rick says you owe us both, but I’m just the lucky bastard who gets to collect first.”
I stop breathing because I know I hid the gun in my parent’s house.
“Wha…what were you doing in my parents’ attic?” My voice barely carries.
“Collecting proof.” He removes the gun from behind his belt. “It’s the piece you used to kill my father, right?”
I stumble backward. “Your—” My throat tightens. “Your father?”
The gunshot from over a year and a half ago still echoes in my ears and vibrates in my bones. I feel the handpiece in my palm and smell the metallic burn in the air like it happened moments ago. I pulled the trigger to save Emma and my sister Misty from John Huntz. And some nights, when the world’s too quiet, I can still feel Derek’s hand on mine, steadying the aim.
“John Michael Huntz.” His smirk hardens. “The bastard never claimed his kids, but at least kept the money coming until your brother shut it off.”
Eric was paying off Huntz until the son of a bitch kidnapped my half-sister and tried to kill my brother’s fiancée. They almost died that day on the bridge.
He unslings the revolver like a barista grabbing an espresso. The cylinder spins into place with a hollow click, cold metal sliding over cold metal, so deliberate it echoes in my skull.
I backpedal into a gnarled stump. My heel drags against rough bark, the rasping scrape tearing at my sole like sandpaper on skin.
“Huntz knocked up my mother in Mexico and bailed. And since you shot him, you’re gonna fix what he failed to do.”
Acrid smoke curls around us, sharp and metallic, searing my throat with every breath. I taste ash on my tongue and feel it cling to the back of my throat. I whip around.
My parents’ house—our family home—is on fire.
“No—” My voice cracks.
The flames reach the gutters, orange tongues licking the roof, the blaze engulfing the house and my roots in black smoke.
