In a way, she felt relieved, and a sense of satisfaction hit her. The man who had killed her husband couldn’t have survived that fire. He stole her bowling alley like he stole Thomas’s life. Without proof, no one could do anything about it, not even the cops. The forged will had held up in court. He’d taken everything from her.
Now he was burning alive inside all because her husband was such a procrastinator and never had that faulty wiring fixed. In a way, it was poetic justice, because it was like he was avenging his own death from beyond the grave.
She could leave this town now. She could break free. She could move on.
And Clyde James would burn in hell while her husband watched over her from above…
Still no closure. This is the fifth alternate ending I’ve put in. Each one gets worse and worse. The entire book is worthless if I can’t get the ending right, and this story will never freaking have the closure it needs if I can’t end it.
In all actuality, it’s just my closure that’s lacking. Fixing the bowling alley up hasn’t done a damn thing to help me move forward. Going there only makes it worse.
Groaning, I shut the laptop and stretch, standing and moving over to my murder board to see if I can somehow get an idea from there.
“Mika?”
The voice in the house freezes me to my spot, and a chill rides up my spine.
“Mika?” the voice calls again, but I visibly relax when I realize who it belongs to. Well, I relax for about a second.
Damn it. Why is he here? And how did he get inside?
“Mika?” he calls once more.
I could totally hide in the closet. Would that be too weird? It would only be weird if he found me hiding in there.
Just as I decide to risk it, Chase is filling up the doorway to my office, breathing heavily as his eyes land on me.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hi,” I say like an idiot. Just to be really awkward, I give a tight wave.
His lips twitch as he moves into the room, but his amusement falls when he takes in the walls full of corkboards and clear glass boards that are free-standing within the room. The glass boards have marker all over them, along with some pictures taped on. The corkboards are loaded with various index cards that are pinned in place with strings running from one to another.
It looks like a bunker for a conspiracy theorist who is trying to prove there was a second gunman…
“Damn,” he says under his breath, taking it all in.
I continue to stand in place, frozen to my spot as he invades my sanctuary.
“This is pretty amazing,” he says in awe, reading over one of the boards.
I’d tell him thanks, but it seems odd to do so.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him instead, annoyed with how shaky my voice is.
“You weren’t at the bowling alley,” he says, still reading over one of my boards. That’s a very graphic board.
“Holy shit,” he says as he sucks in a breath.
“Don’t read that one. It’s my serial killer book through her eyes. The publishers won’t take it since they feel it might be banned for being too dark and condoning the incredibly brutal torture and murders of abusive men. Especially since she commits suicide by cop at the end to forever immortalize her name and mission.”
“Spoiler alert,” he says, smirking as he turns back to face me while I shift awkwardly from side to side.
“It’s not going to be published, so it’s not a spoiler.”
“I might want to read it anyway. Does a Chase, Thomas, or James die in this one?” he asks, sounding amused.
“No,” I mumble. I don’t tell him his father’s name is used as the first victim though. I really tortured Clyde for four chapters. It was awesome.
He sighs as he pockets his hands, and when his eyes lock on mine, the room around us seems to shrink in size. Then my world crashes to the ground when he opens his mouth to speak.
“Why didn’t you tell me you came back after that summer?”
Chapter 22
CHASE
Her shoulders go stiff, and her eyes widen. Apparently she didn’t want me to find out.
“You knew?” she whispers, her voice breaking.
“Found out today. Blake saw some old pictures of us and said he saw you one night. Even chased you.”
She groans while putting her head in her hands.
“It was him. That’s where I knew him from,” she mutters.
When she looks back up, I fight with myself to stay in place.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask again.
Her eyes turn into angry slits as she takes a step forward. “Why do you insist on knowing how much you hurt me, Chase? You wanted to know why I came back. You wanted to know why I bought the bowling alley. Why this. Why that. You know the fucking answers. Stop asking the rhetorical questions unless you get off on my pain!”
I wince, wishing I had just kept my damn mouth shut. She’s still hurting even all these years later. It’s like the wound is fresh. And I just keep pouring salt on it.
What she doesn’t realize, is that it’s just as fresh for me.
“She didn’t mean anything to me,” I lamely blurt out, sounding like a cliché from hell.
Her look changes from furious to sad in that instant, and it’s like a punch to gut.