Cellar Door

I don’t hear it—I feel it.

A sharp pinch in my thigh, then enough raging adrenaline to numb the pain. I smash his head against the window again, and knock the gun to the floorboard. He lands a solid punch to my ribs before he comes at me with both hands.

I slide across the backseat and wedge my foot between us, holding him back. Then I kick his face. Blood splatters the cream seats, a fine mist coats my boot. He’s stunned for long enough that I get in position and anchor my arm around his neck.

Through the pulse-thumping whoosh filling my head, I hear Jennifer’s frantic voice.

The guy grunts as I choke up on his neck. I kick off the console and twist. Hard. His head snaps right. I feel the resounding crunch as his brainstem disconnects from his spine.

Breathing hard, I shove him against the door.

“You’re making a dire mistake.” Jennifer says this to the driver.

I glance behind us, at the car still trailing too close. “Call them off.”

She faces forward stubbornly.

I slip down and scoop the gun from the floorboard. The driver already has one trained on her, but I doubt she fears he’ll use it. I push the silencer through the console and seat, nudging her arm.

“I have no reservations about putting a bullet inside you,” I say. The bullet in my own leg is starting to throb.

After a pause of silent contemplation, she makes the call. She tells her security detail that there’s been a situation, but now it’s handled. She directs them to return to her mansion.

“They don’t believe me,” she says. “I’ve trained them for situations like this.”

I watch the black car turn onto the exit ramp. They won’t go far. They’re tracking her right now. I don’t need much time.

Jennifer glances over at Ben. “I’ve trained them to handle situations exactly like this,” she reiterates.

Which means, Ben is a dead man. But, ten million dollars is enough for some people to trade their life for. For Jennifer’s right-hand man—the guy that is seen with her everywhere—it was the magic number. It was as easy as a phone call and setting up a bank account for him.

The two days I watched Makenna process her truth in the cellar, I worked out my plan. I arranged the setup. I painstakingly plotted each detail. I waited. Patiently. And when I lost Makenna to the room, I knew there was no going back for me.

I made the call.

There was a chance this would go badly. That Ben would be loyal to his queen. That I’d end up in a box—and I still might. Makenna might stay sealed inside the cellar with a grotesque and tortured Hudson.

If I make it out of this part alive, I’ll pay for what I’ve done to her. I never questioned that. Makenna is justified in her revenge.

I slip my hand into my jacket pocket and touch the coin as I try to ignore the pain in my leg. Maybe Makenna won’t go with heads or tails—she’s proven to be exceedingly stubborn. There’s a chance—a slim chance—that she won’t stick a knife in my gut. But what then?

There are no white picket fences in our future.

Still, it’s the question of what if that gives me hope.

What if she’s enough to silence the hunger, to kill the beast.

I shove the thought far, far down. It won’t do anything but make me weak right now, and I need every last bit of fire to get me through this.

The driver pulls off the highway. He takes the agreed upon route toward the car I have stashed beneath an underpass.

“Killing me won’t bring her back, either,” Jennifer says to me. Then to Ben: “Whatever he’s paying you, you know I’ll give you more.”

Greed is a powerful influence. It also makes us stupid.

I get out of the Lexus and pop the trunk of my Impala. My blood is in the backseat of the Lexus, and there’s no time to clean. I grab the cloth and haul out the gas can from the trunk. Fire has never disappointed me. It’s quick and thorough.

“Give me your phone.” I hold out my hand to Jennifer.