Chapter 4 - The Burning Bridge
Z
The barrel of the silenced pistol pointed unwaveringly at my forehead, dark and hollow. The air in my kitchen grew thick with the smell of ozone and the cold sweat of sheer panic. Yet, looking into Carl’s arrogant, calculating eyes, the crippling fear that had dominated my childhood suddenly evaporated, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity.
He needed me. Without the drive and the sequence I had unlocked, his illegal fortune was about to evaporate into thin air, and his crimes would be automatically broadcast to federal law enforcement.
"You want the drive?" I said, my voice remarkably steady. I reached into my pocket, bringing out the tiny metal flash drive and holding it between my thumb and index finger over the kitchen sink.
"Don't do anything stupid, Emily," Carl warned, taking an eager step forward, his hand outstretched. "You drop that down the disposal, and you die right here."
"If I drop it, you go to prison for the rest of your life," I countered, leaning my weight subtly onto my right foot, positioning myself next to the heavy cast-iron skillet sitting on the stove. "You think you've won, Carl? My mother played you for twelve years. She let you think you were in control while she mapped out every single dollar you stole."
"She died screaming in a hospital bed!" Carl spat, losing his composure, his face twisting into a hideous mask of fury. "She was nothing! A pathetic, weak woman who gave up her own blood just to keep a roof over her head!"
"She gave me up to save me from you," I roared.
In one fluid motion, I slammed my left hand down on the garbage disposal switch while tossing a handful of loose brass keys I had snatched from the counter straight into the armed man's face.
The gunman instinctively flinched, firing a shot. The suppressed weapon let out a soft thwack, the bullet shattering the ceramic tile inches from my ear.
At the exact same instant, I grabbed the heavy cast-iron skillet with my right hand and swung it with all the strength left in my body, crashing it directly into the side of Carl’s face.
Bone crunched sickeningly. Carl let out a horrific shriek, staggering backward into the kitchen island, clutching his broken jaw as blood sprayed across the white quartz countertop.
"Shoot her!" Carl gurgled through a mouthful of blood and broken teeth. "Shoot the bitch!"
I didn't wait. I turned and threw myself through the shattered glass of the patio door, tumbling onto the deck outside. Sharp shards of glass ripped through my jeans and slashed my forearms, but the adrenaline surging through my bloodstream erased the pain entirely.
"Stop!" the gunman yelled, bursting out onto the patio behind me.
I sprinted into the blinding rainstorm that had just begun to pour over the backyard, darting blindly into the thick forest that bordered my property. Gunshots echoed quietly behind me, bullets tearing through the wet leaves and thumping into the wooden tree trunks around me.
I didn't stop running. I tore through the brush, my lungs burning, the mud sucking at my sneakers, until the sounds of the pursuit faded into the distance.
Fifteen minutes later, drenched, bleeding, and gasping for air, I emerged onto the shoulder of a dark, winding country road two miles from my house. The cold rain washed the blood from my cuts, but my grip on my mother’s journal and the flash drive inside my jacket never loosened.
I had no car. No phone. My house was compromised, and Carl had men with guns looking for me.
A set of headlights cut through the heavy downpour, illuminating the sheets of falling rain. A black sedan was cruising slowly down the rural road. I instinctively flattened myself against a thick oak tree, preparing to run deeper into the woods if it was Carl's men.
The car slowed down, stopping just a few feet from where I was hiding. The passenger window rolled down smoothly.
"Get in, Emily! Hurry!" a woman’s frantic voice cried out.
I blinked through the rain, stunned. Sitting in the driver’s seat of the idling car was Lola.
She wasn't wearing her designer sunglasses anymore. Her face was bruised, her lip cracked and bleeding, and her eyes were wild with absolute terror.
"Lola?" I gasped, remaining cautiously in the shadows. "What are you doing here?"
"He’s going to kill us both!" Lola sobbed, slamming her hand against the steering wheel. "Carl... he has men everywhere! When you ran into the woods, he pulled a gun on me! He told me I was useless, that he was going to burn your house down and leave me inside it to take the blame for your murder!"
She leaned across the passenger seat, throwing the door open.
"I didn't know, Emily! I swear to God I didn't know what he was doing to Aunt May! I thought he was just a greedy bastard, I didn't know he was poisoning her! Please... get in! He's right behind me!"
I stared at my stepsister—the girl who had spent twelve years making my life a living hell, the girl who had mocked me at the lawyer's office while I held our mother's last gift.
In her eyes, I didn't see the cruel bully from my youth. I saw a terrified girl who had finally realized she had been sleeping in the monster's den all along.
The distant sound of roaring engines echoed down the winding road. Carl’s men were coming.
I made a split-second decision. I lunged forward, threw myself into the passenger seat, and slammed the door shut.
May you like
"Drive," I commanded, pulling the flash drive from my pocket. "Drive to Boston. We're taking this straight to the federal prosecutor."
Lola slammed her foot on the accelerator, the tires spinning violently on the wet asphalt before catching traction, launching us forward into the dark, stormy night.
