The last rays of the sun scrape against the sharp edges of the Hollingsworth mansion as I pull into the driveway. My hands are still shaking from the phone call, the way Vaughn's voice cut through my concerns like a knife through butter, dismissing me, dismissing Lauren's danger. The dismissiveness stings more than the hang-up itself.
His words echo in my head, mockingbirds in a cage of frustration. I watch the marble and glass façade of the house turn blood-orange in the sunset, a silent witness to the turmoil brewing within its walls. Every window seems like an eye, unblinking, holding secrets I can't reach. I need to reach Lauren before it's too late.
Before he does something unthinkable.
Inside the car, I'm enclosed in a cocoon of solitude. It's a fleeting sanctuary, but I need a moment. A moment to craft a new plan, to piece together my fractured resolve. Vaughn's dismissal was a slap in the face, a wake-up call that if I don't act, no one will.
"Talk to her," I whisper to my own reflection in the rearview mirror. "Tell her everything." The conviction in my eyes surprises me. I have to get through to Lauren, peel back the layers of lies she's draped in, show her the danger she's blind to.
My fingers tap a staccato rhythm on the steering wheel. Time isn't a luxury we have. If the detective won't move, then it's up to me. Up to me to save Lauren from the gilded cage she's trapped in. The thought causes a knot to form in my stomach, but I shove the fear aside. Fear has no place here, not when someone's life hangs by a thread.
"Lauren will listen," I tell myself, gripping the keys until they leave imprints in my palm. "She has to." Unbuckling my seatbelt, I pause to draw a deep breath.
I will make her see reason. I have to.
Stepping out of the car, I feel the weight of the evening chill settling on my shoulders. It's going to be a long night. But it's a night that could change everything. For Lauren. For me. And for the truth that refuses to stay buried beneath the opulence.
I step through the threshold of the Hollingsworth mansion, the silence within its marble walls greeting me like an old friend who knows all my secrets. The air feels thick with unsaid words, and shadows stretch across the floor as if trying to grasp at my feet. I move cautiously, listening for any sign of life amidst the quiet grandeur.
"Lauren?" My voice is almost a whisper, not wanting to disturb the peace—or, perhaps, I’m afraid of what might answer back. I head toward Lauren's room, my hand sliding along the cool banister, feeling the weight of the evening's revelations pressing against my chest.
Her door is ajar, but when I push it open, I find only emptiness. Her bed is made, decorative pillows arranged meticulously, untouched.
Where could she be?
As I continue wandering through the house, my eyes catch a sliver of light from the door of my own small room—a space I can hardly call mine, yet it bears my name for now. Heart pounding, I approach, pushing the door wider.
Lauren sits on my bed, her silhouette framed by the fading light from the window behind her. She looks up, her bruised features softened by the dim glow, the recent work of surgeons still speaking a silent tale of vanity and desperation.
"It’s odd having someone else living in my house," she muses, her voice threading through the stillness. "I should be used to it by now, but strangely enough, I’m not."
I take a hesitant step forward, unsure of where this conversation may lead. "I’m sure it takes getting used to," I say, folding my hands in front of me to keep them from trembling.
"And yet I still haven’t." She smiles, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "You're caught up in all the details of my life, Emily. And yet, I hardly know you."
I swallow hard, feeling the undercurrent of something unspoken between us. "That’s how it’s supposed to be, isn’t it? Seen but not heard?”
"Ah, but you make yourself heard, don’t you?”
She raises her hand, revealing her cell phone. "Mia called," she says. "She told me about your visit."
The words hang there, heavy and suffocating. My throat tightens. I knew I shouldn’t have trusted Mia.
"Lauren, I—" The protest starts to form, but it wilts under her incredulous gaze.
"You think my husband... What? Murdered those two women?" Lauren's face is etched with shock, the sophisticated mask slipping to reveal raw vulnerability. Her fingers clutch the phone, knuckles whitening.
I feel my resolve harden. This isn't about Mia or mislaid trust; it's about survival. "There are things you don't know," I say, my own hands balling into fists at my sides. "Things I've seen—"
"Seen?" Her laugh is hollow, disbelieving. "What could you possibly have seen that would—"
"Please," I cut in, urgency sharpening my words. "There's no time to explain everything right now. The bottom line is, you’re in terrible danger. You need to pack your things and leave this house immediately."
"Leave?" she echoes, as if the concept is alien, something she can’t even wrap her mind around. Perhaps she can’t.
"Lauren, please. It's the only way for you to be safe. You must trust me on this."
For a moment she just stares at me with a haunted expression. Then her gaze shifts subtly to something behind me, and I heard a footfall.
“Actually, it’s you who needs to pack,” Christopher says from behind me. There’s no mistaking the anger in his voice.
I whirl around to find him filling the doorway, his silhouette imposing against the fading light. His eyes are locked onto me with an intensity that feels as if he's trying to peer into my very soul.
“I’m not going to let you hurt her,” I say, my voice steadier than I expected. “I know about the heart attack. I know it was you.”
The accusation hangs in the air, heavy and ominous. For a moment, he just stares at me, his expression unreadable. Then shock registers on his face, quickly contorting into a mask of unbridled rage.
"Me?" he scoffs, venom seeping into each syllable. "You think I would harm my own wife?”
“How long have you been cheating on her? How long have you fantasized about getting rid of her?”
His face turns crimson. “You're fired. Get out of my house—now!"
I search his face for any sign of guilt, but all I see is indignation and the cold resolve of a man used to getting his way.
"Lauren," I pivot to her, my plea urgent. "You have to believe me. He's dangerous."
But she's a statue, her gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the wall. Her silence is a chasm that widens with every second she refuses to meet my eyes. Desperation claws at my throat, and it takes all I have not to scream.
"Lauren, please..." The words come out strangled, a lifeline thrown into an abyss that swallows them whole. She remains aloof, unreachable—as though by ignoring the truth, she can somehow will it out of existence.
"Don't make me repeat myself," Christopher warns, his voice low and threatening. It's the same tone, no doubt, that he uses to silence boardrooms and bend wills to his own. But still, I remain where I am, paralyzed.
“Do I have to call the police?” he says.
The irony of that suggestion brings me back into the moment. “Go ahead,” I say, swallowing hard. “See what happens. I think they’ll be very interested in what I have to say.”
We stare at one another, neither backing down. Christopher reaches for his phone.
“No,” Lauren says, speaking up suddenly. We both look at her, surprised.
“Give her till the morning,” she says. “It’s too sudden—she hasn’t even made arrangements.”
“I don’t give a damn about her arrangements,” Christopher says.
“Well, I do.” Lauren glares at her husband. “Just till the morning, and then she’ll be gone for good.”
Christopher stares back for several long moments before finally sighing. “Fine.” He raises his finger at me. “But if you’re not out of here by eight at the latest, I will have you thrown out.”
With that, he turns and storms out, the door slamming behind him like a judge's gavel.
Lauren and I are alone again, the weight of the moment settling between us. Her intervention is a small victory, but the war is far from over.
I turn to Lauren, who leans against the mahogany frame of the bed with a studious air, as if she's pondering a particularly challenging conundrum. My heart pounds in my chest, the urgency of the situation rekindling the fire that frustration had almost snuffed out.
"Lauren," I start, my voice steady despite the tempest inside me, "I need you to understand. Your life is in danger."
She stares at me, her eyes vacant and distant. What pills is she on?
"If you really want me to leave," she says, "then prove it. Prove what you're saying. Otherwise, I have no choice but to stay."
“How can I prove it to you?”
She shakes her head. “That’s for you to figure out. And if that’s really what you believe, I suggest you get started soon. You have until tomorrow morning, eight o’clock—not a moment longer.”