A close-up frame on something brown and unfocused pulls back into a clear video of a tree trunk in the foreground and a small, glowing fire in the distance. We’re all standing around it. John and Lennox are together, Ellie on the side of the fire closest to the water, and Morgan and I round out the circle.
I’m transported back to a time they were alive and my heart skips with the excitement of seeing their faces again before an anxious understanding takes over.
Someone was there, watching us.
Did Steven stay? Did he film this? He was the only other person…
The clip jumps to a different cut. John—lunging toward Austin—his fist raised. It collides with the side of Austin’s jaw and he falls back, dropping to the sand.
I squeeze my eyes shut, reliving the shock and horror for a moment before opening them again as the person taking the video gets closer, still concealed in the trees. It comes into focus again as John jumps on top of Austin and hammers on him, punching his face over and over as we watch, stunned. We’re in shock, but it appears like we’re just letting it happen.
My chest aches and I squeeze the phone in my hand, wishing I could go back to this moment. I wish I’d stopped it right away.
Next clip. I’m by John’s side, squeezing his arm in front of Austin’s body.
Another cut. A closer shot of me on my knees beside Austin. His blood is on my hands.
Again, closer still. John shouts, “You knew! You knew what I was going to do. I told you I’d kill him.”
Now John and I, staring at each other—John, Lennox, and I by the body.
The three of us.
Lifting the body, carrying it away from the light of the fire.
The video stops.
My whole body thrums, shaking with anger and fear.
Someone knows what we did. They twisted it. I look up past my phone at the police department.
Why are they sending this? “I’m here. I’m going to confess!”
I check the time on my phone, but the blackmailer never gave a set time in the letter.
I have to go to the police—to tell them what happened. I open the door and step out, my legs weak beneath me. My phone rings in my hand and I jump.
Jordan.
Maybe he wants to be here for me—even now—when he knows the truth. Hope leaps from my chest to my hand. Maybe I’m not alone.
I press the phone to my ear and answer, stopping beside my front bumper. “Hello.”
“Chelsea,” his hoarse voice shakes me.
Has he been crying? My chest constricts and I wait in the quiet stillness of the parking lot for him to say something else. Maybe I didn’t hear properly.
“Chelsea.” A pause follows and I know it’s bad. He might tell me never to contact him again. “Molly’s dead.” His voice breaks at the end.
I freeze. “What?”
“We were driving and some maniac drove us right off the road, and the kids—” No. Please, no. “The kids are okay. But Molly…” He breaks down, sobbing.
I press my hand to my mouth, stifling a cry as his pain rips through me.
You’re too late, Chelsea.
This wasn’t an accident. This was my blackmailer.
Chills cover my arms as the realization creeps in: They never intended on leaving me or the people I love alone. This isn’t blackmail; this is revenge.
“Hello? Ma’am?” A woman’s voice speaks.
“Hello, yes,” I gasp through my tears, Jordan’s crying still audible in the background.
“I’m one of the nurses taking care of Jordan and his children. I used his emergency contact, but they couldn’t be reached, so I asked him if there was anyone else he wanted to call. He called you. May I ask who’s speaking?”
“This is his sister, Chelsea Thompson.” Sister. The word feels foreign. Fake.
“Chelsea, we’ve got them here at Newcastle Hospital. Jordan is in room one-oh-two, and once you’re here, we can let you know where the children are—”
“Oh, I can’t—” I stare at the police department, the glowing glass doors waiting for me ahead. I have to tell them what’s happening. I have to tell them everything.
I hear the nurses muffled voice before a tapping sound.
“Chels,” Jordan says the name he hasn’t called me in five years. “I need you. Please. We need you.”
I never thought I’d hear those words again.
I rush back to the car and fumble for the keys in my purse. “I’m on my way.”