Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 47525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 158(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 158(@300wpm)
“No,” he says. His voice is quiet, but hard as concrete. “I believe he’s probably gotten away with it more than once.”
A long pause.
“Probably,” I echo. Then, before I can stop myself, “Can I tell you a secret?”
His eyes meet mine. “Yes.”
“I walked in on a beating at a gas station last year,” I whisper. “The girl couldn’t have been any older than me. But the guy? He had to be at least sixty. She kept begging him to stop... and he didn’t. He beat her until she collapsed—then walked out to his truck like nothing happened.”
Ethan’s expression hardens, but he stays quiet.
“I followed him home that night. And then I kept following him. For weeks.”
He arches a brow, silent invitation for more.
“I waited until everything lined up—just right. Like the angles and shadows in one of my paintings.” I pause. “And then I erased him for good.”
I exhale, steady but quiet.
“He’ll never lay a hand on anyone again.”
Silence settles between us.
There are a lot more stories I could tell him, but I don’t know what he’s thinking.
Maybe I trusted him too soon.
“I…” My voice falters. “I shouldn’t have said that. You regret meeting me now, don’t you?”
“Not at all.”
He kisses my forehead.
“You’re exactly my type.”
36
ETHAN
Back then…
This was supposed to be a relatively simple murder.
Show up. Kill the men who irrevocably damaged the woman I love. Clean. Controlled. Cinematic.
They were conveniently all in the same place—The Baylor Estate—and I’d planned every detail down to the lighting. I even brought a camera to document the carnage for Sadie. Thought maybe she’d want to frame it. Hang it in her studio like vengeance reborn.
I was enjoying it. Savoring it. Making sure the stab wounds weren’t too deep at first—I wanted them to feel it. Wanted them to know it was personal.
But Sadie just had to show up. Had to see Jonathan’s body before I was finished. Had to grab the knife and jab it in a little deeper herself.
She didn’t even tell me she was coming.
Pure, breathtakingly psychopathic behavior.
Now she’s standing in front of me in the living room, her cheeks wet, eyes wide, mascara running like she’s the victim.
“How long do you think it’ll take them to link this back to me?” she whispers.
“Not long.” I brush a tear from her face with my thumb. “But I won’t let them keep you. I swear.”
“You don’t have the power to make promises like that.”
“You’re going to have to play one hell of a part.” I ignore her pessimism, stepping closer. “You’re already good at masking—but this? This will require brilliance.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying as of now, you’re officially mentally insane and you need to sell it hook, line, and sinker,” I murmur. “You’ll walk around the garden with one of the knives, then come inside and take a bubble bath while I make you breakfast… You’ll take your time calling 9-1-1.”
“Oh…” She nods. “Okay, I think I can do that.”
“You will do that.” I keep her steady with my gaze. “I’ll tell you exactly what to say at every step of the way, to the police… and to your lawyer, and to whoever else gets involved.”
She trembles. “I’m going to prison for the rest of my life. All because of a mistake.” Her voice cracks. “You should move on. Find someone less… chaotic.”
“Stop.” I tilt her chin, making her look at me. “Have I ever broken a promise to you?”
She shakes her head.
“I won’t break this one either.”
36.5
SADIE
Back then…
Idon’t hear from Ethan for weeks.
No calls.
No letters.
Nothing.
It’s like he vanished—like I meant nothing at all. And for a while, I let myself spiral. Let the silence rip through me until I was hollow. Until I started to believe that maybe I was the villain in his story. That I’d ruined everything.
Thrown away the one man who truly saw me. Loved me.
I felt stupid for destroying his perfect plan. For showing up at the estate and taking control in the worst possible way. And still, a twisted part of me tried to justify it. Tried to believe maybe this was karma.
I’d killed people before.
Just not those people.
Maybe the universe was keeping score.
And then, in the middle of my lowest point—in the thick of orange jumpsuits, cold concrete, and another dehumanizing rant from my lawyer about how “judges don’t like emotional women”—a package arrived.
A book.
The Count of Monte Cristo.
At first, I thought it was a joke. A cruel coincidence. But I opened it anyway, grateful for something anything to keep me sane. I sped through the first few chapters, escaping into Edmond Dantès’s world… until I noticed them.
Tiny, deliberate marks. Underlined letters that didn’t belong.
It took me hours. A day, maybe more. But eventually, in the silence of the pod, with nothing but the buzzing of the overhead light and the thrum of suppressed rage in my chest—I found him.