Page 69 of The Last House Guest
But his words were empty, hollow lies. Sadie was breathing. He had to have known she was breathing. Otherwise, why bring her to the cliffs? The water in her lungs, the fact that it could look like a suicide, the placement of her shoes—the last step of his cover-up. His cool, crisp mind, planning to end one life in order to save what was left of his.
Had the Lomans turned him into a killer years ago? Making him complicit, shifting the line of his own morality until he could justify even this?
He flipped the flash drive into his palm again, tucked it in his pocket. “She told me there was someone else who had the proof. I always thought it was you.”
Only it hadn’t been me. It was Connor, though he didn’t know it. That must’ve been why Sadie had wanted him at the party, had brought them both there. Safety in knowledge, in numbers. In a crowd.
There was nothing left on the desk but the article about my parents’ accident. Like he was erasing all traces of Sadie once more.
“She was awake,” I said. “She tried to get out of the trunk. I have proof.” Something he could not destroy in this room.
Everything changed then. His face, the smoke, the crackle of flames.
“Your trunk,” he said, monotone. “The phoneyoufound, the personyouwere fighting with, evidence inyourtrunk. The daughter of the family who justfiredyou. You do not want to do this, trust me.” As if I were a nothing. Powerless, then and now. The person he would blame. The person who would pay.
Now I understood why he kept questioning us about the party. Looking for who might’ve seen him or Sadie. Who might’ve seen him bringing her limp body out front. Who could’ve seen him throwing her from the bluffs, or returning my car after, or walking back for his own in the lot of the B&B.
And then I was there. He saw me on the cliffs while he was “finding” her shoes. His prints would be on them if he was the one who found them. He’d said the same thing about me when I’d brought him Sadie’s phone.
That was why he had asked me, over and over, about that night. Why he’d watched me so closely during the interview, looking for what I was hiding. He was terrified that I knew more than I was saying.
The last piece of the puzzle. The unspoken question he was asking that night: Had I seenhim?
“Just tell me what you want,” he said, reaching for the article on the desk.
“Stop,” I said, and I grasped for it myself—such a stupid thing to cling to. I could find another one in print or in records. But it was the fact that something was being taken from me again, without my permission.
I had the paper in my grip, but he lunged in my direction, grabbing my arm.
Crystal-clear.
This man had killed Sadie for knowing the truth. I would not get a chance to prove my innocence, to present my side of the case. He had killed to protect himself—nothing more. And now I was the threat.
I jerked back, his fingers slipping away, and raced around the desk for the door. He lunged in my direction again, knocking the garbage can, the papers tumbling out in a trail of embers and flame. Catching on the ornate rug. His eyes widened.
I ran. Stumbling out of the room with Ben Collins steps behind me. He called my name, and the smell of smoke followed. He’d catch me too easily on the stairs—the open, airy spiral. I dove into the nearest room, slammed the door behind me.
Sadie’s room.
There were no locks. And nowhere to hide, everything designed to show the clean lines of the place. The bare wood floor under the bed. The open space. No place for secrets here.
The fire alarm started blaring, an even, high-pitched cry.
Maybe the fire department would come. But not soon enough.
I pulled open her glass balcony doors, let the fabric billow in. It was too far to jump. The only room you could jump from safely was the master bedroom, with the slope of grass beneath their balcony—which Connor, Faith, and I had climbed through years ago.
It was all I could do to flatten myself against the wall by her bedroom door before it flew open again. Ben Collins walked straight for the open doors to the patio, leaning over—peering out. And I took that moment to dart down the hall in the other direction.
He must’ve heard my steps—everything echoed here—because he called my name again, his voice booming over the sound of the fire alarm.
But I was at the other end of the hall, smoke spilling out of the office between us.
Slamming the door to the master bedroom, I raced for the balcony. One leg over the railing, hanging from my fingertips, imagining Connor below, my feet on his shoulders. A six-foot drop. I could do it.
I heard the door open as I let go, the impact from the ground jarring me. I stumbled, then righted myself and ran for the cliff path. I was already calling for help, but my pleas were swallowed up by the crash of the waves.
“Stop!” he called, too close—close enough to hear not only his words but his footsteps. “Do not run from me!”
