Chapter 4
Anna's POV
Thanksgiving night brought a brutal blizzard to Boston.
Inside our house, the fireplace crackled warm and bright. The dining table was covered in a ridiculous, picture-perfect spread—roasted turkey, pumpkin pie, and expensive red wine. The candlelight flickered over the crystal glasses. It was the ultimate, flawless American upper-middle-class dream.
If you ignored the fact that the man sitting across from me was a murderer.
"Anna, this turkey is absolutely phenomenal," Arthur smiled, cutting a piece of white meat and placing it into his mouth. His blue eyes were deep and full of affection, as if he hadn't coldly laughed about dumping his "naive idiot" of a wife in a hospital room just a few weeks ago.
"I'm glad you like it," I murmured, raising my glass. I took a long sip of the Cabernet, letting the sharp burn of the alcohol wash down the relentless nausea rising in my throat.
Arthur paused, resting his silver fork on his plate. He studied me, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You seem... lighter today," he tested, his tone cautious.
"I am," I looked him dead in the eye, pasting on a flawless, peaceful smile. "I just realized something today. Emily has been gone for a year now. I can't keep living in the past like a ghost. I think... I think it's finally time for me to move forward."
Shock flashed across Arthur's face, quickly followed by a massive, blinding wave of relief. He pushed his chair back, walked around the table, and pulled me into a tight embrace.
"God, Anna. That's all I've wanted to hear," he breathed into my hair. "We can finally have a real life again. A fresh start. We can even think about having a baby. Everything is going to be okay."
His chin rested on the top of my head so I couldn't see his face, but I could hear the triumphant joy in his voice. He honestly thought he was entirely in the clear. He thought he could just comfortably build his sunny, perfect future right on top of my little sister's corpse.
"Yes, Arthur," I wrapped my arms around his waist, feeling the warmth of his skin through his expensive dress shirt. "Everything is going to be just fine."
Right after we cleared the plates, Arthur's pager went off.
"Aortic dissection in the ER. I have to scrub in right now," he said, throwing on his heavy wool coat. He leaned in and kissed my cheek, looking deeply apologetic. "I'm so sorry, babe. I hate leaving you alone on Thanksgiving."
"Go. Save a life," I smiled warmly, reaching up to straighten his silk tie. "Drive safe in the snow."
The heavy front door clicked shut. The deadbolt slid into place.
The second the lock turned, my smile dropped dead.
I spun around and sprinted upstairs to the master bedroom. I dragged a small, black duffel bag out from under the bed. I had packed it three days ago. Just the absolute basics—passports, ID cards, cash, and a few warm clothes. I didn't take a single designer bag, dress, or piece of jewelry Arthur had bought me with his blood money.
The silver flash drive was already securely sewn into the thick inner lining of my sports bra.
I walked over to my heavy oak vanity. Taking a deep breath, I grabbed my left hand and slowly slid the heavy Cartier diamond ring off my ring finger.
The ring he gave me when he promised to protect me forever. I used to think it was a symbol of his devotion. Now I knew it was just a pair of blood-soaked handcuffs.
I opened my makeup drawer and pulled out a razor-sharp eyebrow blade. Without hesitating, I pressed the steel edge hard into my left index finger and sliced.
Skin parted. Bright, hot blood instantly beaded up and spilled over.
I didn't bandage it. Instead, I held my bleeding finger directly over the vanity, letting the thick red drops splatter onto the flawless, glittering diamond of the Cartier ring.
Then, I grabbed a small notepad. Using my bleeding finger, I smeared a single line of text across the paper:
1:20 AM. See you in hell.
I pinned the bloody note under the stained ring. I grabbed my duffel bag, walked out the front door, and disappeared into the freezing white blizzard.
3:30 AM. St. Jude Medical Center.
Arthur Vance rubbed his exhausted eyes as he walked out of the surgical scrub room. A four-hour emergency surgery had drained his physical stamina, but mentally, he was high on pure adrenaline.
His life was perfect. Anna was finally out of her depressing slump. Lillian's heart was beating beautifully. He had completely manipulated life and death, and he got away with it. He honestly felt like a god.
He drove his Audi through the heavy snow and pulled into his driveway.
"Anna? I'm home," he called out, shaking the snow off his coat.
Silence. The house was pitch black. No living room light, no response.
A sudden, nasty spike of unease pricked at Arthur's chest. He jogged up the stairs and threw open the master bedroom door.
"Anna?"
The bed was perfectly made. Symmetrical. Untouched. The closet doors were wide open, and a chunk of Anna's everyday clothes were gone.
Arthur's breathing hitched. He turned toward the vanity.
Sitting under the dim hallway light was his Cartier ring, coated in dried, dark red blood. Underneath it was a crumpled piece of paper.
He stepped forward, his hands suddenly trembling, and read the bloody handwriting.
1:20 AM. See you in hell.
Boom.
The air was violently sucked out of the room. Arthur's vision swam, black spots bursting in his eyes. His knees completely gave out, and he crashed hard onto the hardwood floor, knocking down a chair.
His calm, arrogant, polished face twisted into a mask of pure, hideous terror. Cold sweat instantly drenched his scrub shirt.
1:20 AM. The fake time of death he had written on Emily's chart.
She knew. She knew everything.
"Anna..." Arthur let out a guttural, panicked roar. He scrambled tightly to his feet, slipping on the hardwood, and sprinted down the hall to his study.
He tore down the curtains and frantically punched 0914 into the wall safe. The door clicked open.
Arthur ripped the files and cash out onto the floor. His wild eyes locked onto the back left corner.
Empty.
"No! NO!"
Arthur screamed, slamming his bare fist straight into the solid steel door of the safe. Crack. His knuckles shattered on impact, splitting the skin and spraying blood across the metal. But he didn't even feel the broken bones.
He just stared at the empty corner, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with a manic, murderous dread.
The naive, foolish prey had just escaped the cage. And worse—she took the key that was going to strap him directly to the electric chair.
