Echo(89)

“What are you waiting for? Declan’s not coming, he would’ve already called by now. So why wait?” I tell him. “Just get it over with. Shoot me.”

“Like this?” he questions, cramming the gun into my mouth.

I sit still, tasting the mixture of my * and metal. My lips wrap around what I yearn to be my savior. I nod my head and pray for the shot that will end my misery once and for all. But instead, he uses it to degrade me even more. Fisting my hair, he forces my head further down on the gun.

“Suck it,” he demands as he bobs me up and down.

I gag, tears springing from my eyes as he makes me deep-throat it. He then pushes me away and stands.

“Put your pants on and shut your f*cking mouth.”

And as the saliva drips from my chin and I wipe my eyes, the phone rings.





“THE CELL NUMBER is coming up blank. It must be a burner phone,” Lachlan tells me, and it makes sense that she would be using a disposable under the circumstances of her dead husband and all the lies. “Maybe the police would be able to bypass the blocks. I mean, the calls are going through a cell tower, perhaps they can track that.”

“No cops,” I order. “The call was choppy, cutting in and out, so they have to be somewhere secluded. I’m almost home though, how far are you?”

“Half an hour.”

I hang up, and when I arrive at the house, I take my time heading up the drive, looking around for any clues. My black roadster is parked in front of the fountain, and when I get out of my SUV, I walk over to check the door to find it’s still unlocked. The car is empty aside from the suitcase I find when I pop open the trunk.

Once inside, I head straight to the library to see the furniture slightly disheveled from the altercation I witnessed on the surveillance. I look around, stomach twisting, heart thudding, questions brewing. Setting the suitcase onto the couch, I start digging through it and realize that she went back to the Water Lily to retrieve the rest of her belongings.

As I’m rummaging through her clothes, my hand hits something hard. Grabbing the object, I pull it out, and the moment I catch sight of it, a chill takes over me. My fingers shake as I hold the picture frame and stare down into my own eyes looking up at me.

Where did she get this?

Unlatching the back of the frame, I take the photo out to see if anything is written on the back to find there is:

Declan





6 years old


I’m sitting by the small pond that was on the land of the home I grew up in. I’m staring up at the camera, smiling. The water is filled with lotus blooms, the blooms my mum loved so much. I remember how much she enjoyed that pond. She would sit along the bank with her legs hanging over the edge, just as I’m doing in the picture. She’d laugh in the sun’s edge of spring, skimming her painted toes on the water’s surface, calling out to me, her voice delicate and loving, “Sit with me, sweetie. Dip your toes in.” And I did.

The water was cold that day as we sat together among the fragrant lotus flowers. Her face is still so vivid in my head, flawless and milky. She was beautiful, with long brown hair that she would pin up in a bun around the house, but when she was in the gardens or by the pond, she would let it down.

My eyes close to bear the ache in my chest. The memories hurt, and the visions only remind me of what I allowed to be taken from me. I shake the past away, forever weak to let myself think about my mum for too long before I’m reminded of the coward I am.

Reality comes back into play when Lachlan calls from the gate. I let him in and stash the photo back inside Elizabeth’s bag, still confused about where she got it and why she has it. But I push the thought aside when Lachlan walks into the room and tosses his jacket over the back of one of the chairs.

“He was in this room with her,” I blurt out. “I pulled up the security cameras. He had a gun, smashed it into her head, knocking her out before he taped her up and threw her in the trunk of his car.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters in disbelief. “Where’s the computer? I want to get a look.”

Grabbing the laptop, I log in and pull up the footage to show him. He takes the computer and sits at the desk in the corner of the room. I pour two fingers of Scotch and throw it back quickly, not even caring to respect the smoky flavors because I just need it to take the edge off before I completely go ballistic.

“Where’s the gate cam?” he asks, and I walk over to show him the particular camera he’s wanting.