The Life She Stole

by S W Vaughn

  As I turn to leave, Brad’s arm shoots out and his hand wraps around my wrist. There’s surprising strength in his grip. “Are you sure Hannah’s dead?” he says.

  “No, I’m not!” I wrench away from him. “I’ll be back soon, okay?”

  I start away from the chair, toward the arched living room entrance. And that’s when Hanna lurches into view—her hair matted and bloody, her smeared red lips pulled back from her clenched teeth.

  “Where is my daughter?” I scream as I bring the gun up, fully intending to shoot her.

  Something solid bumps my back, and a pair of strong arms wrap around me from behind, pinning my own arms to my sides.

  Brad.

  32

  “Let go of me!” I cry out, lunging futilely against the grip. “Brad what the hell are you doing? Can’t you see her? She’s right there!”

  The low, burbling laugh that comes from Hannah’s throat chills my blood, and I stop moving.

  “Oh, he can see me,” she says, sauntering slowly toward me. She stops and plucks the gun easily from my straining fingers. “He’s mine, Celine. He’s always been mine.”

  I can’t speak. I can’t even breathe.

  “Poor little Celine,” Hannah drawls, laughing again. “You really thought he loved you, didn’t you? That’s my baby. I taught him how to sell it, and he delivered.”

  “Alyssa,” I whisper. She’s all I can think of now. “Please …”

  “Don’t beg me. It’s disgusting,” Hannah sneers. “None of this had to happen, you know. We were going to be together, filthy rich and happy, with all of my parents’ money. All he had to do was break it off with you — but he chickened out.” For an instant she glares past me at Brad. “And then he couldn’t keep it in his pants, and managed to smash his stupid drunk ass into a concrete wall. But I went ahead with the plan. I killed them, and I waited. I knew he’d come back to me.” Her smeared lips pull into a rictus of a smile. “And here he is.”

  “Hey. It’s kind of a good thing I didn’t keep it in my pants, isn’t it?” Brad’s voice rumbles through my back as he crushes me against him, keeping me from moving. “I mean, Jill did end up being useful.”

  “That’s true,” Hannah muses, striking a thoughtful pose. “I had no idea how crazy she was, how obsessed with Brad. But when I found out she’d killed Rosalie, I knew she’d fit in perfectly with my plans. So I recruited her.” She tilts her head and smirks. “Staging a suicide had already worked out so well for me before, I thought I’d keep going.”

  Staged suicide … before Rosalie? “You mean Joan Carpenter,” I rasp. “Don’t you?”

  “Of course I mean Joan. That stupid, simpering bitch.” She snorts and rolls her eyes. “I knew you’d told Brad about her silly little website, so I pushed him to humiliate her. And he did — but she wouldn’t take the hint. She was going to try twice as hard to land Brad. I had to kill her.” Hannah gives me a sweet smile. “See, Celine, I’ve given you something to die with. Now you can let go of all that guilt over pushing poor little Joan to suicide. Jill told me how terrible you felt about it.”

  My anger is growing again, but I need to hold it for the right moment. If I’m going to get away from these too, I’ll have to make it count the first time. “I thought Brad was all yours,” I say with mocking concern. “Why would you have to worry about Joan going after him?”

  Hannah shakes her head sympathetically. “I’ll admit, she might have tempted Brad eventually,” she says. “She was his type, and he can be quite the naughty boy on occasion. Sometimes he strays, and I have to punish him, but my man loves me.” Her eyes narrow on her ‘man.’ “In fact, he’s going to prove it right now by killing you.”

  “I am?” Brad says, but it’s more surprise than reluctance.

  “Yes, you are. Let go of her and take this.” Hannah steps around me, wiggling the gun at him, and leans toward my ear. “Try to run, Celine, and I’ll make him kill your daughter,” she whispers. “I’d like to see you try and live with that.”

  I slump in place, demonstrating that I won’t try to run.

  Brad’s arms fall away, and I stagger a few steps across the carpet. I won’t turn to look at them. Hannah is a cold, horrible, lying deceitful creature who managed to fool me … but I’m about to return the favor. I only have to do it long enough to get out.

  I hear the faint slap of flesh against metal as the gun exchanges hands. Despite everything that’s happened, part of me still can’t believe that Brad is going to kill me. Thinking about the truth of it makes my head ache.

  After a moment, Brad says, “Do I have to shoot her? I’ve never killed anyone you know. That’s your job.”

  “Idiot!” There’s a sharp sound that must be Hannah slapping him. “It’s your job this time. Then we’ll both be killers.” I hear something slide and rustle, and Hannah whispers, “Murder is hot, baby. You have no idea how much it’ll turn you on. Remember that time I came to your room, the night Joan died?”

  Brad lets out a guttural moan, and thick bile surges up in my throat.

  “Fine,” he says. “But, Hannah … what if we get caught?”

  “I swear to God, Brad! If you don’t pull that trigger —”

  As they argue, I tune them out slowly and shuffle away inch by inch, narrowing my focus to the living room entrance. All I have to do is run out, dash across the foyer and get through the front door. If I get a big enough head start, I can crawl through the hedges between this property and the Valentinos’ house next door, which I sold them four years ago.

  “—why you have to be such a baby! Just give it to me.”

  Go now.

  I run.

  Hannah lets out a scream of rage, just as I heave myself through the archway and pivot toward the door. A gunshot goes off behind me. I’m not hit, so I keep running, throwing a hand out to catch the door knob. The metal is cold as frost against my hot hand as I turn it and shove the front door open, crossing the porch in two leaps and diving down the steps.

  I hit the ground, roll once and stand. I hear running footsteps pounding through the house.

  And the wail of sirens closing in.

  Oh God. Please be Ollie, I think desperately as I sprint down the front walk toward the street. Just as I shove through the gated iron fence separating the lawn from the curb, a squad car screams to a stop.

  At the same time, a gun goes off from the house, and a patch of ground explodes a foot away from me.

  Ollie is already out of the car, racing around the front. I wave my hands over my head. “She has a gun!” I scream.

  There’s another pop of gunfire, and I dive for the sidewalk. I feel the bullet pass over me. Answering fire thunders from the street, and I count at least four gunshots before loud silence settles over the world.

  Something goes thud.

  I pray it’s Hannah.

  33

  He got my message. I can’t believe it. That was the worst attempt at a secret message in the history of secret messages, and Detective Oliver Chambers understood me.

  Or maybe it was just one of his hunches.

  I start to push off the ground, struggling to see who was shot. Then a strong hand wraps around mine and pulls me to my feet.

  Ollie embraces me before I can take a breath.

  “Didn’t I tell you not to leave your house?” he says fiercely, but there’s a trembling relief in his tone. “Jesus, Celine. I think I just killed Hannah Byers. What the hell’s going on?”

  I shudder and step back. “She was in on it. Her and Jill, they planned this together,” I say. “And Brad. He’s here, too. I think … oh, God. Alyssa!”

  I’m sprinting back toward the house before he can react, but I hear his running footsteps hot on my heels. “Celine, wait! You just said someone else is here. Christ, will you let me go in first? I’m the one with the gun, here!”

  I slow just enough to let him catch up with me. “Fine,” I say through clenched teeth. “Just hurry.”

  “
There’d better be a lot of explanation when this is over,” he grumbles as he sprints ahead. “And you stay behind me, damn it.”

  Ollie reaches the wide-open front door and pauses for just a fraction of a second, gun upraised, before he swings through and points the weapon forward. “Police!” he booms. “Show yourself, and I won’t shoot.”

  I’m only a few steps back. As much as I thought it wouldn’t bother me, the sight of Hannah sprawled bloody and motionless on the steps has started my stomach churning again. But I catch up fast.

  Ollie strides further into the house. “Police!” he yells again. “Is there anyone in here?”

  A loud groan answers from the direction of the living room.

  Ollie takes the time to glance sternly back at me. “Don’t. Me first,” he says.

  I nod and follow on his heels. But when I’m able to see into the living room, I realize there’s no need for concern. Brad is sitting on the floor, rocking back and forth, his bloody hands clamped across his equally bloody shin. “She shot me,” he says through clenched teeth, looking up into the barrel of Ollie’s gun. “That bitch shot me.”

  “Did she?” Ollie raises an eyebrow and glances at me.

  I shake my head. “Not me. Hannah.”

  “Oh, God, what a mess.” Ollie lifts a foot and plants it in the center of Brad’s chest, shoving him to the floor. Brad lets out a squawk of protest. “Zip it. I don’t know what you did, but you’re under arrest.”

  Brad starts babbling as Ollie kneels next to him, holsters his gun, and flips him onto his stomach. “I didn’t do anything!” he cries. “Look, you can’t do this. I’ve been shot. I’m supposed to be in the hospital, you know. I’m the victim here! If you think —”

  “I said, shut up.” Ollie grinds a knee into the small of his back, pulls his wrists together and cuffs them neatly. “It’s a flesh wound. You’ll live.”

  “Ollie, I’m going,” I say suddenly.

  His head whips around, blue eyes blazing. “No, you’re not.”

  “Alyssa is here somewhere, in this house,” I tell him. “There’s no one else here, at least not alive, and —”

  “What do you mean, not alive?”

  I sigh. “Jill’s dead in the basement, and Julie’s in the parlor. She was Hannah’s live-in or something. She’s dead too,” I say. “And I’m going to find my daughter. The only way to stop me is to shoot me.”

  His eyes widen a fraction, and then he nods. “All right. If you’re sure it’s safe.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Go, then.” He pulls the radio from his belt. “I’m calling for backup.”

  I take a moment to smile at him. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  With a quick nod, I sprint away and head up the stairs.

  I’ve already searched the first floor, so she’s got to be somewhere up here. Maybe Izzy is with her, wherever she is. But as awful as it seems, I’m not nearly as worried about Izzy as I am about my own daughter. She’s my priority — now, always.

  I check every bedroom, every closet and shower and bathtub, every hiding place big enough for a little girl. Nothing. Fear ripples through me as I climb the stairs to the stuffy attic and start searching around and under the furniture that’s stored up here. She’s got to be here.

  If Hannah stashed her somewhere else, I might never get her back.

  By the time I finish searching the attic and finding nothing, I’m furious all over again. I storm down the stairs, one flight and then the next, and run into the living room where Brad is sitting handcuffed in a chair, and Ollie is standing near the front window, watching for backup.

  I grab Brad’s shirt and wrench him forward. “Where is she?” I shout. “Tell me, or I’ll blow a hole in your other leg, and then your third one!”

  My outburst gets Ollie’s attention. He comes over fast, his gun out and ready. “You can’t find her?” he says quietly, with an edge of malice in his voice that’s directed at Brad.

  “No. She’s not upstairs or in the attic, and I already searched the … first floor.” Suddenly I remember the second kitchen, and the feature that would’ve been another selling point for the house if it actually worked. The dumbwaiter.

  I let go of Brad and race toward the back of the house.

  “Celine, wait!” Ollie shouts after me. “Would you stop doing that?”

  “Be right back!” I call over my shoulder without stopping.

  When I get to the second kitchen, I throw the light switch on and run to the dumbwaiter panel next to the cabinets. The Quintaines had it painted over, since it didn’t work, but now the paint is scored away at the edges and scraped off the little knob that opens it. Hope surges in my heart as I twist the knob and throw the panel open.

  She’s there. My baby. Tied and gagged, tears streaking her dirty face. But alive.

  “Alyssa!” I cry, working the gag from her mouth. She shivers and coughs, and I pick her up and carry her over to the kitchen counter. “Don’t try to talk, baby. Mommy’s here. I’m going to get these off you.”

  There was another tied and gagged little body in the dumbwaiter with her — Izzy. It looked like she’s just unconscious, but I have to free Alyssa first.

  “Ollie, come back here!” I shout as I hear more sirens arriving at the house. “Hurry. We might need an ambulance.”

  I yank three drawers open before I find a sharp knife, and quickly but gently cut through the ropes around my daughter’s wrists and ankles. Her little body trembles, and when she’s free, she wraps herself around me and buries her face in my neck.

  “It’s okay, munchkin. It’s going to be okay,” I soothe as I carry her back toward the dumbwaiter.

  I’m trying to get Izzy out with one arm while I hold Alyssa with the other when Ollie rushes in. He spots me, pushes me gently aside, and reaches in to scoop up the unconscious child.

  Unconscious, but not dead. I can see the rise and fall of her chest.

  “You don’t have two daughters, do you?” Ollie says as he eases the gag out of the girl’s mouth and carries her over to the counter, where the knife still lays.

  I shake my head. “She’s Hannah’s daughter,” I say. “Izzy.”

  “My best friend,” Alyssa murmur weakly on a shivering sob. “She’s okay, isn’t she?”

  “Yes. She’s going to be fine,” I tell her as I rub her back and breathe in her scent. I’m not going to put her down for a long, long time. I may never let her out of my sight again.

  I know that’s not possible, but for now, it seems like the sanest plan in the world.

  Ollie makes quick work of Izzy’s bonds and holds her in his arms, easing her head up so she can breathe easier. “Come on,” he says as he starts out of the kitchen. “I’m going to call an ambulance for her, but all three of you are getting in it.”

  “I’m fine. I don’t need to go to the hospital.”

  “Really.” He stops and nods at my arm. “You’re bleeding, and there’s a huge lump on the back of your head. You’re going to the hospital.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but he gives me a look.

  “Fine. I’m going,” I say, my lips curving up slightly. “You’re impossible, Detective Chambers. Do you know that?”

  “Me? Which one of us snuck away from a police guard and confronted three people with guns, all by herself?”

  “Jill didn’t have a gun,” I mutter. “She had a knife.”

  “My point still stands.”

  I guess I’ll let him have this one. I’m too tired to argue, now that I don’t have to fight anymore.

  And I’ve got the whole world, right here in my arms.

  34

  October 12

  “Happy birthday, Alyssa!”

  My daughter’s excited squeal echoes through the house when Izzy shouts from the front door, and she slides off her chair and runs from the dining room. I laugh and follow her out, leaving the streamers I’d been trying to hang dangling from the chandelie
r.

  The little girls collide in an explosion of giggles, jumping up and down a few times. Alyssa takes Izzy’s hand and pulls her across the room, away from her foster parents who are standing just behind her. “Come on, Izzy, I have a brand new yellow pony!” Alyssa gushes, still tugging her friend in the direction of her bedroom. “You can brush her, if you want to.”

  “Yes!” Izzy says enthusiastically.

  I smile and shake my head as the girls vanish, and then turn to hug Missy Wilson — soon to be Missy Voltaire. “Thanks for coming early,” I say. “Alyssa really wanted some alone time with Izzy before the rest of the guests get here.”

  “Oh boy. If we didn’t come early, we’d never hear the end of it,” Missy says with a laugh. “Right, Dan?”

  Her fiancé nods behind the huge, wrapped present he’s carrying. He’s still a little shy, but get a drink or two in him and he loosens right up. Occasionally, if he has more than two drinks, he loosens way up.

  Missy surprised me, and herself, by deciding to become a foster mother after she heard what happened with Hannah and Jill. We’ve talked almost daily since then. She had no idea how to be a mother, and Izzy is difficult to manage — not that it’s her fault. She’s already had enough trauma in her almost-five years to last a lifetime. But Missy rose to the challenge.

  She and Dan are planning to officially adopt Izzy once they’re married.

  “Are you actually going to bring them in, or are we all going to stand around in the living room staring at each other?”

  I turn to Ollie and swat him playfully. He’s the one who answered the door, but he’d backed away from the flurry of little girl glee when it started. Now he slips an arm around my shoulders and grins at Missy and Dan. “If she won’t say it, I will,” he says. “Come on in and have a seat, guys.”

  “Thank you,” Missy says with a smile. “We’ll do that.”

  The four of us head to the dining room. Dan places the present in the pile at the end of the table, and I step out to the kitchen, grabbing the pitcher of lemonade I’d made a few minutes ago and a stack of glasses. “So, how’s the wedding prep coming?” I say.