Chapter 2 - The Ghost of Bennett Street
The human body can withstand incredible trauma when fueled by pure, unadulterated rage.
I didn't wait for Marcus. I couldn't. The ceiling was beginning to collapse in burning chunks of drywall. Holding the leather ledger tight against my stomach with one arm, I climbed onto the smoking windowsill. The drop was fifteen feet down into my mother’s prized hydrangea bushes.
I didn't think about the pain. I didn't think about the fractured ankle I would likely sustain. I just thought about the look on Deborah’s face when she realized I had survived.
I jumped.
The impact was a sickening crunch that rattled through my teeth. The hydrangeas broke my fall, but a thick branch tore open the skin of my thigh. I rolled onto the damp grass, gasping, the ledger still gripped in my bloodied hands. Behind me, the second floor of the house erupted into a brilliant, terrifying sheet of orange flame. The neighborhood was finally waking up. Sirens wailed in the distance, a chorus of screaming metal approaching Bennett Street.
I didn't stay to be rescued. If the paramedics found me, I would be taken to the county hospital, where my mother’s influence ran deep. She would arrive, play the grieving, frantic matriarch, and have me sedated before I could speak a word to an investigator.
I dragged myself through the shadows of the neighbor's yard, ignoring the agonizing throbbing in my left ankle. I slipped through the backyard gate of the Millers' house, hiding behind their detached garage just as three fire engines and two police cruisers tore down the street.
From my hiding spot, I watched the spectacle. Neighbors poured out of their homes in pajamas, gasping and pointing at the inferno that used to be the Monroe household. Within ten minutes, the black Lexus pulled back up to the curb.
The performance began instantly.
Deborah fell out of the passenger side, dropping to her knees on the asphalt. Her screams were masterful. They were the guttural, heartbreaking sounds of a mother realizing her child was trapped inside a burning building. Jessica was right behind her, dabbing at dry eyes with a tissue, throwing her arms around her mother’s shoulders.
"My baby!" Deborah shrieked, her voice carrying perfectly over the sound of the crackling flames. "Caitlyn is inside! Please, God, save my daughter!"
Chief Higgins was there in an instant, lifting Deborah up, murmuring consolations. I watched from the dark, my teeth grinding so hard I tasted copper. She wasn't crying for me. She was establishing her alibi. They had driven to the local CVS, bought a pack of gum, made sure they were seen on the security cameras at exactly 5:30 PM, and returned to find their home destroyed. It was perfect. It was seamless.
Except for the girl bleeding in the shadows.
A shadow fell over me. I flinched, preparing to defend myself, but a heavy jacket was dropped over my shivering shoulders.
"Easy, kiddo," Marcus Vance whispered, crouching beside me. His face was grim, his eyes reflecting the distant fire. He looked at the ledger in my arms and then at my blistered skin. "You actually jumped."
"They... they locked it from the outside," I croaked, my throat feeling like it was lined with sandpaper. "The wire transfer... she mentioned it..."
"I know," Marcus said, his voice tight. "My team intercepted the notification. Your mother didn't just try to kill you for insurance money, Caitlyn. Your grandfather’s trust fund—the one that was supposed to legally transfer to you on your twenty-eighth birthday next month—it required your signature or proof of your death to be released early to the secondary beneficiary. Your mother."
The final piece of the puzzle clicked into place. The sudden invitation. The expensive birthday gift I had bought her with my meager savings. The gentle tone on the phone. It was all a setup to clean out my grandfather’s estate before the state auditors realized Deborah had spent the last five years embezzling from it to fund Jessica's lifestyle.
"We have to stop her," I said, trying to stand, but my ankle collapsed beneath me.
Marcus caught me, his grip firm. "We can't just arrest her here, Caitlyn. Higgins is in her pocket, or at least stupid enough to believe her act. If we move too fast, she’ll trigger her contingency plan. She has a bank account in the Caymans we haven't been able to freeze yet. If she senses the trap closing, she and Jessica will disappear."
"So what do we do?"
May you like
Marcus looked back at the burning house, then down at the ledger in my hands. A cold, dark smile touched the corners of his lips.
"We let her think she won," he said softly. "For the next forty-eight hours, Caitlyn Monroe is officially missing and presumed dead. We let her file the insurance claim. We let her withdraw the trust fund. And then, we pull the rug out from under her entire world."
