Page 98 of Hellebore

I end the call.

The phone stays on the dashboard, the camera feed shaking with every bump in the road.

Lucille appears in the hallway.

She freezes.

The masked men see her.

My foot slams harder onto the accelerator.

The engine screams as the speedometer climbs.

“Run,” I whisper. “Run.”

She turns and bolts toward the front door.

One of them catches her by the hair before she makes it halfway.

“Fuck!”

I wrench the steering wheel around a slow-moving car, tires skidding over the rain-slick asphalt.

Her scream tears through the speakers.

He slams her head into the wall.

The crack echoes inside the car.

“No…”

Her body crumples, limp, but they do not stop.

They throw her onto the hardwood floor.

Rain batters the windshield so hard the wipers can barely keep up.

One man drives his boot into her stomach.

Her body jerks violently.

The other grabs her by the hair again.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Her forehead smashes against the floor with sickening force. Blood spreads beneath her head, dark and glossy against the wood.

I grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles ache.

The road stretches long and dark ahead, the rain pounding against the roof as I push the car faster, my mind racing with worry for the woman I left curled on that black couch back at Hellebore. She is safe there for now, but the world outside keeps reaching for what is mine.

One of the guys walks straight up to the hidden camera. “Are you enjoying the show?”

What the fuck?