Chapter 9 009
Rhea's POV
"Rhea! Rhea, have you seen the news?" Lisa burst into the living room, her voice high-pitched and frantic, her phone clutched as she barreled toward the kitchen where I stood stirring a pot of pasta sauce.
The savory aroma of garlic and tomatoes filled the air.
It had been a week since I'd fled Alejandro's mansion in the middle of the night.
His "offer" still echoed in my skull, a twisted proposition that made my skin crawl: protection from Owen in exchange for... what? Surrendering to his control? Becoming his puppet?
He'd laid it out so calmly, like it was a business deal, but the hunger in his eyes said otherwise.
I couldn't stomach it. So I'd run, hailing a cab in the dark, heart pounding, half-expecting him to chase me down. But he hadn't. Almost like he'd anticipated my escape, like it was part of some game.
I couldn't go home to my parents—obviously.
My own apartment was off-limits too; Owen could track me there easily, and my indifferent neighbors wouldn't bat an eye at screams until the stench of a deceased body drew them out.
Lisa, my one solid friend from work, was my lifeline. She'd opened her cozy one-bedroom without hesitation, letting me crash on her pull-out couch.
We'd bonded over office gossip and shared lunches, but this? Hiding out like a fugitive? It tested our friendship, yet she hadn't complained once.
I'd been locked up in her apartment long enough to know I'd probably lost my job at Rusty Nail, and definitely at Alvarez Advanced Technologies.
I tilted my head just enough to glance at her, spoon paused mid-stir. Her face was pale, and her eyes wide with panic.
"What news?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, my heart already climbing into my throat.
"It's about you, Rhea. All over the social media feeds." She thrust her phone at me.
The veins in my neck tightened.
"About me?" The words came out choked.
I switched off the stove with trembling fingers, and stepped closer, peering at the video she'd pulled up.
It was Owen. He was sitting in what looked like a staged press conference, surrounded by scattered documents on a polished desk.
He looked devastated; a perfect, practiced mask of a grieving widower.
"Rhea Winters... my sister-in-law... she's always harbored feelings for me." he told the camera, his voice breaking at just the right moment.
"Even when Brenda was alive, she came onto me. She wanted her sister's life. When she realized Brenda would never step aside... she took matters into her own hands."
He held up a sheaf of papers: blurry printouts of texts I'd never sent and forged emails that looked terrifyingly real.
"These messages, these photos—they prove it. Rhea's jealousy turned deadly. She poisoned Brenda's mind, maybe even her body. The autopsy said suicide, but I know the truth. Rhea killed my wife."
The video cuts to clips of supposed "evidence": grainy screenshots of messages I never sent, a photo of me laughing at a family dinner twisted into something sinister.
Then Owen came back on screen, dabbing at dry eyes in an Oscar-worthy performance.
"Justice for Brenda," he choked out, looking right into the lens. "Arrest Rhea Winters."
The room spun, and I felt the air leave my lungs.
"He's lying," I whispered, clutching the counter.
"Here's what people are saying," Lisa said quietly, scrolling through the comments.
Hate flooded the screen: 'Murderer.'
'Lock her up.'
'Jealous bitch deserves to die too.'
'Tag the cops.'
'Find this psycho.'
Hashtags like #JusticeForBrenda and #ArrestRheaWinters were trending, my face splashed everywhere.
"I... I didn't do any of those things," I whispered as my legs gave way. Black spots swarmed my vision, my breath turning short and jagged.
Lisa caught me before I hit the floor, her arms firm around my shoulders.
"Come on," she murmured, steering me toward the couch.
"I didn't do it, Lisa. I swear. Please believe me." My voice was thin, bordering on a sob.
"Sit. Breathe. I know you didn't, Rhea. But... he has 'evidence.' You'll have to prove the truth—to the authorities, to the public. You have to fight back."
"Those are fake," I kept whispering while i clutched onto her arm.
"I was nowhere near Brenda when she died. And Owen? I loathed him. I've always loathed him. Since they started dating... My phone. I need to call my parents. They know the truth."
Lisa grabbed my phone and handed it to me.
I dialed Mom, then Dad, then Mom again. Each call was swallowed by an endless ring or a hollow voicemail.
On the 11th try, the line clicked open.
"What do you want, Rhea?" she barked. There was no motherly concern, no "Are you okay?"—just a voice like a sheet of jagged ice.
"Mom, please," I choked out, my pride nothing but a heap of ashes at my feet. "You have to talk to Owen. Tell him to stop this. He's lying to the world, Mom—he's destroying me. Please, just tell him to tell the truth."
"I told you to be sensible, Rhea. I told you what Owen was capable of. Now he's destroyed our name, and he's going to destroy you."
"Mom, you have to tell them the truth! Tell the police I wasn't with Brenda that evening!"
She let out a short, humorless laugh.
"Why would I help a daughter who won't help her family? You made your bed. Now you can rot in it. The only way this stops is if you go to Owen and beg for his forgiveness. Give him what he wants."
The line went dead. I tried to call back, but the call failed instantly. She had blocked me.
"Wow," Lisa muttered, having heard the screeching through the phone. "Are you sure that woman actually gave birth to you?"
I didn't have an answer. I hadn't had one for twenty-seven years.
Lisa spent the rest of the evening trying to piece me back together.
She brewed tea I couldn't drink and wrapped me in blankets that couldn't stop my shivering, all while murmuring things like, "We'll figure this out," and "You aren't alone."
Her presence was the only thing keeping me from drifting away entirely, but inside, the storm was only getting louder.
How had Owen twisted the truth so effortlessly?
This wasn't just a lashing out because Alejandro had punched him at the bar; this felt like a trap that had been set years ago, just waiting for me to step into it.
Night eventually settled over the apartment, heavy and thick. I lay on the couch, tracing the patterns of shadows on the ceiling, when a thunderous bang shattered the silence.
Someone was pounding on the door—not a knock, but a heavy, rhythmic assault that shook the frame.
I jolted upright, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
"What the—"
Lisa was already off the armchair, her hand catching mine and squeezing hard.
"Stay here," she whispered, though her own voice was trembling. "I'll check."
"No, Lisa, don't—" I tried to pull her back, but she was already moving toward the foyer.
The banging didn't stop; it was insistent, demanding, and filled with a terrifying kind of authority.
Muffled voices drifted from the entryway—deep, chest-thumping bass tones that made the air feel heavy.
"We're looking for Rhea Winters."
Cops. I'd heard that line a thousand times on TV, but hearing it directed at my own front door made the world turn tilt.
Not wanting to drag Lisa into the spotlight, I forced my legs to move, taking slow, shaky steps toward the light of the foyer.
There they stood: three officers framed by the hallway light; a stern-faced man flanked by two women.
They didn't look like people, they looked like statues of inevitable doom.
Lisa shifted aside, her eyes darting to mine, brimming with a silent apology.
"That's me," I said. My voice was a thin wire, vibrating with a terror I couldn't hide.
The lead officer didn't offer a greeting. He just stepped into the warmth of the apartment, bringing the cold night air with him.
"Rhea Winters, you're under arrest for the suspected murder of Brenda Winters and related charges of harassment and forgery. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law..."
He droned on with the Miranda rights, but it felt like he was chanting a funeral rite for my freedom.
One of the women stepped forward, unfolding a warrant. I saw my name in cold, black ink right next to the word MURDER.
"No, wait, I'm innocent!" I cried, the sound raw and ugly. I felt the cold, biting snap of metal as the handcuffs closed around my wrists.
"This is a lie! Owen is framing me... please, just listen to me!"
They didn't flinch. To them, I was just another Tuesday night arrest. They gripped my upper arms, their hold firm and bruising, and began to march me out.
I twisted my head back, my vision swimming with tears as I looked at Lisa.
"Please, call Mr. Alvarez! He's the only one who can save me now. Tell him... tell him I'm ready to do whatever he wants. Please, Lisa...please!"
Lisa nodded frantically, her own tears spilling over as she fumbled for her phone.
"I will! Rhea, I'm calling him right now!"
Then, the door opened to a nightmare. The quiet neighborhood had transformed.
Dozens of people were lined up on the sidewalk, their phone flashlights piercing the dark like tiny, accusing eyes.
I heard the murmurs: 'That's her.' 'That's the sister-killer.'
Then came the reporters, their heavy camera lenses reflecting the strobe-light flashes that blinded me.
"Rhea! Did you kill Brenda out of jealousy?"
"How long did you plan this?"
I tucked my chin into the collar of my hoodie, trying to disappear, but there was nowhere to go.
They shoved me into the back of the squad car. The vinyl seat was cold, and the door slammed with a heavy, mechanical thud that sounded like the lid of a coffin closing shut.