Chapter 149
Chapter 149
Julian's POV
I couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't let myself think about Elle trapped near water, phobias triggered, alone and terrified.
"I'm calling the police," Wyatt said. "And I'm on my way. But Julian, listen—don't go in alone. If this is who I think it is—"
"Who?" I yanked open my car door. "Who do you think it is?"
A pause. Then he said, "Jack, the man you told me about—the one who pushed her into the ocean ten years ago. Wasn’t he sent to prison after that? If he's back—"
Line went dead as I threw the phone onto the passenger seat and started the engine.
Jack.
The ex-Sterling staffer who tried to kill Elle at age eight spent years on the run, hunted relentlessly by the Sterling and Vance clans. They almost nabbed him once; though he slipped away, they left him with a permanently lame leg. He was eventually put behind bars.
If he'd found her again—if he'd taken her to the water specifically to terrify her—
My foot pressed harder on the accelerator as I peeled out of the parking lot.
Hold on, Red. I'm coming. Just hold on.
---
I called Wyatt again, my voice sharp and urgent. "I think she's somewhere near the reservoir. Send someone over; I'm heading there to check it out first."
"No, it's too dangerous, you—" I hung up on him before he could finish his sentence.
The late winter sun was starting to set—earlier than it would in summer, but with that particular quality of light that came at the end of February. The sky was painting itself in shades of orange and pink that would've been beautiful under any other circumstances. Now they just made everything feel more urgent, more desperate.
Darkness is coming earlier than it would in a few months. If I don't find her before dark—
Couldn't finish the thought.
Reservoir came into view—vast and dark, surrounded by trees that were still bare but with that faint promise of buds. The water reflected the fading light like polished pewter. I slowed, scanning for any signs of recent activity.
There—fresh tire tracks leading off the main road toward the old dock area.
I followed them, heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
And then I saw it. Black sedan parked behind an abandoned cabin, partially hidden by overgrown bushes.
I killed the engine and got out quiet, every sense on high alert.
Cabin was small and decrepit, windows dark. But there was faint light inside—barely visible, like a single candle or flashlight.
I moved closer, staying low, and that's when I heard it.
A voice. Male. Angry.
And underneath—so faint I almost missed it—a sound that made my blood run cold.
Elle. Crying.
Eleanor's POV
I woke to darkness and the smell of rotting wood.
Head pounded, vision swimming as I tried to focus. Sitting in a chair—no, tied to a chair. Rough rope bit into my wrists and ankles, tight enough to cut off circulation.
And my mouth—
Something covering my mouth. Tape. Duct tape sealed tight across my lips, preventing me from opening my jaw, from making any sound louder than a muffled whimper.
What—
Memory crashed back in fragments. Hand over my mouth. Chemical smell. The voice.
Jack.
I tried to scream but the sound came out as nothing more than desperate "Mmph!" Tape held firm, turning my cry for help into pathetic muffled noise.
Panic flared hot and immediate. Couldn't speak. Couldn't call for help. Couldn't—
I blinked hard, forcing my eyes to adjust. Some kind of cabin—old, abandoned, gaps in the wooden walls letting in slivers of fading daylight. Through those gaps, I could see the late winter sun setting—that particular quality of light that came at the end of February, brighter than deep winter but still fading fast.
And through a grimy window, I could see it.
Water.
Dark, still water stretching to the horizon. The reservoir.
My heart started hammering against my ribs, panic rising like bile.
No. Not here. Anywhere but here.
I tried to scream again—"MMPH! MMMMPH!"—but tape muffled everything. Sound barely carried beyond my own ears.
"You're awake."
Voice came from behind. I tried to turn my head but rope held me in place, neck muscles straining. Desperate whimper escaped my throat—"Mmmm..."—helpless and terrified.
Footsteps circled around until a figure came into view, backlit by the dying sunlight through the window.
Jack.
He looked older than I remembered—much older. Gray hair, deep lines around eyes and mouth, gauntness to his face that spoke of hard years. But I recognized him. Man who used to work for my father. Who'd smiled at me and called me "little Elle" and always had candy in his pockets.
"Hello, Eleanor." His voice was flat, emotionless in a way somehow more terrifying than anger. "Been a long time."
I tried to speak—tried to ask what he wanted, tried to beg him to let me go—but all that came out was muffled "Mmmph! Mmm-mmm!" Tape held firm, turning my words into unintelligible sounds.
Tears began streaming down my face, soaking into the edges of the tape.
"What am I doing?" He laughed—harsh, broken sound that made me flinch. "I can see the question in your eyes, little Elle. As if you don't know."
He walked to the window, staring out at the water. "Ten years ago, your father destroyed my life. Found out I'd been skimming money—barely enough to cover my mother's medical bills—and not only fired me but made sure I could never work anywhere again. Blacklisted me. Ruined me."
His hands clenched into fists. "You have any idea what that's like? Watching everything you built crumble? Watching your mother die cause you can't afford her treatment?"
I shook my head desperate, trying to make some sound that conveyed apology, sympathy, anything. "Mmm-mmm! Mmmph!" But tape turned everything into meaningless noise.
"You're a Sterling!" He whirled on me, and I jerked back instinctive, chair scraping against wooden floor. "You've lived your entire life in luxury while I've been in hell! Know what I've been doing for ten years? Running. Hiding. Sleeping in shelters when I could find them, streets when I couldn't. Dodging debt collectors who want to break my legs. Living like an animal!"
Tears were streaming down his face now, and despite my terror, I felt a stab of pity. I tried to speak but all that came out was desperate, pleading "Mmmmmph..."
"And the whole time, I'd see news about you. Little Eleanor Sterling, all grown up. Fancy schools. Expensive clothes. Smiling for cameras at charity galas." His voice dropped to something bitter and venomous. "You had everything. Everything I lost. Everything your family took from me."
I shook my head frantic, trying to communicate through my eyes alone.
But tape sealed my words away.
"I can see you trying to talk," Jack said, voice almost gentle now. "Trying to offer me money probably. Help. Sterling family charity." He laughed bitter. "But I don't want your money, Eleanor. I want justice. Want someone from that goddamn family to suffer the way I've suffered. To know what it's like to lose everything. To be afraid. To feel helpless."
He moved closer, and I could smell alcohol on his breath, see wild desperation in his eyes.
I tried to plead—"Mmmmph! Mmm-mmm-mmm!"—but the sounds were pathetic, barely human. Tape turned my begging into animal whimpers.
He pulled something from his pocket.
A knife.
Blade caught the fading late winter light through the window, and my breath stopped.