Breaking Hailey: Chapter 47

The moment I open the door to Hailey’s room, a sinking feeling seizes my stomach. It’s too quiet, too still. The desk lamp casts a soft glow across the room and her made bed: not a crease in sight. I’ve been here every day for weeks. This is the first time her bed hasn’t been a tangle of sheets and pillows.

My chest tightens on cue, a sense of impending doom seizing my muscles. I shake it all off.

I’m on edge, jumping to conclusions.

Inhaling a calming breath, I enter the bathroom, and my conclusion is confirmed when I find it empty.

Not empty as in no Hailey.

Empty as in no cosmetics, towels, or dirty laundry. No creams. No serums. No toothbrush.

Now I let fear take center stage. My heart hammers against my ribs, trying to break free.

She’s gone.

Gone.

Why? What fucking changed?

I whirl back into the room, and yank open her closet, hoping, praying… but it’s as empty as the fucking bathroom. Her clothes, her shoes, scarves, those stupid cardigans… all gone.

A cold sweat breaks out across my forehead, my hands shaking, a litany of curses fraying my tongue.

Where the fuck did she go?

I scan the room, searching for clues until a big, red NASH scribbled at the top of a page torn from her diary catches my attention.

I lean over the desk, my finger gouging into the hard wood, pulse pounding in my ears.

Blood. So much blood. Everywhere, on his white shirt, brown coat, and gray pants. It’s dripping from his hands, speckling his forehead—a jarring contrast to his pale face.

He’s white as a sheet, staring at the blood pooling at his feet.

A crimson river.

I’m transfixed, watching him wipe his trembling hands down the front of his shirt. He’s soaked in blood now, red all over. His chest rises and falls as he steadies his breathing, lifting his chin higher, his dark gaze focused on something I can’t see.

Someone.

A body.

He tucks a gun into his coat pocket, every move methodical, like he’s done this a thousand times before.

“Boss?” Someone’s voice breaks the thick silence.

I can’t see who’s talking. I can’t see anyone other than the blood-covered man, his dark hair peppered with gray… he looks so familiar. Broad shoulders, tall frame, the powerful way he holds himself: like he’s above everyone else. Sharp face, square, chiseled jaw, those eyes darker than a starless sky, and—

I know where this is going even before reading the last sentence. The familiarity she’s describing, those dark eyes…

She knows. She figured it out before I could come clean. She saw me in Rhett. She made the connection.

—a gold signet ring with an eagle glistening on his wrinkled hand.

So familiar.