Jillian Andrews POV
Every breath was a jagged agony.
My ribs were taped tight beneath my shirt, a constant reminder of the cane. I was lying in bed, feigning sleep, forcing my breathing to remain shallow despite the pain.
The door was ajar.
Alex was pacing in the hallway. He was on the phone.
"The cabin is ready," he said.
My pulse hammered against my bruised side.
"Yeah," he continued, his voice low. "The blizzard is hitting on Friday. It's the perfect cover."
A pause.
"No, Charlotte. No bullets. It has to look like an accident. Hypothermia. She got lost in the storm. Tragic."
He laughed.
It was a dry, soulless sound that made my skin crawl.
"Then we can stop pretending. Then I can take the seat."
He hung up.
He was going to kill me.
The "romantic getaway" he had suggested yesterday wasn't an apology. It was an execution.
But there was one variable he didn't know.
I had the Delphi Agency.
And I had a date.
Friday.
The blizzard.
I waited until I heard the shower running, masking any noise. I pulled the burner phone from the tampon box hidden deep in the vanity.
My fingers shook as I typed.
Target confirmed. Blackwood Cabin. Friday night. The stage is set.
The reply came instantly.
We will be waiting at the extraction point. North Ridge. Mile marker 4.
I deleted the message.
Friday arrived, draped in a sky of leaden gray.
Alex drove the Range Rover.
He played my favorite songs.
He held my hand.
He was courting a corpse.
"Are you excited?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, staring out at the passing treeline. "I need to get away."
We arrived at the cabin as the snow started to fall in thick, white sheets. It was isolated. Miles from civilization. A perfect place to die.
"I need to get firewood from the shed," Alex said, shrugging into his heavy coat. "It's around back. I might be a while. The generator needs checking too."
He didn't kiss me.
He just looked at me with a strange expression.
Was it guilt?
No.
It was relief.
He walked out the door.
I watched him disappear into the whiteout.
The moment the latch clicked, I moved.
I ignored the searing pain in my ribs. I took my phone. I unlocked it. I opened the map app. I left it on the table as a decoy.
I took off my coat.
I tore a piece of the fabric.
I walked out the back door.
The wind hit me like a physical blow.
I ran.
I ran toward the cliff edge, away from where Alex had gone. I deliberately snagged the fabric on a bramble bush near the drop.
With trembling hands, I yanked off one of my boots and tossed it over the edge.
It tumbled down into the darkness.
Then I turned and ran North.
Toward mile marker 4.
The snow was blinding.
My lungs burned with every freezing gasp.
Then, through the howling wind, I heard an engine.
A black van with no lights appeared out of the storm like a phantom.
The side door slid open.
A hand reached out.
"Jillian," a voice said.
I grabbed the hand.
I was pulled inside.
The warmth hit me instantly.
The door slammed shut.
I looked out the back window. The snow was already covering my tracks.
Jillian Andrews was dead.
I sat back against the seat and closed my eyes.
For the first time in two years, I truly breathed.
