Chapter 8 - THE CONFESSION
“You won’t get away with this, Victor.”
My voice was terrifyingly steady. I stepped entirely out from behind the piano, planting my feet on the polished floor. I held the heavy Maglite tight in my right hand. It wasn’t a match for a steel tire iron, but I wasn’t going to die cowering in the dark like my husband.
Alvarez chuckled, a low, rasping sound that made my skin crawl. He wrapped Lily’s silver rosary around his knuckles like brass knuckles. The insult of it made my blood boil.
“I already have gotten away with it, Claire,” Alvarez said, taking another slow step forward. “The police think Lily hydroplaned. They think Peter just tried to murder his mistress in a murder-suicide gone wrong. The narrative is already written. All I have to do is clean up the loose ends. A tragic break-in at the community center. Husband and wife interrupted a robbery. So sad.”
Peter finally stood up from behind the piano. He looked pathetic—muddy, broken, and terrified. “Victor, please. We don’t have to do this. I have the ledger. I can destroy it. We can walk away.”
“You are a weak man, Peter,” Alvarez said, shaking his head with genuine pity. “You were weak when you let Vanessa blackmail you, and you were weak when you let your daughter do your dirty work.”
“How did you do it?” I demanded, keeping my eyes locked on the tire iron. I needed him talking. I needed time to think of a way out. “How did you run her off the road without leaving paint on her car?”
Alvarez paused, his ego easily taking the bait. He smiled, tracing the cross of the rosary with his thumb.
“I didn’t hit her,” Alvarez said proudly. “I knew she was coming down the quarry road. I parked my truck across both lanes, right after the blind curve. Turned off my lights. She came speeding around the bend, saw a wall of steel, and slammed on her brakes.”
My stomach churned as the police photos flashed in my mind. The straight, desperate skid marks.
“She stopped just in time,” Alvarez continued, his eyes gleaming with dark nostalgia. “She sat there in the rain, staring at me through her windshield. She was terrified. I walked up to her window with this very tire iron. I smashed the glass. I reached in, put her car in neutral, and pushed it over the edge myself.”
A guttural, animalistic sound tore from my throat. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated agony. My baby girl. Sitting in the dark, watching a man she trusted shatter her window and push her to her death.
I lunged at him.
I didn’t think about the weapon. I didn’t think about surviving. I only wanted to destroy the monster who took my child.
I swung the heavy flashlight in a wide, vicious arc, aiming for his temple. Alvarez was older, but he was fast. He ducked, the flashlight glancing off his shoulder. He retaliated with a brutal backhand swing of the tire iron.
It caught me in the ribs. The sickening crack of bone echoed in the empty room.
I collapsed to the floor, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. Pain exploded in my chest, blinding and white-hot.
“Claire!” Peter screamed.
For the first time in his miserable, selfish life, Peter did something brave. He threw himself at Alvarez, tackling the older man around the waist. They crashed into the folding chairs, a tangle of limbs and mud.
Alvarez roared in anger. He brought the tire iron down on Peter’s back, once, twice. Peter groaned, his grip loosening, but he held on, pinning Alvarez’s legs.
“Run, Claire!” Peter choked out, blood spilling from his mouth. “Get out!”
I tried to stand, but my legs wouldn’t obey. The pain in my ribs was paralyzing. Alvarez kicked Peter squarely in the face, sending him sprawling across the floor, unconscious.
Alvarez stood up, panting heavily. He wiped a streak of blood from his cheek and looked down at me.
“Valiant effort,” Alvarez sneered, stepping over Peter’s limp body. He walked toward me, raising the tire iron high above his head. “Say hello to Lily for me.”
I closed my eyes. I pictured Lily’s face, laughing in the photograph, her hair pulled back in that crooked ponytail. I was ready.
“Drop the weapon! Now!”
The voice didn’t come from me. It didn’t come from Alvarez.
It came from the community center’s PA system.
Alvarez froze, the tire iron suspended in mid-air. He whipped his head toward the sound booth at the back of the hall.
May you like
The glass window of the booth slid open.
Cliffhanger: Standing in the dark booth, holding a cell phone connected to the center’s microphone, was Sophie. “I said drop it,” she yelled, her voice echoing out of every speaker in the building. “The police are already outside, and I just broadcasted your entire confession live to the precinct.”
