Is that why Camden cheated? To get back at me for his mother? To avenge something that had nothing to do with me? I’m shaking, tossing the stress ball faster from one hand to the other, squeezing the death out of it every time it switches hands.

Don’t stop moving. His gun is still pointed at you, but he is getting used to your hands flying around.

“So when you emptied his bank account and ran away with the money, I had no choice, I had to take care of you too.”

“And Preston?” I grit. “Did you do anything to him? Is that why he ran away?”

“Ran away?” Godfrey takes a strained step toward me, my gun now just inches from my face. “If you ever get to Camden, which you won’t, I’m sure he’ll be able to let you in on what happened to little Preston. Your brother came to us willingly.”

“When? Why? Where is he?”

I’m not even sure I want to know.

The symphony gets louder, the violins shriek in horror.

“Don’t let me ruin all the fun. That’s our grand finale. You’ll know if you get out of here. But. . .that’s not going to happen, is it?”

Tears stream down my cheeks. I’m breaking in front of him, because it won’t make any difference. He’ll be dead soon. The trumpets roar.

“It’s a terrible thing, taking a life. You should know. You took Seb’s. But sometimes,” Godfrey says, leaning forward, pressing the gun to my lips and digging them open until it looks like I’m sucking on the barrel. Our eyes are holding each other’s stare. So close. “We’ve got no choice.”

Do it now, I hear Nate’s voice in my head.

I shove the stress ball straight into Godfrey’s left eye with full force. He stumbles back and falls to the floor with a bang, surprised more than hurt, and a bullet fires from the gun, slicing the mattress open. I jump to my feet and rip the gun from his fingers. It’s not difficult to do, seeing as he’s weak and lying on the floor, unable to lift himself up without his cane. So weak. So troubled. So dead.

Guns are for pussies.

I tuck the gun into the waistband of my underwear and roll my dress back down. Walking behind him, I grab the collar of his Hawaiian shirt and twist it around his neck from behind, knotting it against his throat.

Horns. Flutes. Chaos. War. A symphony of life and death in the background.

Now that’s more personal. The noise Godfrey is making is unbearable. Gagging and gurgling, gasping for air, he tries to free himself of the shirt that’s choking him to death. I remember what Nate wrote in his diary about Frank. How they suffocated him on Godfrey’s order.

Turning red.

I glance at the hourglass. The sand is running out, and I squeeze his jaw with my free hand, willing him to look at the hourglass I hate so much.

Time.

It represents all the evil in this world.

“This is for Nate,” I growl, pulling the shirt tighter, using all the strength in me, dripping sweat all over. The fabric slices his pink and wrinkled skin, creating a growing necklace of blood around his throat. The music screams in pain, absorbing Godfrey’s cries for help.

Turning purple.

“It’s for Marcia too. I bet she would have hated to see how you and your son turned out.”

Turning blue, and not fighting as vigorously as he did before.

“But you know what, Godfrey? More than anything, this is for me. When I walked into this place today, outnumbered and out of my mind, I thought to myself that there was no way I would be leaving here in one piece. But the need to kill you was too strong. Now I see that God—the real God, not you, Godfrey—is on my side. Not because I’m good, but because I’m fair. That’s why I’m going to England, on that plane you planned to take tonight, and I’m going to kill Camden. I’m going to take from everyone who took from me and save my brother. Time is too precious for second chances, remember? Your words.”

At the mention of his son’s name, Godfrey lets out a pained final choke before his body goes limp. Driven by paranoia and fear, I keep choking him for a few more minutes for good measure. Then, I put two fingers to his throat, checking for a pulse. Nothing. It’s time to figure out how I am getting out of here with the Aryan Brothers swarming outside. I didn’t bring my phone. It’s still with Nate.

Aware of the presence of a dead body in the room, I peek outside the window. I’m not sure how many of them are standing behind the door of this room, but there are at least four walking back and forth at the entrance of the house. I look down, calculating the height. If I jump down, I’ll break a leg. Maybe a hand. Probably both. I won’t be able to run away fast enough to get away from them. And I have no idea how far I should run. Maybe for miles. No promises Nate stuck around.

Though I know he has. I know my lover. My man. My peace.

Trembling fingers covered in my jacket's worn leather grasp the doorknob, intending to swing it open, when I hear a shot. Then another one.

They didn’t come from my gun.

What the hell?

Ten minutes later, homeboy officially loses his shit.

Fuck it. I’m going in and if I die, at least the pain of knowing she didn’t make it will go away. Dead people don’t feel. Ghosts can’t be haunted.

I don't know how I managed to hold off for more than a second knowing she could be in danger. What was probably only ten minutes seemed like a f*cking century.