Chapter 265
Chapter 265:
As Rose flung open the door, Herod spoke into the phone. “My name is Herod Preston. I want to turn myself in. But first, I need to tell you about Rose Lewis.”
Rose froze in the doorway, hatred burning in her eyes. “You’ll regret this,” she hissed.
“I already regret so much,” Herod said. “But not this.”
The door slammed behind her. Through the thin curtains, Herod watched Rose run across the parking lot, her figure growing smaller as she disappeared into the distance.
On the phone, a voice asked for his location. Herod gave it, then sat heavily on the bed.
“Sir? Are you still there?” the voice asked.
“Yes,” Herod said, a strange peace settling over him. “I’m ready.”
As he waited for them to arrive, Herod thought of his brother Charles. Of his gentle smile. His kindness. His integrity.
“I’m sorry, Charles,” he whispered to the empty room. “For everything. But I’m trying to make it right.”
Outside, sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder. Coming for him. Coming to end one chapter of his life and begin another—one of punishment, of atonement.
Herod closed his eyes, imagining his brother’s face. For the first time in years, he didn’t see disappointment there. Instead, he saw the gentle understanding Charles had always shown him, even when he didn’t deserve it. The sound of sirens grew louder, closer.
Herod opened his eyes and stood, straightening his shoulders. It was time to face what he had done.
Rose ran across the motel parking lot, her mind racing faster than her feet. The worn soles of her expensive shoes slapped against the cracked asphalt as panic gripped her chest. Herod was going to tell the FBI everything. Her plan, her revenge, her future—everything would crumble if he spoke.
She reached her car, though it wasn’t really hers—it was one of Herod’s cars. Her hands shook as she fumbled with the keys. The recorder. The damned recorder he had shown her. How long had he been recording their conversations? What had she said?
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Rose stopped, the key halfway to the lock.
She couldn’t run—not yet. Not while Herod sat in that motel room with a phone pressed to his ear, her name on his lips, and evidence of her crimes in his pocket.
In the distance, sirens wailed. Still far away, but coming closer.
Rose looked back at Room 17, its faded blue door visible from where she stood. Behind that door sat the man who could destroy everything she had built. Everything she had sacrificed for.
If he talked, it was over.
If he lived, she was finished.
Rose reached into her bag, her fingers wrapping around the cold metal of the gun she had bought from one of Anton Bessonov’s men. She had never fired it, never planned to. It was just insurance, protection against the rough types she had to deal with for their plan.
.
.
.