One of the suited men turned, pointing a finger at her. “You have nothing, Evelyn. The syndicate is done playing games. You have five minutes to make peace with whatever God you believe in.”
The men got into their black sedans and drove away, the tires squealing against the asphalt.
Evelyn stood in the driveway, completely broken. She looked back at the house. The Mercenary Leader and the remaining two guards stepped out onto the porch. They were no longer pretending to be her security. They drew their weapons, their faces blank, stepping slowly toward her.
Absolute, primal terror washed over Evelyn’s face. She realized her time was up.
She spun around and sprinted for the only escape route she had: her Range Rover, still parked half on my crushed flowerbed. She tore the driver’s side door open, threw herself inside, and slammed it shut, locking it instantly.
Through the windshield, I saw her hands shaking wildly as she jabbed at the push-to-start button. The heavy engine roared to life.
But Evelyn was in a blind panic. Crestview Drive sits on a massive, thirty-degree incline that drops steeply for a quarter mile before ending at a wooden guardrail and a sheer three-hundred-foot cliff over the Pacific Ocean.
In her frantic attempt to escape, Evelyn slammed the gear shift backward. Instead of throwing it into drive to go up the hill, she slammed it into neutral, her foot simultaneously mashing the gas and the emergency electronic brake.
A loud, metallic snap echoed under the vehicle.
Earlier, when she had arrogantly crushed Sarah’s heavy river stones, she hadn't just ruined a garden. The jagged rocks had severely dented the exposed undercarriage of the SUV, pinching the primary hydraulic brake lines. Now, under the sudden, violent pressure of her panicked shifting, the weakened line ruptured completely.
A pool of dark brake fluid exploded onto my driveway.
The three-ton SUV lurched. Gravity took hold. The vehicle began to roll backward, slowly at first, off the property line and onto the steep asphalt of Crestview Drive.
Evelyn pumped the brake pedal frantically. I could see her screaming through the glass. The brake lights flared bright red, but the wheels didn't lock. The electronic emergency system, short-circuited by the fluid dump, failed completely.
The car began to pick up speed, rolling backward down the massive hill, pointed directly toward the cliff.
The Mercenary Leader walked to the edge of the driveway, watching the car roll. A cruel, satisfied smile spread across his face. “Well,” he said to his men, loud enough for me to hear. “Looks like our problem just solved itself. Let her fly.”
They turned their backs, walking away, leaving her to die.
I stood in my garage. My shin was shattered. My back felt broken. I held the heavy wrench in my hand. Evelyn Thorne had destroyed the last piece of my wife’s memory. She had ordered me beaten. She had humiliated me and laughed at my pain. Karma had finally come for her, and all I had to do was stand perfectly still and watch it happen.
But as the SUV picked up speed, heading for the cliff, I looked at the wrench in my hand, and then I looked at the gleaming chrome of my Cruiser.
Sarah hadn't loved a man who stood by and watched people die.