Page 35 of Hard Knox

Upstairs, I could hear Emma’s frightened cries, each one like a dagger to my heart. Grandma rushed into the room, her eyes expanded with panic, as she looked down at us.

“Mark, let her go! This isn’t right!” she pleaded, her voice cracking.

Mark glowered at her, then at me under him, his resolve faltering as he seemed to realize the gravity of what he was doing. My mind raced, desperation clawing at me as I sought any way to protect Emma and escape this nightmare. But with Mark’s weight pinning me down and the cold press of the gun against my ribs, my options were dwindling fast.

All I could do was hope that Knox would realize the truth—that Grandma’s words were forced and that he wouldn’t give up on us so easily. My heart ached for Knox’s return, for a rescue that seemed increasingly like a fading dream.

Then I heard sirens. As they grew louder, a twisted smile spread across Mark’s face. He pressed harder into my back, his voice a triumphant hiss. “Hear that, Eliza? They’re coming for your biker, just like I planned.” His grip was suffocating, his body heavy against mine as he kept me pinned to the floor, a glaring reminder of the desperate situation.

Grandma stood frozen, her face etched with fear and conflict as another knock resounded through the house, more urgent this time. “Answer it,” Mark ordered sharply, not loosening his hold on me for a second.

Trembling, Grandma moved toward the door, casting a worried glance back at us before opening it and stepping mostly outside. Two police officers were right there, their expressions serious. “We’re looking for Eliza Martin. We have her partner, Knox, in custody, and evidence that implicates him in the murder of Mark Martin,” one officer explained.

Grandma’s voice wavered as she responded, a lie forming quickly under pressure. “Eliza’s gone. She ran… running away from Mr. Knox.”

Just then, Emma, my heart, appeared at the doorway, her small face crumpled in confusion and fear. Grandma quickly scooped her up, shielding the house, Mark and I from the officers’ prying eyes.

I lay motionless, watching helplessly, the officers’ words echoing in my ears. It was all a lie, a terrible setup, and here I was, unable to scream the truth. Mark’s hand was firm over my mouth, his threat clear in the pressure of his fingers.

Once the officers left, seemingly satisfied with Grandma’s answers, the door shut with a finality that sank deep into my bones. Only then did Mark finally remove his hand, allowing me to draw a full breath, though it did little to ease the panic gripping me.

“Why didn’t you tell them?” I gasped at Grandma, tears streaming down my face.

She looked down, her eyes filled with a turmoil that spoke volumes of her inner conflict. “Mark is my son, Eliza,” she said quietly, her voice breaking. “I thought… maybe he deserves a second chance.”

The betrayal stung, more painful than any physical wound. Before I could reply, Mark produced a roll of duct tape, his actions swift and practiced. He taped my mouth shut, then bound my hands and feet with a cold efficiency that chilled me to the core. Emma whimpered beside me, her little body trembling as he did the same to her.

We were left on the floor, bound and helpless, as Mark paced the room, muttering plans under his breath. The reality of our situation was stark and terrifying. Here we were trapped, betrayed by family, and with the man I loved taken away by a lie.

My mind raced, despair mingling with a fierce determination. Somehow, I had to protect Emma, had to find a way out of this nightmare. I glanced at my daughter, her eyes wide with fear, yet trusting me to make it right. That trust, that unspoken belief in me, reignited a spark of purpose.

No matter what, I would find a way to save us both, to break free from Mark’s twisted grasp and clear Knox’s name. My fight was far from over, and I clung to the hope that somehow, someway, the truth would prevail.

Chapter 19

Knox

The cold metal of the handcuffs clamped around my wrists like a vise as the cops barked out my rights. There I was, standing dumbfounded on Eliza’s front lawn, my brain scrambling to make sense of how I’d flipped from tryin’ to be the hero to gettin’ pegged as the damn villain.

“I didn’t kill Mark. He’s alive! He’s taken Eliza and Emma!” I shouted, desperation sharp in my voice. “Ask the Grandma.”

The cops threw me skeptical looks, clearly peggin’ me as just another desperate criminal spoutin’ nonsense. “Sir, you need to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you,” one snapped at me, his voice icy.

“But you don’t understand—” I tried again but got shut down quick.

“Move that low life to the car,” barked the other cop, brushing off my protests like dirt off his shoulder.

As they marched me toward the squad car, I caught a glimpse of Emma coming around the corner. My heart damn near burst. “Look! That’s Emma, right there! She ain’t supposed to be here if they took her across the country!” I tried to holler, handcuffed and all.

But the cops didn’t skip a beat, just muscled me into the back of the cruiser. The door slammed shut, sealing off my desperate pleas. The ride to the station was all a muddled rush, my thoughts racing and dread building. Every attempt I made to explain, I got nothing but cold silence or a sharp, “keep it shut.”

Once we hit the station, they ran me through the motions like I was just another number. They stripped me of my belongings, down completely and checked my cavities, and I wasn’t talking about my teeth. They marched me down those cold, echoing halls to the interrogation room. The harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, doing jack all to soften the feeling of being caged.

“Mr. Knox, we have new evidence linking you to Mark Martin’s murder. Witnesses, financial transactions, and forensic data that don’t look good for you,” the detective laid it out, sliding photos and documents across the table like he was dealing cards in a game I was set to lose.

I rifled through the documents quick, my heart droppin’ like a stone. The evidence was damning: forged transactions and falsified emails, all laid out too damn perfect, all framing me up like a prize turkey.

“This ain’t right. I didn’t do this. You gotta believe me—Mark’s behind this. He’s alive, and he’s snatched up Eliza and her kid.”

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