Page 66 of Final Vendetta

I headed downstairs and continued onto the back deck, the wood creaking underneath my feet.

“Imogene,” I called out as I approached the side of the detached garage, an uneasy feeling washing over me.

Something was off. But nothing appeared out of place. There was no sign of a break-in or struggle.

Shaking it off, I continued toward the side door and pushed it open, stepping into the dimly lit space.

The scent hit me first. Oil and dust, mixed with something faintly metallic. The garage was cooler than outside, the hum of the overhead light breaking the silence.

“Imogene?” I called again, my voice firmer now.

No response.

I scanned the space, taking in the rows of shelves stocked with plastic bins, tools hung on the walls. Everything looked normal. Or it should have.

But the unease prickling at the back of my neck only grew.

I stepped farther inside, my shoes scuffing against the concrete.

That’s when I saw it. A small, dark smear on the floor near the workbench.

I forced myself to move closer, my heart hammering as I crouched down. With a trembling hand, I reached out and touched the edge of the smear, coming away with a wet streak of crimson.

Blood.

Fresh.

A cold knot twisted in my stomach as I rose to my feet, my gaze darting across the space. My heart thumped loudly in my chest, drowning out any other noise as I searched the garage foranswers. There were more droplets, faint but distinct, leading away from the bench and toward the automatic door.

I fought against the rising panic, telling myself there had to be an explanation. Maybe she’d cut herself while moving something. Maybe she’d gone inside to clean up, and I’d find her in the bathroom, annoyed that I was making a big deal out of nothing.

Gripping my phone, I called her as I dashed back inside, the tone ringing loud and relentless in my ear.

“Pick up, Imogene. Please.”

I strained to hear it, hoping to catch the sound of her voice from somewhere in the house, despite having just searched it. Instead, it was silent except for the hum from the central air.

But then I heard it.

A subtle buzzing.

Not from the phone pressed to my ear, but from deeper inside the house.

I froze, my chest tightening as I followed the sound down the hallway and into the living room.

Imogene’s phone sat on the coffee table, the screen lit up with my name. The harsh vibration rattled through the room, each pulse like a knife twisting inside of me.

My hand clenched around my own phone as the call disconnected, leaving the room eerily quiet.

I grabbed her cell, scanning it for any messages or calls. Nothing. The last text she’d sent was to me a few hours ago, telling me she was happy with sushi for dinner.

She promised me she wouldn’t leave. That she’d keep the doors locked. That she’d be careful.

After everything that had happened — after Liam — I thought she understood how serious this was.

But the blood on the garage floor told a different story.

“Fuck!” I shouted, my voice raw with a mixture of panic and fury. I paced back and forth, tugging at my hair as dozens of different scenarios played out in my mind.

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