CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Bill’s grip on the revolver was unsteady, a tremor betraying his turmoil. It was as though he could feel a ghost of the past colliding with his present confusion.

This woman who called herself Amber had echoed the words of another one, spoken from this same cot nearly two decades ago. The one who insisted her name was Lauren had also stared down the barrel of his gun with a resignation that unnerved him.

Bill had not expected defiance; in his twisted drama, these women were supposed to be longing for their final act just as he had conceived of it.

“Why can’t you see that your life means something only if you accept who you are?” he demanded.

Amber’s eyes, bright with unshed tears, met his unwaveringly. “It’s you who doesn’t understand, Mr. Hartley. If I play your Lisa or Nancy, then two lives are lost,” she replied with a clarity that cut through his delusion. “This way, only mine is wasted. You’ll have to live with what you have done.”

The refusal ignited a fury within Bill that burned away the last vestiges of hesitation. This was not how it was supposed to end—they were meant to go out together in a romanticized tragedy. But like the woman before her, this woman refused to comply, and now he would have to do exactly what he’d done before. Raising the gun, he leveled it at her head, ready to shatter the stillness of the root cellar once more.

But before his finger could tighten on the trigger, an unexpected sound reverberated against the heavy door—a knock, firm and deliberate. The sudden intrusion rattled him, jerking the gun slightly off course.

Who could be out there? The possibility that his carefully constructed world might be breached sent a jolt of panic through his veins. This was an aberration, a trespass, a disturbance in the perfect solution he’d created.

Then a disembodied voice filtered through the air with eerie certainty.

“You’ve made a mistake. She’s not the one you want. Don’t hurt her. I’m here.”

***

Jenna’s gaze was fixed on the peephole, watching Bill Hartley’s eyes widen in surprise as her voice seemed to reverberate through the old wood of the root cellar door. A peripheral shift caught her attention, and she noted Jake’s silent approach, a testament to their unspoken teamwork. Her index finger rose against her lips, signaling him to keep quiet.

As Jake acknowledged her command with a barely perceptible nod, Jenna steeled herself for what must come next. She was following a script written not by her own hand but by the whispers of a dream. She cleared her throat gently, ensuring her tone carried the sounds of sincerity and vulnerability.

“Maybe I can help you,” she intoned, her words slow and deliberate, each phrase a mirror to a plea she had heard in that ethereal space that was neither sleep nor waking. “I can be who you want me to be. I’m ready. You’re right about everything.”

“Right about what?” The question seemed to unsettle the still air between them. Jenna’s pulse quickened. Bill Hartley was probing, and she was momentarily adrift in uncertainty.

“Think, Jenna. Think!” she thought silently.

Her mind raced through fragments of conversations with Frank, the image of Bill as a youth, the Neil Young song that had somehow become his personal creed. Then it came to her—the line that Frank had recited with a mix of disdain and pity. With deliberate calmness, she spoke the words: “It’s better to burn out than to fade away.”

Through the narrow field of vision the peephole provided, she saw the transformation on Bill’s face. A smile flickered with recognition and something akin to triumph. Apparently disarmed by the phrase, both figuratively and literally, he placed his gun down on the cot.

“Come on in—Nancy,” he invited, a welcoming host to a party only he understood.

Jenna’s pulse quickened as a realization crystallized in her mind. The fantasy that Bill Hartley clung to, the delusion he was living—it was a tragic imitation of Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen’s infamous love story. This root cellar was a makeshift stage for his deranged role-play.

Jenna knew better than to step into that scene; it was a trap set by a man lost in the echoes of a punk rock reverie.

“You come out—Sid,” she countered with feigned enthusiasm, drawing upon every ounce of her acting skills. Her words echoed past the heavy door, a lure to draw the predator out of his den. “Our future is out here in the world. It won’t be a long future, but it will have a glorious ending.” She hoped that baiting him with his own narrative would work.

Through the peephole, Jenna observed as Bill’s smile widened. He moved toward the door, his expression that of a man who believed he was on the cusp of reliving an iconic moment.

Jenna took a calculated step back, her hand moving with practiced ease to her holster. She drew her weapon, its cold metal a stark contrast to the warm Missouri air. With her firearm aimed at the door, she prepared herself for what might come next.

The door creaked open, and the killer stood silhouetted in the weak light.

Jenna’s heart hammered against her ribs as she watched his eyes widen—the realization that she was not Lisa dawning on him. Her finger tensed on the trigger—not with eagerness, but readiness to protect innocence from madness.

“You’re under arrest …” she began.

But before she could continue, his face contorted into a snarl of betrayal. He spun on his heel, heading back to the cot where his gun lay.

Jenna’s training screamed at her to act, to pull the trigger of her own weapon, but humanity paralyzed her finger. She’d been trained when and how to use deadly force, but she’d never had to do so, and now she balked. The weapon in her hand felt alien, a leaden weight that she couldn’t reconcile with the desperate hope for resolution that had driven her here.

She charged forward and grappled with Hartley, her hands searching for leverage, anything to keep him from getting back to his gun. Then they both saw that the wide-eyed woman on the cot had picked up his weapon in her own shaking hands.

At that sight, Bill Hartley spun again, wriggling free like a fish escaping a net, leaving Jenna off balance. He darted out the door.

Frank appeared as if conjured for that very moment, his stance wide, firearm drawn with a steady hand. “You’re under arrest, Bill Hartley,” he bellowed with unwavering authority. The command in Frank’s voice acted as a physical force, halting Hartley in his tracks.

“Bill, don’t make me shoot you,” Frank warned, the threat obviously real.

Surrender washed over Hartley’s features; his shoulders slumped, and he raised his hands in defeat. Jake rushed in, securing him with cuffs.

Seeing that taken care of, Jenna moved into the root cellar’s dim interior, where Amber Stevens still held Bill’s gun. The young woman’s eyes, wide with terror, met Jenna’s own.

As Jenna reached out and gently took the weapon, she assured Amber, “Everything will be okay now.”