Page 46 of Once Silenced

Gwen’s fingers closed awkwardly around the bunch of keys, the metal cool and slippery against her skin as she zeroed in on the one that would unlock her faithful old sedan.But then, as her hand reached out to grasp the door handle, something flitted at the edge of her vision—a subtle disturbance in the otherwise tranquil night.Her heart skipped a beat, instincts honed from years of investigative reporting snapping to attention.She wondered if it was just a cat on its nightly prowl or perhaps the rustle of leaves in a breeze.

Her grip on the key tightened reflexively.Decades of chasing shadows that often turned into stories had taught her that there was always more to the picture than what met the eye.The serenity of the evening was pierced by that single, fleeting moment of doubt, leaving Gwen with a lingering sense of unease.

Even so, the sudden impact seemed to come from nowhere.An unseen assailant barreled into her with the force of a freight train, and her body lurched forward from the unexpected blow.

“Help!”she cried out instinctively, hoping someone would hear her plea through the closed windows and drawn curtains of her neighbors’ homes.

As she staggered from the initial shock, Gwen’s survival instincts—those same impulses that had once driven her to dig deeper when a story didn’t add up—propelled her into motion.She twisted her body in a desperate attempt to escape, her shoes scraping against the rough asphalt as she fought to put distance between herself and the threat.She pushed her aging muscles beyond their comfort, spurred by the primal need to survive that knew no age.Despite the terror, Gwen Beck was not going down without a fight.

But then Gwen’s breath caught in her chest as the ground rushed up to meet her, the impact driving the air from her lungs in a whoosh that left her gasping.She felt the rough scrape of asphalt against her cheek, a harsh reminder of reality pressing into her skin.Her attacker was on her before she could even think to scream again, his comparative youth evident in the swiftness and strength that pinned her down.

The driveway beneath her felt cold and unyielding.Gwen’s mind, still sharp despite her years, scrambled for options, for any advantage she might leverage.But the weight bearing down on her seemed absolute, the hands that held her face to the ground impersonal in their force.A silent curse passed through her thoughts—a lament for the quiet evening that had turned so violently chaotic.She fought to draw breath, to marshal her strength, but her assailant’s dominance was clear.In this struggle, experience and determination were pitted against raw vigor.

Gwen clawed at the ground, seeking something—anything—to grasp onto.Her nails caught against small, loose stones, the sting of abrasion a minor distraction from the direness of her situation.But before she could gather a handful of stones, a new terror gripped her.

A thin cord encircled Gwen’s neck.It bit into her flesh, a serpent coiling with deadly intent.Her fingers now flew to the tightening cord, scrabbling frantically for a hold that would lessen the crushing pressure.But it was like trying to grasp water—an exercise in futility that only heightened her panic.

Her pulse throbbed violently under the stranglehold, a drumbeat in her ears that drowned out the distant sounds of the suburban night.Hugh’s face flashed across her mental vision, a bittersweet memory of safety and love now so far removed from her current peril.Gwen’s body convulsed in a primal fight for survival, yet each movement seemed to only hasten the descent of darkness at the edges of her sight.

Breath came in ragged sips, the world around her narrowing to a tunnel of dimming light.There was a surreal quality to these final conscious moments, a detachment from the violence being wrought upon her as if she were already a ghost observing the scene.As consciousness began to slip away, Gwen’s last thoughts were not of fear or anger, but a deep, overwhelming longing for the comforting presence of those she had loved and lost.

*

Timothy’s knees pressed hard against the cool grass, dampness seeping through the fabric of his dark jeans.His breath came in short bursts.Gwen Beck, the woman who had once held the power of the pen, now lay motionless beneath him.

Was she dead?

He’d planned for silence, for swift submission, but Gwen’s ferocity had rattled him.She had clawed at his wrists, and her scream—a piercing alarm—had shattered the stillness of the night.He hadn’t anticipated a struggle.Now, an eerie calm had settled over the scene like an accusation.His hands trembled slightly as he wiped the sweat from his brow, his eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of movement.

In spite of all that had occurred here in Gwen Beck’s driveway, the neighboring houses were all silent.Timothy replayed the scream in his head, wondering if it had been loud enough to penetrate the walls of a suburban evening’s recreation or slumber.He could not afford witnesses; there was too much at stake.

His mother’s name had been dragged through the mud by Gwen’s words, her legacy tainted by the stories that Gwen exposed.This final act was meant to be a cleansing fire rather than a beacon drawing prying eyes to that history.

He rose to his feet, his gaze lingering on the outline of Gwen’s body in the dim porch light.A sense of urgency gripped him.

Maintain control,he told himself sharply.

Although the potential consequences of discovery were terrible, panic would only lead to mistakes, and Timothy Lancaster was no amateur.He had come this far, had moved like the ghost he was supposed to be, had silenced those who had wronged his mother with meticulous care.Gwen Beck was to be the last one, his final act of retribution.Then he could vanish again.

Drawing a deep breath, he forced his heart rate to slow, schooling his features into an expression of detached calm.The evening air carried the distant hum of a highway, ordinary sounds that underscored the surreal nature of his task.He surveyed the street, the driveways, the curtained windows.No lights flickered on; no doors creaked open.It seemed that Slychester slept on, oblivious.

Timothy allowed himself a thin smile.The night was still his ally.With a final, cautious glance, he prepared to move Gwen.All he needed was to remain unseen, to carry out this last deed without the complication of discovery.And then, finally, his mother’s honor would be restored.

Satisfied that he was safe for the moment, Timothy put his fingers against Gwen’s neck, seeking the rhythmic thrum of life beneath her skin.When he found it—a steady pulse beating back against his touch—a silent exhale of relief escaped him.

This was good.This was necessary.He did not wish for her to depart just yet, not like Garrett Fenn, whose academic rigor had been silenced without ceremony; or Margaret Whitfield, whose nurturing mind had been so brutally extinguished; or Robert Nash, a pillar of mathematical integrity now crumbled into nothingness.

No, Gwen Beck deserved a different ending.The others had been mere preparations, their lives snuffed out as smoothly as they had lived them—unassuming, methodical, almost forgettable.But Gwen...she was the final note in his symphony of vengeance, and Timothy intended to conduct her ending with the precision of a maestro savoring each drawn-out pause before the coda.

With the assurance that Gwen’s life force still flowed, Timothy steeled himself for the task at hand.He bent down, sliding his arm beneath her knees and another securing her shoulders.The weight of her body was a tangible reminder of the burden he carried—the weight of his mother’s tarnished legacy resting upon his own shoulders.

He lifted Gwen, her limp form a stark contrast to the fierce spirit she’d shown only moments ago.Through the darkness, he maneuvered around the outside of her house, every step taken with a predator’s grace.

His car waited patiently in the alley that ran behind these sleepy homes.He carried her unconscious body to the vehicle and settled her into the trunk.Then, he allowed himself a moment to savor the satisfaction of his completed work.

Timothy shut the lid of the truck, walked to the driver’s side of the car, and slid behind the wheel.In this familiar space, he was in control; every decision, every turn was his to command.As he drove through Slychester’s slumbering streets, his thoughts fixated on the moment Gwen would awaken.The expectation of her eyes opening wide with realization and fear gave him a perverse sense of satisfaction.She would find herself held in an unfamiliar place, promising finality rather than release.

Timothy would make sure that the harm she had inflicted upon his mother—the public disgrace of Martha Lancaster—would be the last thought to run through Gwen’s mind.He imagined her regret.It would be wonderful poetic justice.

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