Page 109 of The Viper
"Hank," I repeated, my voice cold. "Hank who?"
"Singleton," he gasped. "Hank Singleton."
I filed the name away, my grip tightening on the pistol. "Where is he?"
"I don't know! I swear to God, I don't know. We split up after—after the thing at the set. He said he was going to finish it. That's all he said. 'I'm going to finish it.' I don't know what he meant. Please, man, I don't know anything else."
I stared at him, searching for the lie. His face was pale, sweat beading on his forehead, and a dark stain was spreading across the front of his jeans. He'd pissed himself. He wasn't lying.
"Finish it," I muttered, my mind racing. Finish what? Lexi? Hannah? The production?
My phone buzzed in my pocket, the vibration cutting through the tension like a knife.
I knew, even before I pulled it out, that I was too late.
37
LEXI
They wouldn’t let me back inside the house.
Blue lights flashed against the brick, bouncing across the broken window where Hannah had fallen. The cops had taped off half the set, and Franklin paced the gravel drive like a man about to have a heart attack. Carrie hovered nearby, pale, clutching a bottled water she hadn’t opened. Benji stood with his hands in his hair, arguing with a medic about whether he could drive me to the hospital himself.
But there was nothing any of us could do—not yet. They said Hannah was still alive when they left. Critical. Stable enough to move.
Stable.
The word meant nothing.
I sat on the steps, arms wrapped around my knees, trying not to think about the blood on my hands or the sound her body made when it hit the ground. Trying not to think about what she’d said right before she jumped—you already know.
But I didn’t. I didn’t know anything anymore.
A shadow fell over me. “Ms. Montgomery?”
I looked up. Security. Black polo, radio on his shoulder, badge clipped to his belt. He was tall—maybe six-three—with a clean jaw, ballcap and the kind of military posture I’d learned to spot since Lucas.
“Dominion Hall liaison.” He flashed a badge quickly. The only thing I could read on it was the word ‘security.’ “Mr. Dane sent me to get you out of here. We’re moving you to a secure location.”
Mr. Dane. The sound of his name was a lifeline. “He sent you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” His voice was steady, calm. “We need to move now.”
I hesitated, scanning the yard. The police were distracted with statements. Franklin was still on the phone. Carrie caught my eye, mouthingyou okay? I nodded automatically.
“Okay,” I said. “Let me just grab my bag.”
“Where are your things?” the security guy asked. “Vehicle’s already out front.”
I pointed to the house that was now shut off to cast and crew. He looked up at it, pausing for a moment, then nodded, marching that way. I followed.
Something about the efficiency should have comforted me. It didn’t. My instincts—the ones Lucas had sharpened in me—buzzed faintly under my skin.
Still, I followed him.
The officer at the door gave us a cursory glance, hesitated, then nodded us through. “She’s with me,” he said, flashing his badge again, and just like that, the tape lifted and we were inside. No one questioned it—too much chaos, too many uniforms, everyone assuming someone else had cleared the details.
Upstairs, the room smelled like fear. The air was thick, stale, carrying the ghost of what had happened. I forced myself not to look at the window.
