He Killed My Grandmother for His First Love

Chapter 8

"Ms. Holloway, you're awake! Finally!"

I was only half-conscious, but through the haze, I saw the face of the person who had pulled me from the fire. It turned out to be the daughter of the elderly man I used to see in the park. Her name was Harley Cohen, a victim in a case I'd worked on years ago. She told me she remembered me clearly because I had helped her win her lawsuit and never charged a dime.

Honestly, I didn't even remember. But she did.

Harley explained that she'd seen security footage of me being knocked out, tied up, and thrown into a car. That's when she rushed home to check on me.

"Wait," I croaked. "Wasn't that area a camera blind spot?"

She smiled faintly. "Yeah, funny thing, my grandma tripped and fell there once, so I installed a camera just the day before your incident."

After that, I didn't catch much of what she said. My ears were ringing, my head was pounding, but one thing was crystal clear:

I had more evidence against Elaina now.

I asked Harley for the footage. She handed it over without hesitation. I also retrieved the video from my cloud backup, the one where Elaina sicced her dogs on my grandmother. That was enough. I didn't care if I was still weak or bandaged, I had to get to court.

Harley tried to stop me. "You need to rest a little longer."

But I couldn't wait any more.

The moment I got out of bed, I felt the sting on my right forearm. The fire had left a four-inch scar, angry, red, and permanent. When Harley caught a glimpse of it in the mirror, her eyes welled up with tears.

"I'm so sorry. I got there too late. You got hurt because of me."

"No," I whispered, touching her arm. "I survived because of you."

She gave me a small box. "This… is yours."

"I had to pry it out of your hand," she added softly. "You were holding on so tightly, the doctors couldn't treat you properly."

I opened the lid.

Inside was a tiny handful of my grandmother's ashes, the only thing left of her.

Tears blurred my vision instantly. I clutched the box to my chest and pulled Harley into a tight hug, sobbing as I thanked her over and over again.

Three days later, the doctors cleared me to go home. As I packed my things, I glanced at the TV mounted in the hospital room.

Phillip's face was on the screen.

He looked like a ghost of the man I once knew, gaunt, pale, unshaven. The always-pristine heir to the Murray family now had dark circles under his eyes and days-old stubble on his chin.

"The Murray family's young master is still searching for his missing wife," the news anchor said. "It's been over a month with no leads."

"Some say Mr. Murray hasn't eaten in days. They claim he was deeply devoted to his wife and is taking the disappearance very hard."

"Ms. Holloway," Harley asked gently, "do you know him?"

I stared at the screen, emotionless.

"No."

Without another word, I picked up the box of ashes and walked out of the room. But just before leaving, a flicker of memory crossed my mind, the men who had dragged me away, their rough hands, the fear.

On instinct, I grabbed the fruit knife from the hospital tray and slipped it into my bag.

Just in case.