Chapter 3 3

Three months later, the neon lights of Times Square bled through Bryn's transparent form. She floated in front of a massive jumbotron, staring at the breaking news ticker.

On the screen, Keifer walked out of a federal courthouse. His hands were cuffed in front of him. His perfectly styled hair was a greasy mess, and his handsome face was pale with absolute terror.

The news anchor's voice announced that the Holcomb family had all their assets seized by the federal government due to massive tax fraud and perjury charges.

The screen cut to a new image. Fabiola stood in a courtroom wearing an orange jumpsuit. She looked exhausted, her face devoid of makeup, facing life in prison for wire fraud and conspiracy to commit murder across state lines.

A rush of pure adrenaline hit Bryn's chest. The revenge felt good, but a hollow, freezing emptiness quickly followed.

She realized Dominic hadn't been in the news. He hadn't appeared anywhere in the last three months. A sickening panic gripped her throat.

The giant screen flickered. A violent, invisible force grabbed Bryn's soul and yanked her backward.

She slammed back into reality, standing in the middle of the Pine Grove Cemetery in Seattle. The storm was gone. The sun beat down on her back.

Her grave had been completely rebuilt. The new, massive headstone was surrounded by hundreds of fresh white lisianthus flowers.

Dominic stood quietly in front of the stone. He was wearing a pristine, perfectly tailored white tuxedo.

His hair was combed back flawlessly. A diamond brooch caught the sunlight on his lapel. He looked like a man about to walk down the aisle.

Bryn dropped to the grass in front of him. She looked up at his face. His skin was ashen, completely drained of blood. Her heart felt like it was being crushed in a vice.

Dominic slowly crouched down. His long fingers reached out and gently traced the porcelain photo of Bryn on the headstone. A soft, genuine smile touched his lips.

He whispered to the stone. He told her it was finally over. The people who hurt her were rotting in hell, and now, he could finally come pick her up.

Bryn's eyes went wide. Panic exploded in her chest. She waved her hands frantically, screaming at him to stop, begging him to just live his life.

Dominic reached into the pocket of his white jacket. He pulled out a silver surgical scalpel. The sharp blade gleamed in the bright sunlight.

He didn't hesitate for a single second. He pressed the blade hard against the radial artery of his left wrist and pulled.

Bright red blood sprayed through the air. It splattered across the pure white fabric of his tuxedo, blooming like crushed red roses in the snow.

Bryn let out a blood-curdling scream. She threw herself at his arm, trying to press her hands against the open wound, but her ghostly fingers slipped right through the hot blood.

Dominic slumped backward. He leaned heavily against the granite headstone. He didn't try to stop the bleeding. He just let his life drain away, his dark eyes fixed tenderly on her carved name.

He used the very last ounce of his strength to lean forward. He pressed his pale lips against the cold stone, leaving a bloody kiss right above her name.

Bryn fell to her knees beside him, sobbing uncontrollably. The truth hit her with the force of a freight train. This man had loved her with his entire life.

Dominic's chest stopped moving. Those aggressive, hostile eyes slowly fluttered shut, leaving behind a face of total peace.

The moment his heart stopped, the air around Bryn violently warped. A sickening vertigo twisted her stomach inside out.

A blinding white light swallowed the cemetery. It swallowed Dominic's bleeding body. It swallowed her soul.

A sharp, high-pitched ringing pierced her ears. Bryn gasped for air and snapped her eyes open.

She wasn't floating. The soles of her shoes were planted firmly on a hard linoleum floor. Her back was pressed tight against a row of freezing metal lockers.

The deafening noise of high school teenagers shouting and slamming doors hit her eardrums. The air smelled like cheap body spray and industrial bleach.

Bryn held up her hands. They were solid. Her skin was warm. Around her right wrist was the braided lucky bracelet she used to wear when she was sixteen.

She whipped her head to the side and stared at the digital clock mounted on the brick wall. The red numbers glared back at her: September 14, 2018. 8:15 AM.

She was back in high school. Three years before she died. The gears of fate had just violently shifted into reverse.