ABIGAIL

It was Emmette in the audience. It was really him. A part of me couldn’t believe it, but that face—that voice—that boisterous smirk. It was unmistakable.

But he should be dead. The blast had been too intense. His body should have evaporated—yet it was never found. Could it be that he escaped?

He stood there, unscathed, and my body was caught between trembling in rage and fear.

“Sh—Sh” Before I could give the order to my men to fire on Emmette, bullets suddenly tore through the room. Everyone dropped low as my men retaliated, unleashing a storm of gunfire of their own, that lasted nearly two minutes.

When it...