Updated Nov 27, 2025 • ~11 min read
Poppy’s mind raced. Dominick was in the house. Between them and the exit. And she was holding evidence that proved he was a murderer.
Rochelle’s eyes were wide with terror. She mouthed, “What do we do?”
Poppy held up her phone, silently indicating she’d call 911. But her hands were shaking so badly she nearly dropped it.
“I can hear you moving around,” Dominick called from the living room. “There’s no point hiding. I tracked your phone. I know you’re here.”
Of course. Poppy’s phone. He’d probably installed tracking software months ago, back when she thought his interest in her location was romantic concern rather than controlling surveillance.
She quickly pulled up the camera app and started recording video, then slipped the phone into her jacket pocket with the lens pointing out. If something happened, at least there would be evidence.
“Stay behind me,” Poppy whispered to Rochelle. Then, louder: “We’re in the office. And we’ve called the police.”
A bluff. But maybe it would make him think twice.
Footsteps approached. Dominick appeared in the doorway, and for the first time since Poppy had known him, he looked truly disheveled. His shirt was untucked, his hair wild. Dark circles shadowed his eyes.
He looked like a man on the edge.
“You didn’t call the police,” he said, his gaze moving to the open lockbox on the desk. The scattered letters. The file folder from Leah with the incriminating emails clearly visible. “But you should have. Would have been smarter than coming here alone.”
“We’re not alone. My sister is here. People know where we are.”
“Do they?” Dominick stepped into the room. “Your sister yes. But who else? Who did you tell you were coming to my private property to illegally search my belongings?”
“It’s not illegal. I have a key. You gave it to me.”
“A key to the cottage. Not permission to break into locked boxes and read private correspondence.” His eyes were cold, calculating. The mask of the grieving boyfriend had fallen away entirely.
This was the real Dominick. The one who’d planned a murder and executed it without remorse.
“These emails,” Poppy said, gesturing to the folder. “Between you and Fletcher Holloway. About sabotaging Rosa’s brakes.”
“Circumstantial. Could be faked. Digital evidence is notoriously unreliable.”
“The police can trace them. Verify the email accounts. Find this Fletcher person and make him testify.”
“Assuming Fletcher exists. Assuming those emails are real and not something you created to frame me because I humiliated you at our wedding.” Dominick’s voice was steady, reasonable. Exactly the tone he’d use with police. “You’re the jilted bride, Poppy. Unstable. Vengeful. Half the internet already thinks you’re unhinged.”
He was right. That’s exactly how it would look. Especially if he got to the emails first. Destroyed them. Made it her word against his.
“There are the letters too,” Poppy said. “Your letters to Rosa. Confessing what you did.”
“Love letters to a dead woman. Written by a grieving man. They don’t confess anything except that I miss her. That I feel guilty for surviving when she didn’t. That’s not evidence of murder.”
He’d thought of everything. Every angle, every possible interpretation. He’d been planning this defense for five years, probably. Just in case.
“Why did you do it?” Poppy asked. “If you loved her so much—if you’ve spent five years mourning her—why kill her?”
Dominick’s expression flickered. For just a moment, she saw real emotion. Real pain.
“Because she was going to leave me. Take everything I’d built, everything I’d worked for, and disappear across the country. I couldn’t let that happen.”
“So you murdered her.”
“I arranged an accident. There’s a difference.”
The casual way he said it made Poppy’s blood run cold. He wasn’t even denying it anymore. Saw no point, probably, since Poppy had found the proof.
Which meant he wasn’t planning to let her leave with that proof.
“Dominick,” Rochelle said, her voice shaking. “Please. Just let us go. We won’t say anything—”
“Don’t insult my intelligence. Of course you’ll say something. You’ll run straight to the police with those emails and those letters and your wild theories.” He pulled something from his pocket.
A gun.
Small, black, lethal.
Rochelle gasped. Poppy’s heart stopped.
“This doesn’t have to end badly,” Dominick said, his tone almost gentle. “I don’t want to hurt you, Poppy. Truly. You were never supposed to be part of this. You were supposed to be my second chance. My way of moving forward.”
“By pretending I was Rosa.”
“By having someone who looked enough like her that I could remember the good times without drowning in guilt.” He gestured with the gun. “Give me the emails. The letters. Everything you found.”
“And then what? You let us go?”
“Sure. Why not? Without the evidence, it’s just your word against mine. And I’m the bereaved boyfriend who’s been publicly humiliated. You’re the scorned bride with an axe to grind. Who do you think people will believe?”
He was probably right. The story would be perfectly crafted—crazy ex-fiancée breaks into his property, makes wild accusations, forges evidence. Dominick would be the victim.
Again.
Just like he’d been the victim when Rosa died. Poor, grief-stricken Dominick who’d lost his love to a tragic accident.
“What if I already sent copies to the police?” Poppy bluffed.
“Did you?” Dominick’s eyes narrowed. “Really? Or are you hoping I’ll believe that and panic?”
Damn. He knew her too well.
“Call her bluff or don’t,” Rochelle said suddenly, her voice stronger. “But you should know—I’ve been live streaming this entire conversation to my Instagram. Thousands of people are watching right now. Including the part where you just confessed to murdering Rosa.”
Dominick’s face drained of color. “You’re lying.”
“Check my pocket. My phone’s in there, camera pointing at you.” Rochelle held very still. “Go ahead. Look.”
For a moment, Poppy thought he might. Thought he might actually approach Rochelle to check, and then they could run, or fight, or something.
But Dominick just laughed. A hollow, bitter sound.
“Nice try. But I can see your phone on the desk behind you. Screen dark. Not streaming anything.”
Rochelle’s shoulders sagged. It had been worth a shot.
“Last chance,” Dominick said, raising the gun. “Give me the evidence. Now.”
Poppy’s mind raced. Her phone was recording in her pocket, but Dominick didn’t know that. The police weren’t coming. No one knew they were here.
If she gave him the emails and letters, he’d destroy them. Probably destroy her and Rochelle too, despite his promises. He couldn’t risk them talking.
But if she refused, he’d shoot them and take the evidence anyway.
Lose-lose.
Unless…
“Okay,” Poppy said, moving slowly toward the desk. “You win. Take the evidence. We’ll disappear. Tell anyone who asks that we were making it all up.”
Her hand closed around the folder with the emails. But instead of handing it to Dominick, she threw it—hard—toward the window.
Papers scattered everywhere, some flying outside through the partially open window.
“What are you doing?!” Dominick lunged for the papers, momentarily distracted.
“Run!” Poppy grabbed Rochelle’s hand and bolted for the door.
They made it into the hallway before hearing the gunshot.
The sound was deafening in the enclosed space. Poppy didn’t know if he was aiming at them or just firing to scare them, and she didn’t stop to find out.
They crashed through the front door and sprinted for Rochelle’s car. Keys. Where were the keys?
“Rochelle, keys!”
“In my pocket!” Her sister fumbled, hands shaking.
Another gunshot. The car window exploded, safety glass showering them.
“Forget the car!” Poppy dragged Rochelle toward the woods. “Into the trees!”
They ran blindly, branches whipping their faces, roots trying to trip them. Behind them, Dominick shouted something, but Poppy couldn’t make out the words over the sound of her own racing heartbeat.
The forest was thick here, offering cover. They zigged and zagged between trees, putting distance between themselves and the house.
Finally, when Poppy’s lungs were burning and her legs felt like jelly, they collapsed behind a fallen log.
“Is he… following?” Rochelle panted.
Poppy listened. Heard nothing but wind in the trees and her own ragged breathing.
“I don’t know. Maybe he went back for the papers.”
“Did you see where they landed?”
“Some went out the window. Some are still inside.” Poppy pulled out her phone. The video was still recording—she had at least audio of Dominick’s confession. “We need to call the police. Now. Before he gets away.”
Her hands shook as she dialed 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“My name is Poppy Knight. I’m at 1847 Lakeview Drive. My ex-fiancé just tried to kill me and my sister. He has a gun. He confessed to murdering his girlfriend five years ago. We have evidence. Please send help.”
The operator’s voice remained calm, professional. “Are you in a safe location?”
“We’re in the woods near the property. Hiding. I don’t know where he is.”
“Stay on the line. Officers are on their way. Can you describe the suspect?”
Poppy did, her voice mechanical as she recited Dominick’s details. Height, weight, clothing. The gun. Everything.
“ETA is eight minutes,” the operator said. “Stay hidden. Don’t move unless you have to.”
Eight minutes. A lifetime when someone with a gun was looking for you.
Rochelle gripped Poppy’s free hand. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t really have a stream going. I thought maybe—”
“It was smart. It almost worked.” Poppy squeezed back. “We’re going to be okay. Police are coming.”
“What if he finds us first?”
“He won’t.”
But even as Poppy said it, she heard a sound that made her blood freeze.
Footsteps. Moving through the underbrush. Getting closer.
And then Dominick’s voice, eerily calm.
“Poppy. I know you’re out here. I know you called the police. Which means we don’t have much time. So let’s make this quick.”
Closer now. Maybe twenty yards away.
“I never wanted it to end like this. You have to believe that. I loved you. In my way.”
Fifteen yards.
“But you just couldn’t leave well enough alone. Couldn’t let Rosa rest in peace. Had to dig and dig until you found things that should have stayed buried.”
Ten yards.
Poppy and Rochelle pressed themselves flat against the fallen log, barely breathing. Poppy’s phone was still connected to 911, the operator speaking quietly, telling them help was almost there, just hold on.
Five yards.
Poppy could see him now through the gaps in the log. Dominick, moving methodically, the gun held professionally. He’d done this before, she realized. Knew how to hunt.
Had he hunted Rosa too, that night on the highway?
“Come out, Poppy. Make this easier on both of us.”
Two yards.
He was going to find them. Any second now, he’d look behind the log and see them and—
Sirens.
Distant but getting closer.
Dominick froze, his head snapping toward the sound. Then he looked down, and his eyes locked with Poppy’s through the gap in the log.
For one long moment, they stared at each other.
Then he ran.
Crashing through the underbrush, back toward the house. Probably looking for his car. An escape route.
“Suspect is fleeing toward the house!” Poppy shouted into the phone. “White male, six-one, gray hair, armed!”
The sirens were louder now. So close.
And then—finally, blessedly—police cars appeared on the access road, lights flashing.
Officers poured out, weapons drawn. Shouting commands. Surrounding the property.
Poppy and Rochelle stumbled out from behind the log, hands raised so no one would mistake them for threats.
“We’re the ones who called!” Poppy shouted. “Dominick Langley has a gun! He went toward the house!”
Two officers immediately moved to secure them, checking for weapons, asking rapid-fire questions. Where was the suspect last seen? How many weapons? Any other people in the area?
Poppy answered as best she could, her whole body shaking with adrenaline crash.
And then, from the direction of the house, two gunshots in rapid succession.
Everyone froze.
A voice crackled over the radio. “Suspect down. I repeat, suspect down. Send medical.”
Poppy’s legs gave out. She collapsed onto the forest floor, Rochelle catching her.
It was over.
Dominick was caught.
And somewhere in that house were the emails and letters that would prove, once and for all, that he’d murdered Rosa Petrov in cold blood.
Justice, five years late.
But justice nonetheless.
Why repeat the same things over and over? The whole story has repeated lines everywhere in it
This chapter intentionally echoes earlier discoveries to show Lexie connecting the dots—tying the ghost account’s imagery to physical evidence she’s already found. But if the repetition reads as filler rather than reinforcement, it could be tightened without losing the investigative buildup.