𝔈𝔭𝔥𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔶 ℭ𝔞𝔫𝔞𝔯𝔡 | ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ |

|• Chapter One: Part One •|

       "I'm in the living room you dumbass, just I don't know- get some food, I'm sure Brandy would love them," I said sweetly. "Bran isn't getting any, he's done gotten into trouble today,"

     "Why can't our sweet boy have some cookies! Come on Ella, pleaseeee!" I couldn't resist from Anson's sweet tone. He peered down at me, and watched as I nodded, his little party success was quickly ended when the boxes in the cupboard had fallen.

        "Be freaking careful!"

       "I'm okay!" He laughed. I turned my heel quickly, rushing over to him.

        "Are you sure?" I asked slowly as he looked at me.

        The small gash on his temple had gotten worse, his blood ran down the side of his structured face. I grinned, grabbing the hand towel that was probably used for washing dishes, pressing it on his temple. He moved his hand over mine.

        "I'm fine," he said softly, staring intensely at me. I licked my lower lip, gripping tighter on the cloth that was balled up in my right hand. I inhaled sharply, looking in his direction somewhat dazed.

          The room went silent.

        "Ella, I'm okay," Anson said quietly. I blinked a few times, feeling him move my hand from the towel, sighing heavily as he did so. Anson ran the cloth down to his jaw. He wiped the blood that went down his neck a bit.

    "Okay," I breathed, "Just get it cleaned up before we go back to Brand."

      "I'm sure Will and that girl of his has some stuff to clean your hand with,"

     "Or the people here do...did," I pursed my lips, feeling sadness hit me, "Why'd you make me do that?" I asked quietly after a moment of another silence.

      Anson stood, pulling my body to his, wrapping his arms around my small frame,

    "I didn't make you, it's just, our job, they had it coming anyways...human trafficking would've sent them to jail," he pulled away to look at my face, "and then they'd get the death penalty after trial...we gave them the easy way out, and now their evidence is going to be gone," Anson explained.

        He gently pressed his lips onto my cheek, and then took the bag he had brought with us, throwing it over his shoulder.

        "Come find me when you're ready to demolish the house. You'll be okay,"

      And then, Anson walked out of the kitchen, leaving me behind, in search of more items in the other half of the house.

     I gripped onto the countertop behind me, hopping up on it, pushing away the boxes of random food around. My legs dangled over the edge, I kicked them back and forth, hearing the thuds from the back of my shoes hitting the cabinet door.

      My breaths came a bit quicker, and my chest soon enough followed to be tighter. I wrapped my arms around my torso and dipped my head down, trying to concentrate on breathing. I knew I could just yell for Anson to come back, but I didn't want him to know that my anxiety was back. I didn't want him to get mad.

     The two dead bodies laid lifelessly on the couch, Anson had put them there, forcing them to keep their eyes shut since that was one thing that made my anxiety go up even more. The lifeless bodies looking at me, but in reality, they don't. Their glistened over eyes and white brushed skin didn't move an inch.

     I opened my eyes for a moment, trying to forget about what was going on, what Anson and I did again. I knew I could just leave, but that meant leaving Anson as well. I don't want to do that.  I couldn't leave him, even though I want too. I don't want to deal with feeling like this after we murder people.

    I hopped down from the countertop after a few minutes of contemplating the thoughts that came across my mind. I left the kitchen and the living room just across from it, walking past the dining room, smiling at the last of its beauty.

        The glass curios and the wooden dining table, all of it looked quite expensive. I ran my fingers over the runner on the table, looking at the eight decorative plates, utensils and crochet covers under them. The room caused me to be in awe, still wondering why would two people –who had literally everything they could imagine– would do such crime.

    "Ella?" Anson called, his voice was toned, causing me to realize he was on high alert from my sudden walk in.

    "I uh, hey," I looked up from my feet, seeing that he held the knife he used on the male.

    "God, you scared me! I thought someone walked into the house!" He shoved the knife in his waistband and then walked over to me, grabbing my upper arm and dragging me with him. "I'm ready to burn the house, I got us some stuff. I'll show you when we get home though." He said as he walked out onto the porch. I glanced around the cornfield mess that was around this white ranch-style house.

       "Are you sure you want to burn it?" I asked quietly, ripping out of his grip.

       "Oh, sorry, I was holding onto your arm too tight," he said before looked at me "yeah, our fingerprints are all over it, we've got to burn it," he ran down the few steps, waiting for me to follow him.

        Once I did we made it to the back of his old cream colored Mustang. Anson popped the trunk, and pulled out two gallons of gasoline, both in the familiar red containers. I took one, and unscrewed the top, walking up to the house, and pouring it on the porch, making sure we'd have a clean exit out. Anson went inside with the container he had.

      I followed him after a moment of feeling paranoid, rushing into the living room, but stopping when I looked at the beautiful dining room. My lips pursed to keep myself from talking, and then the gasoline hit the dining table, chugging out of the red container.

       "I'm out!" I yelled to Anson

     "Go to the car! I'll meet you there!" Anson yelled back. I placed the gasoline container on the dining room table, and then walked out of the house, quickly getting into the car as casually as I could.

     Moments later, Anson came. He poured the last bit of gasoline he had along the front of the house, giving us enough to throw a match. He tossed the container. It hit the white fence and then he ran to the car hopping in.

     "Matches..." he muttered, fiddling around in the car before pulling out the tiny object. He opened the tiny compartment and rubbed the red part of the wooden stick on the side of the box.

        "Here,"  I took the match, waiting for him to start up the car. Once he did we drove a bit, and I tossed the match as hard as I could, watching the house immediately perish into flames.