Wasted
1171 Words
Rowan’s POV
Rowan stumbled through the door of his home, his body trembling uncontrollably. His maids rushed toward him, faces twisted in concern, but he brushed past them. He wasn’t ready for questions. He wasn’t ready for anything.
His mother, Mrs. Chandler, descended the grand staircase, her eyes wide with shock. “Rowan, are you alright?” she asked. “Have you seen your sister?”
Without answering, Rowan stormed past her, ignoring the flurry of questions about his well-being. He needed to be alone. The maids hovered nearby, offering to bring him food or care for him in some way, but he shook his head violently, rejecting them all.
Once he reached the sanctuary of his room, he slammed the door shut and peeled off his clothes. They reeked of gasoline, a sharp reminder of the chaos he had just escaped. He tossed them into the laundry bin with disgust. His body felt heavy, his mind fogged with guilt and horror. His pulse was loud in his ears as he made his way to the bathroom.
He filled the bathtub with steaming water, sinking into it, hoping the heat would wash away everything—the blood, the fear, the endless guilt. He lowered his head beneath the water, holding his breath, feeling the suffocation creep up on him, part of him wishing it would be the end. The thought of death seemed easier than what awaited him in the real world.
But he wasn’t ready. Not yet.
Rowan gasped for air as he shot up from the water, coughing and sputtering. His chest heaved, and his mind screamed with frustration. He wanted to drown his emotions, his sins, but it wasn’t that simple.
A knock came at the door, sharp and persistent.
“Rowan?” his mother’s voice broke through. “Are you alright? Why do your clothes look stolen, and why do you smell like gasoline?”
Rowan’s heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t let her know. Not about Rachel. Not about the murder. His fingerprints were on everything, and he was the prime suspect. He couldn’t afford to let his mother see the truth.
“I’m fine, Mom,” Rowan called out, his voice cracking as he hastily dried himself off. “Just had a few drinks with friends.”
His mother wasn’t convinced. “Open the door. I want to talk to you.”
Rowan cursed under his breath, grabbing a towel and tying it around his waist as he opened the door a crack. His mother pushed past him, her gaze sharp, scanning him up and down. “What are you hiding?” she demanded. “I saw everything when you were little, Rowan. Don’t act like this is a big deal.”
“Mother, what do you want?” he snapped, his frustration evident.
She narrowed her eyes, softening her voice. “I want the truth, son. Tell me what’s going on.”
Rowan’s heart raced, his mind scrambling for an excuse. He couldn’t tell her about Rachel. He couldn’t explain why his clothes reeked of gasoline or why his hands trembled as if he’d just been caught in the middle of a crime.
So he lied. “I got dumped,” he muttered. “By a girl I was dating in Germany.”
His mother’s face softened instantly. “Oh, Rowan…” She pulled him into a hug, and despite his resistance, he let her. “I remember when I was young, I got dumped so many times before I met your father. Heartbreak is hard, but you’ll move past it.”
Rowan swallowed the lump in his throat. Her kindness felt like a knife. She didn’t know the truth, and if she did, it would break her. His mother, the woman who’d been through so much already, couldn’t bear another tragedy.
“Come now, have something to eat,” she said, calling the maid to bring dessert and dinner to his room. She sat beside him as he ate, her eyes filled with concern and love. She kissed his forehead before leaving him alone for the night.
Rowan stared at the empty dishes, his mind racing. He knew that this quiet moment wouldn’t last. Horror was not far from him. The frame-up, the murder—it all felt familiar somehow, as though he’d experienced something like it before but couldn’t quite place it.
***
It was 4 a.m. when Rowan jolted awake to the sound of police sirens. The Arizona police department’s vehicles were parked outside, flashing lights illuminating the early morning darkness. FBI agents filled the house, their voices a blur as they questioned his mother.
Rowan rushed downstairs, his heart pounding in his chest. His mother looked up at him with teary eyes, as if she knew something he didn’t.
The detectives approached him, their faces grim. “Mr. Chandler, we have some questions regarding your sister’s whereabouts,” one of them said. “Do you know where Rachel is?”
Rowan’s stomach churned. “No, I haven’t seen her.”
The detective’s gaze was hard, calculating. “Do you know anything about Rachel’s disappearance or her death?”
Rowan’s mouth went dry. “Her… death?” He forced himself to remain calm, suppressing the wave of panic threatening to swallow him whole. He knew he couldn’t act suspicious. He had to keep it together.
“I don’t know anything,” he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside.
Before they could press further, Rowan excused himself and headed to work. The drive to Chandler Enterprises was a blur, his mind racing with too many thoughts. As he pulled into the parking lot, his eyes landed on something—or someone—familiar.
Sia.
She was hiding by the hotdog stand, her eyes darting around nervously. Rowan’s heart sank. Had she said something? Did she know what happened? Was she about to turn him in?
He hurried toward the building, hoping to catch her before she did anything rash, but it was too late. By the time he reached the elevator, Sia was already inside, surrounded by FBI agents. Rowan’s heart hammered in his chest, and he slammed his fist against the wall in fury as the elevator doors closed.
He had to stop her. He had to get answers.
The elevator came back down, and Rowan quickly stepped inside, pressing the button for the 36th floor. His thoughts were racing as the elevator ascended. He was desperate for answers, but also terrified of what Sia might say.
When the doors opened, he sprinted down the hallway, ready to confront her, but stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the FBI agents still talking with Sia.
Rowan froze, fear gripping him. Instead of approaching her, he turned and hurried into the break room. He poured himself a cup of coffee, his hands trembling as he tried to steady his nerves.
This wasn’t over.
Hell was about to break loose.
And there was nothing he could do to stop it.
- Writer
