Riviera Reckoning

The air was thick with the copper tang of blood and the choking, sulfurous stench of leaking gas. My ears were ringing—a high, thin whine that drowned out the fading screams of the man I used to call my husband and the sister who had just finished mocking my soul for a live audience. I lay pressed against the cold earth of the hidden chamber I’d built with my own hands, watching the flickering orange glow of the fire eat through the stage where they had intended to film my death. Scott and Lily wanted a show for their donors; they wanted my agony to fund their greed. Instead, they got the explosion I triggered with a steady hand and a shattered heart. I was the disposable prop who refused to play her part, and as the ceiling of the haunted attraction groaned above us, I knew the nightmare wasn't over—it was just moving out of the basement and into the light.