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Bastard (A Novel)

Chapter 5 (continued)

By TestPublished 2 months ago Updated 2 months ago 3 min read
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The following day, Frank Miller had the gall to knock on the door, expecting to be let in.

He wanted to carry on with the way things had been before.

The way things had been before Roseanne Miller had found out, to her shock and dismay, that he had raped their only daughter Sarah.

The door remained shut, but Frank shot through it with his gun.

Roseanne screamed as the bullet whizzed past her, grateful that Sarah was upstairs.

"Frank. I am calling the police!"

"Don't you dare call the cops, Roseanne. DON'T YOU DARE!!"

She picked up the phone and began dialing the number.

When Sarah had heard the shot, she'd dialed the doctor, Mr. Jonathen Heathrow, because she knew this was going to be a fight.

"Mom. Mom, are you okay?!"

She'd run down the stairs quickly to check on Roseanne, but by the time she'd gotten there, all that was left was a lifeless body, the doctor, and no one else.

The doctor was holding a vile.

She wondered what exactly was in it, but he did have a sympathetic look on his face.

As she looked closer, she realized it was empty.

"Where is my father?"

"I don't know."

"He marched in here, shot your mother, and left. I've called the cops to no avail. They said they'd be here ten minutes ago."

Cop cars lurched outside and an army of men with guns came marching in ten minutes too late.

"It's too late, folks. She's gone. Show over," Sarah shouted before heading back upstairs."

She laid down on her bed and sobbed, feeling empty to her core.

I have no one. No one left in this world except myself. No dad—no dad who's here and who's decent. I would never want to be with that monster anyway, but now my mom. The one who kept me safe—the one who wanted to keep me away from him—is gone.


She's never coming back.

The tears fell down her cheeks like droplets of rain in a thunderstorm, as aggressively as the worst storm you can imagine.

Downstairs, the cops looked suspiciously at the doctor.

"You. You're the one who's suspected of killing that patient. And now we find you here, with an empty vile, right next to a dead woman."

Dr. Heathrow put his hands up.

"I swear it wasn't me. I was...only trying to help. I'm afraid I was too late."

"If it wasn't you, then who?"

"Frank Miller."

"Do you have evidence to prove it? Where is he now?"

"I'm afraid I have no evidence. He's gone."



"Where to?"

"You'd have to ask him that, but he isn't HERE."

"Fine. I'm afraid we'll have to take you in for questioning," Robert Gunford, one of the cops, replied, "Protocol."

"Alright then."

Heathrow sighed and gave his hands to them for them to cuff him.

Sarah ran downstairs to get one last look at her mother before they took her away.

Red blood, red dress, red shoes, her blonde hair cascading down her shoulders, reflecting the sunlight even after her death.

She'd always been so beautiful. Roseanne. Even during the tough times, she'd always been there. Always.

"Miss!" Robert Gunford shouted. "We have to take you in for questioning."

"Me? I wouldn't. I-I'm her—"

"We know. Dr. Heathrow told us. You're her daughter. Protocol, I'm afraid. We have to find all the needles in the haystack."

He held out handcuffs.

"C'mon. Cooperate and I won't have to do this again. If you don't, I'm afraid we'll have to continue questioning you, and none of us want that."

He glared at her.

"Fine," Sarah groaned and held her hands out.


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