Chapter 4
I stare out the window, the world a blurred smudge of charcoal and bruised purple.
It’s five in the morning, that dead hour where the night hasn't quite given up and the day is too fucking tired to start. We’re heading back to The Tin Heart, the engine of the car humming a low, predatory vibration beneath us.
I see my father's friend from long ago, Luke, being a creep and watching some women walk by him. It's been a while since I last saw him. Maybe because I don't interact with anyone.
Rhys is driving, one hand relaxed on the steering wheel, the other resting heavily on my lap.
His palm is warm, his grip possessive, a constant reminder that I belong to him—body, soul, and every shattered piece of my mind.
Outside, Whitby is still crawling with the remnants of the Goth Weekend; a few stray figures in velvet and lace haunt the street corners like misplaced spirits, but the town feels empty, hollowed out by the gray drizzle.
He parks the car with a sharp jerk and gets out, moving with that effortless, lethal grace.
He opens my door, his eyes searching mine for a second before he leads me toward the toy shop.
As we approach, I spot his men. They’re stationed outside, silent and stony-faced, guarding the place as if it were a fucking fortress.
It’s still pitch black, and Rhys clicks on a flashlight, the beam cutting through the gloom like a blade.
Using my keys that he has now, he lets us in.
Once inside, the silence of the shop is suffocating. He doesn't linger on the ground floor; he leads me straight upstairs, the floorboards groaning under our weight. When we reach the hallway, he stops abruptly and turns to me.
"We're going into your and your sisters' bedroom," he says, his voice low.
The air leaves my lungs in a sudden, violent rush. I recoil, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Why? Why the fuck would we go in there?"
"Because he hid something there nineteen years ago," he explains, his expression unreadable. "VHS tapes. There’s no electricity in this shithole to play them, so we’re just retrieving them and taking them back to my office.
But Ophelia..." He steps closer, his voice dropping an octave, warning.
"You need to brace yourself for what you'll find on those tapes. "
I swallow hard, my throat feeling like it's filled with glass. "What's in them?"
"The truth," he murmurs. "Those tapes are a record of your mother's life... after your father kidnapped her."
My knees go weak, and I actually have to lean against the wall to keep from collapsing. The world tilts on its axis. "So... he really did it? He actually stalked her? He fucking kidnapped her?"
Rhys reaches out, his large hands cupping my face, forcing me to look at him.
His thumbs brush over my cheekbones, his touch surprisingly tender for a man who just shot a man's ear off.
"Yes. Thomas stalked her. He hunted her down and stole her from her life.
He was a monster long before he became a murderer. "
I go quiet. The silence is deafening, filled only by the sound of my own ragged breathing. I can feel him reading me, peeling back the layers of my panic.
"I know exactly what's screaming in your head right now," he whispers, his gaze intense, almost hypnotic.
"You're wondering if you're just a repeat of the cycle.
Listen to me, Ophelia. I am not going to hurt you.
I am not going to kill you just because I stalked you.
You are not destined for your mother's fate.
Not by my hand. And I will personally gut anyone who even thinks about trying to make it happen. "
I close my eyes, leaning into his touch for a fleeting second. "Let's just... let's just get the fucking tapes."
He doesn't move. He just keeps staring at me, his eyes searching my soul. I feel exposed, stripped bare. I think back to the car ride, the brief glimpse I caught of myself in the side mirror—pale skin, dark eyes, a ghost of a girl.
"I was wondering," I whisper, my voice trembling. "As I looked at myself... how many times did my papa look at me and see her instead? Was he calling me a ghost because I reminded him of the woman he murdered?"
A shudder ripples through me. It's horrifying. For years, I thought I was losing my mind, that the 'ghost' comments were just part of his alcohol induced delusions. But now I know.
And unlike my sisters’ faces instead of my own when looking in the mirror, I'm not hallucinating. I was just a living mirror of his greatest crime.
I look exactly like my mom as an adult.
Rhys pulls me flush against him, his arms wrapping around me in a crushing, protective embrace. He buries his face in the crook of my neck, his breath hot against my skin.
"You are not her, Ophelia," he growls, his voice vibrating through my chest. "You are something far more exquisite.
Your mother was a victim, a beautiful bird in a cage.
But you... you are a survivor. You are my cracked doll, and every single fracture in you makes you more precious.
Thomas didn't see a ghost; he saw his own failure.
He saw the one thing he couldn't break, and it terrified him.
You aren't a reminder of a dead woman—you are the living proof that he lost."
He holds me until the shaking stops, then he pulls back and produces the key. With a heavy click, he unlocks the door.
As the door swings open, the smell hits me first—stale air, old fabric, and a thick, cloying layer of dust that tastes like copper and time. I step inside, and my heart nearly stops.
It’s a time capsule of a childhood that ended in blood.
Three small beds are lined up, the floral sheets faded and grey with dust. Cobwebs drape from the ceiling like rotting lace, clinging to everything.
In the corner, a wooden rocking horse stands frozen, its paint peeling, one glass eye missing, leaving a dark, hollow socket that seems to watch me.
There are vintage dolls with matted hair and cracked porcelain faces scattered across the floor, and a pile of old building blocks that look like tiny tombstones in the dim light.
Walking in here for the first time since they died... it feels like stepping into a grave. I can almost hear the echoes of our laughter, the ghosts of the girls we used to be.
I stand there, frozen, clutching my own arms as Rhys moves with purpose.
He doesn't waste time on the nostalgia. He walks to a specific spot near the wardrobe, kneels, and pries up a loose floorboard with a sharp crack.
He reaches into the dark void beneath and pulls out a heavy plastic bag filled with old VHS tapes.
I can't stop looking around. My heart is drumming a frantic rhythm in my ears.
I remember this room. I remember how we used to huddle together under the covers, whispering scary stories way past our bedtime, the air thick with excitement and fear.
Cordelia was always the ringleader, the bossy one who decided which story we told.
Rosalind was the funny one, always making a joke to break the tension when things got too creepy.
And me... I was the storyteller. I loved the way their eyes widened when I lowered my voice.
I remember the night I convinced them the tooth fairy wasn't a benevolent spirit, but a skeletal creature that collected teeth to build a palace of bone.
I can almost hear our father's muffled roar from downstairs, yelling at us to shut the fuck up and get to sleep.
I remember helping each other get ready for school, braiding Rosalind's hair, arguing over homework, the three of us against the world. Or so we thought.
I look at the empty beds and feel a surge of pure, unadulterated hatred for the man currently rotting in Rhys's dungeon. He didn't just kill them; he stole the only sanctuary I ever knew.
I follow Rhys into his office, the heavy door clicking shut behind us, sealing out the rest of the world.
The room smells of old leather, expensive tobacco, and that sharp, metallic scent that always seems to cling to him.
His desk is the same massive, dark slab of mahogany that looks like it belongs in a courtroom or a torture chamber, and sitting right in the center is a clunky, outdated VHS player, its black plastic casing looking alien against the gothic elegance of the room.
Rhys doesn't say a word. He just reaches out, grabs my waist, and pulls me firmly onto his lap as he sinks into his oversized leather chair.
I settle against him, my back to his chest, feeling the steady, thumping rhythm of his heart against my spine.
He wraps one arm around me, locking me in place, while his other hand hovers near the player.
"How did you even know about these tapes?" I ask, my voice sounding small in the vastness of the office.
He doesn't answer immediately. He just tightens his grip, his fingers digging slightly into my hip.
"I'll tell you everything in time," he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear.
"But right now, Ophelia, you need to understand something. What’s on this tape...
it will break your fucking heart in half.
It will absolutely destroy you." He pauses, and for the first time, I detect a flicker of something like genuine pain in his tone.
"Even I couldn't handle what I saw. I watched those tapes, and it nearly unhinged me. That’s why I knew I had to protect you from your father, no matter what it took. No matter who I had to kill to do it."
I go quiet, the silence stretching between us, heavy and suffocating. I swallow hard, feeling a cold knot of dread tightening in my gut. "It's that bad, huh?"