Chapter 4 #2
"You need the basics first," Rhys says, his voice turning clinical, though his hold on me remains possessive.
"Your mother, Marguerite... she was nineteen.
A girl with big dreams, a bright spark. She wanted to be a writer.
Everyone loved her—she had a good head on her shoulders, and she was the apple of her parents' and two brothers' eyes.
She studied literature at Teesside University, but she stayed at home because it wasn't far, and her parents were protective.
Especially since there was a man... a shadow... following her."
I shiver. The image of my father as a predator is starting to solidify in my mind, and it's fucking sickening.
"He would wait outside her uni," Rhys continues, his voice a low growl.
"He followed her everywhere. Marguerite couldn't even go for a fucking coffee with her mates without that bastard lurking in the periphery.
But she wasn't attracted to him. Not in the slightest. She had a man she loved—her childhood sweetheart, Harry Jackson.
They were head over heels. They were getting married. "
I can almost picture her—young, hopeful, in love. A version of my mother I never knew.
"She'd already gone to the police," Rhys says.
"Thomas was arrested, but the system is a joke.
He was let go with a restraining order just one day before the wedding.
On the day of the rehearsal, Marguerite was coming back from a late meeting with the florist. Her fiancé had called to say he was on his way, but she stayed behind to finish the arrangements at the venue. "
Rhys shifts slightly, his gaze intensifying. "Do you remember a man named Luke?"
I frown, searching through the dusty archives of my memory. "Luke... yeah. He used to visit when I was a nipper. But after the girls died, I barely saw him. He was Dad's best mate. I actually saw him this morning, on the road."
"January 3rd, 2007," Rhys says, the date landing like a gavel.
"The day before the wedding. Everything was ready.
Marguerite left the venue to meet her brother, who was going to drive her home since Harry was running late.
On the way, a man jumped out of nowhere, shoved her to the ground, and snatched her purse.
A fucking street robbery. That man was Andrew Griffin. "
I hold my breath, leaning into Rhys as the story unfolds.
"But then, another man appeared. He was walking nearby and rushed over to help her, offering to walk her to her destination, her brother's office so she'd be safe.
Marguerite knew him—Luke Adam. They'd taken the same classes at uni.
She trusted him. She agreed, and they walked together.
But as they hit an isolated stretch, just minutes from the office...
Thomas appeared. He had a knife, and Andrew was with him.
The three of them overpowered her. They kidnapped her and dragged her to The Tin Heart. They threw her in the basement."
My eyes snap open, and I shake my head violently. "No. That's impossible. They don't have a basement. I've lived in that house my whole life, Rhys. There is no fucking basement under the toy shop."
"Thomas sealed it shut," Rhys says coldly. "He buried it under concrete and lies."
A wave of nausea rolls over me. The house I grew up in—the place where I felt safe, where I played with my sisters—was built on top of a hidden cell. A tomb for my mother's spirit.
"What happened next?" I whisper, my voice trembling.
Rhys's grip tightens until it's almost painful. "Think of the worst thing that could possibly happen to a human being. To a woman. Now multiply that by a hundred. That is what happened to Marguerite."
I feel a tear slip down my cheek, but I don't wipe it away.
"Your father wasn't just a lone psycho," Rhys explains, his voice dripping with disgust. "He was part of a circle.
A group of animals who loved committing these crimes.
They targeted tourists mostly. They had a system: one would attack the woman, and the other would swoop in to 'rescue' her, pretending to be the Good Samaritan.
They'd lead the girl right into the arms of the man who wanted her.
Once she was delivered, he did whatever the fuck he wanted with her.
If he decided to let her go, that was his choice—but only after he'd broken her.
After he'd threatened her into silence."
He turns me slightly, forcing me to look into his dark, obsessive eyes. "Ophelia, what you're about to see... I am genuinely worried your mind will break. I can't protect you from the truth once it's inside your head."
I look at him—this monster of a man who has claimed me, who has scared me and loved me in the same breath. And yet, in this moment, he is the only thing keeping me from floating away into the void.
"If I break," I whisper, leaning my forehead against his, "I know you won't let my pieces get washed away by the pain. You'll keep them. All of them.”
Rhys reaches up, his large hand cupping my jaw with a tenderness that feels almost violent given the horror we're about to witness. He pulls me forward until our foreheads touch, our breaths mingling in the heavy silence of the office.
"I promise you, Ophelia," he whispers, his voice a dark, grounding anchor. "I will hold you together. I will not let you shatter."
He kisses me then—not a kiss of passion, but one of possession and protection, a seal on the promise he just made.
When he pulls away, the air feels colder.
He reaches for the first tape, the plastic casing clicking as he slides it into the VHS player.
The machine whirs, a mechanical groan that sounds like a warning, and the footage flickers to life on the monitor.
My father appears.
He looks younger, but the madness is already there, simmering just beneath the surface of his eyes. He’s talking to the camera, his voice smug, drenched in a terrifying kind of confidence.
"It's been two days now since I brought Marguerite Hansburg home," he says, a sickening smile twisting his lips.
"The police are everywhere. The whole town is looking for her.
But they won't find her here." He leans closer to the lens, his expression turning obsessive.
"I know she's scared. But if I isolate her long enough...
if I strip everything else away... she'll eventually love me. She has to."
My stomach churns. She never does. I know that. I can feel it in the marrow of my bones.
The camera shifts. The footage is grainy, dimly lit. It shows a mattress thrown into a filthy corner of a concrete room. Marguerite is there, tied up, her body trembling. When the camera zooms in on her face, my heart doesn't just skip—it fucking stops.
I gasp, my hand flying to my chest. It’s like looking into a mirror from another lifetime. I look exactly like her. Every curve of her jaw, the shape of her eyes, the way her lips tremble—I didn't take a single fucking thing from Thomas. I am a ghost of her, a living replica of the woman he broke.
"I love you, Marguerite," Thomas says on the screen.
"Please," she sobs, her voice raw and broken. "Please, just let me go. I won't tell... I won't press any charges. I swear to God, just let me go home!"
This is my first time hearing her voice. And it's her begging to be let go. Her crying. Her wealthy English accent is evident as she cries.
"I'm never letting you go," he replies, his voice devoid of any real empathy. "I'm keeping you here until you love me."
The hours blur. Tape after tape. I sit there, frozen on Rhys's lap, watching the slow erosion of a human soul.
On one tape, Thomas speaks to the camera with a triumphant glint in his eye. "She smiled at me today."
The footage cuts to Marguerite. She isn't smiling. She looks hollow, her eyes sunken and glazed with exhaustion, her face a mask of pure defeat. She isn't smiling; she's just too tired to scream.
On another, he claims, "She's beginning to love me."
The screen shows her staring blankly at a grey concrete wall, her spirit completely extinguished.
A cold realization washes over me, making my skin crawl. Thomas interpreted every tiny movement—a blink, a sigh, a momentary lapse in resistance—as proof of love. It wasn't just violence; it was the calculated, delusional mind of a stalker who had rewritten reality to suit his fantasy.
I feel a sudden, sharp prick of terror. I glance up at Rhys.
He's watching me, his dark eyes unreadable.
The parallel is a jagged blade cutting through my mind.
When does obsession become love? When does the need to possess someone turn into a desire to protect them?
Is Rhys the cure, or is he just a more refined version of the monster who started this?
The tape ends with a burst of static. Rhys shifts, his grip on my waist tightening. "Are you ready for the next one, my little cracked doll? You may not like this. Not at all."
I swallow the bile in my throat and nod slowly. "This is as ready as I'll ever be."
The next tape starts, and the atmosphere changes. The air in the room feels thick, suffocating. Marguerite is different now. She's stopped begging. She's refusing to eat, her body wasting away, her lips sealed shut in a silent, stubborn protest.
And then, I see him lose it.
Thomas screams, a guttural, animal sound, and hurls a plate of food across the room. It shatters against the wall, spraying porridge and shards of ceramic. He lunges at her, pinning her brutally against the mattress.
"I'm not waiting any longer!" he bellows, his face contorted with rage. "I'm not waiting for you to accept me!"
I watch in frozen horror as he rips her dress up, tearing the fabric with a violent jerk. He yanks her underwear off, tossing them aside like trash. Marguerite fights him, her body twisting, her screams filling the small room, but she's chained to the floor. She can't move. She can't escape.