Chapter 76 Keys to the Past
Another package was waiting for him.
Henry barely registered Emilia's footsteps behind him. The world had shrunk to the small box perched on his doorstep, an unwelcome specter in the morning mist. The damp air curled around it like pale fingers, wrapping the cardboard in a ghostly embrace. It sat there, deceptively ordinary, but the weight in Henry's chest told him otherwise.
This wasn't over. Whoever was doing this wasn't done.
They had only left for an hour—a simple grocery run. Now the scent of coffee and fresh produce clashed with the sour bite of dread that churned in Henry's gut. Emilia stood beside him, her grip on the paper bags so tight they crinkled. Normalcy had been an illusion. The second they let their guard down, the past had slithered back in.
He bent down, fingers trembling as they met the damp cardboard. His name was scrawled across the top in sharp, deliberate strokes, familiar. Too familiar.
Emilia's voice was hushed but sharp. "It's the same, isn't it?"
Henry nodded, his throat too dry to speak. The box felt too light. Too small. Too intentional.
Henry ignored her. His feet carried him inside, the air thickening around him as he placed the package on the kitchen table. The wood groaned beneath it, as if bearing the weight of his dread. Last time, it had been a wilted gardenia. A message wrapped in mockery. A reminder of the past that refused to stay buried.
This time, he peeled back the tape with slow, deliberate motions. The cardboard gave way with a hushed tear. Inside, cradled in pristine white tissue paper, was a photograph.
His stomach lurched.
It was him. Him and Zoey, at the lake house. Frozen in the golden haze of a dying summer, smiling, unaware. But someone had desecrated the image. Thick slashes of black ink had obliterated his face, the strokes violent and unrelenting.
Emilia's breath hitched. "Henry..."
Beneath the photograph, a note. The same jagged handwriting. The same haunting message.
"You forgot, but I didn't."
Henry's pulse thundered in his ears. He turned the photograph over—and his breath caught in his throat.
Taped to the back was a key.
A small, unassuming key, its metal cool against his fingertips. But the weight of it, the significance, was suffocating. He turned it over in his palm, feeling the grooves, searching for something familiar. A door? A lockbox? A memory stirred, half-formed, just out of reach. The uncertainty gnawed at him, a cold whisper in his mind.
A knock shattered the air.
Henry flinched, pulse hammering. The sound was steady, measured. A presence loomed beyond the glass, shadowed, waiting. Emilia clutched his arm. "Henry, wait."
But he was already moving.
The door creaked open, revealing a man standing on the porch. His hands were tucked into his pockets, a lighter flicking open and closed between his fingers, the tiny flame flaring, dying, flaring again. Dark hair tousled by the damp breeze. But it was his eyes—calculating, expectant—that made Henry's breath falter. The way he looked past Henry, scanning the interior, as if he already knew his way around.
The man tilted his head, studying him with unnerving familiarity. "It's been a long time."
Henry's stomach twisted. The face tugged at something buried deep within his memory, an unspoken warning scratching at the edges of his mind.
The man smirked. "You don't remember me, do you?"
A sick realization slithered into Henry's gut. The name rose to his lips like bile.
Satisfaction flickered in Vincent's gaze. "Then you know why I'm here."
Emilia stepped closer, her presence grounding, protective. "Why are you here?"
Vincent's lips curled. "Just wanted to see an old friend."
Vincent chuckled, eyes darkening. "No. But we share something... don't we?" His gaze slid to Emilia, lingering. "Or rather, someone."
Henry tensed, fury bubbling beneath his skin. "Leave her out of this."
Henry snapped. His hands shot forward, shoving Vincent against the doorframe. "Say her name again. I dare you."
Vincent only grinned. "You couldn't save Zoey. Let's hope history doesn't repeat itself."
Henry's vision swam with rage, but before he could react, Vincent was already retreating. His parting words were a dagger to Emilia.
The venom in those words slithered deep, sinking hooks into Henry's mind. He turned to Emilia, and for a moment, he saw something in her eyes—a flicker of grief, of helplessness. The same look Zoey had given him once, when things had started to unravel. His chest tightened.
Emilia touched his arm, gentle but firm. "Do you think he's behind this?"
Henry exhaled sharply. "I don't know. But I need to find out. I'm calling Caleb."
The moment he hung up, Emilia squared her shoulders. "I'm going with you to the lake house."
Emilia's expression darkened. "You don't get to make that decision. I need to know what Vincent wants us to see. I have just as much—"
She met his gaze, and for a fleeting second, the past bled into the present. The way Zoey had looked at him that last night. The way she had wanted to fight, to stay beside him. And he had let her. And she was gone.
Emilia's anger wavered, something softer bleeding through. "Henry..."
He kissed her. Hard. Desperate. A plea against her lips, against the inevitability of the storm closing in around them. She resisted for only a moment before melting into him, her arms wrapping tight around his neck. The taste of her, the warmth, was the only thing keeping him tethered to sanity.
His forehead pressed against hers, their breath mingling. "Let me do this. I swear to you, I'll come back."
Her fingers tangled in his hair, her whispered surrender slicing through him. "Just come back to me."
Henry kissed her again—fiercely, hungrily, as if he could imprint this moment into his soul. Because deep down, beneath all the rage and determination, a sickening truth coiled in his gut.
Vincent wasn't done with them yet.
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Later, as they lay entwined beneath the sheets, Henry held Emilia close. Their bodies still hummed with the aftermath of something neither had experienced before. It wasn't just passion—it was desperation, possession, something raw and unspoken. Emilia had never felt this achingly sore, this thoroughly claimed, and the thought made her blush.
Henry had drifted into a light sleep, his arms wrapped around her. She turned toward him, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. Her fingertips traced the sharp lines of his jaw before she kissed his forehead, whispering silently to the universe.
She wanted him safe. She wanted him happy. And she wasn't just going to sit on the sidelines and watch him carry this alone.
Henry stirred, sensing her worry even in sleep. His lips found hers in the dim light, murmuring a promise against her skin. "We'll be okay. We'll be happy. I swear."
Emilia smiled softly. "I'd like that."
Henry reached for his phone and called Linda, explaining the situation in hushed tones. Within minutes, Linda was bubbling with excitement, thrilled to help Emilia plan the wedding and keep her company.
Emilia couldn't help but smile as she hung up. Linda's warmth was a welcome distraction, a flicker of light in the encroaching darkness.
That late afternoon, Henry pulled up to his mother's house, gripping Emilia's hand until his knuckles turned white. "Stay with Mom. Let her take care of you. Please."
Emilia shook her head. "Henry, please don't do this. Let me come with you."
His jaw clenched. "I need to know you're safe."
Linda watched from the doorway, misty-eyed as she witnessed the pure love between them. She swallowed hard, stepping forward. "Sweetheart, you're always welcome here. I'll take care of her, Henry."
Henry pressed a lingering kiss to Emilia's forehead. "I love you. I'll come back."
Tears welled in Emilia's eyes as he pulled away. "You better."
Henry turned, forcing himself to walk away. And as the door closed, Linda wrapped Emilia in a warm embrace. "Come on, sweetheart. Let's plan a wedding."
For now, she wasn't alone.