Chapter 31
THEREAFTER
GRAYSON
If hell had a point of entry, it would be Mize.
I crank the AC and towel off the sweat from the back of my neck, disgusted with the humidity. Then I turn up the volume, where I can hear her lovely voice over the blast of the vents. Twenty-four hours after her rescue, London is giving a press conference to the media.
My finger traces the delicate curve of her face, the screen a poor substitute for her soft skin. I drop my hand, curling it into a fist on my thigh.
“Though this announcement weighs heavily on my heart, I cannot bear its burden for one more day,” London says into the microphone. The flash of cameras doesn’t faze her. She was made for this world, flawless under pressure. A born actress.
I smirk as I settle on the sofa of my RV. To everyone else, Dr. Noble is a truly burdened soul. A survivor. So brave. To me, she’s a dark goddess that should be feared.
“During the most trying hours of my captivity, I experienced what can best be described as an acute psychological collapse. While the term ‘nervous breakdown’ is no longer clinically recognized, it remains the most accessible language to describe what I experienced.” She pauses, lowering her gaze to the floor.
So demure. “As a result of the extreme duress, repressed memories were recovered—specifically of the man who abducted me.”
A thrill buzzes through me, a dangerous kind of hope. As the reporters erupt, voices clashing in an uproar of questions, I leap off the bench, unable to contain this surge of energy.
Trust.
It’s as new for me as it is for London.
I step out of the RV, her voice lingering behind me. It calls to me, but I know it’s only a matter of time until we’re together.
We’re inevitable.
The dilapidated house sits on an acre of dead land. Corn husks scatter the front yard. Cracked paint peels from the siding. A broken bay window offers a glimpse into the rot within—mold, ruin, time.
The bones are here. The foundation. But everything that once thrived has faded.
London’s childhood home.
I enter, the front door nearly falling off the rusted hinges. The floorboards creak beneath my boots. This was her beginning. Where her memories start.
And I’m here for her cage.
A padlocked door bars entry to the cellar. It’s the only door in the house that remains intact, as if she’s returned over the years just to make sure no one could get inside. I wonder how many times she’s visited this place, its truths haunting her, fearing its discovery.
That fear no longer holds her captive.
I pick the lock easily enough, then pocket it, removing any evidence of her knowledge and involvement. The dank scent of earth and rust clings to the air, the sight of the bars ratchets my pulse—a cage born of nightmares.
It’s beautiful. All wrought iron and ornate edges and cruel teeth.
I spend time here, feeling her presence. Making sure there is nothing here to tie her to her father’s crimes. Then I leave behind a clue only she can piece together before I return to the RV.
The authorities will be here soon. Digging and excavating. Unearthing the victims and London’s dark secrets.
Now that she’s free, I can be patient. I’m willing to be any and all that she needs. I’ve left her clues, pieces of my puzzle. My story will unravel the truth for her.
She’ll find me.
No, ours is not a love story. Ours comes with a warning.
And it’s not over yet.
Of course, no one heeds warnings. If ours began with a beware, my story begins with a threat:
Do not enter.
I was spawned in hell itself.