Chapter 39 The Quiet Monster
THE QUIET MONSTER
EMERY
Damon snores soundly beside me as I reread the text message Tony sent me last night. A message that hasn’t disappeared because it’s impossible to turn back time. It’s impossible to rewrite the past. My chest tightens as the screen illuminates my face.
Goddamn it. I said nevermind! I told him to ignore my fucking request. Why didn’t he listen? Why didn’t he stop?
My gaze flits to the engagement ring on the bedside table, and bile creeps up my throat. No more secrets. Damon said he has no more secrets. But this text, this stupid fucking message, says otherwise.
Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s another client. A client that prefers to keep a low and untraceable profile. In this business, anonymity can serve as the strongest of shields.
You’ll never know if you don’t go, Emery. You know you want to. You know you can’t live without the truth.
Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!
I bury my face into my palms, refusing to let go of a potential happy ending. Happy ending? Happy ending?! God, when did I become this person? When did I start caring?
I place a hand over my heart, my weak fucking heart.
This is your fault. You did this to me. Now you start working? Now is when you decide to do your fucking job?!
Fuck.
Defeat washes over me as I quietly swing my legs over the side of the bed, making sure not to wake up Damon. My fingertips tingle as they hover over the keyboard.
I can’t ignore this. If I’m going to give Damon a chance at a possible forever, I need to know all the facts. All of them. As I type out a message to Tony, I pray, for the first time in a long time, that he proves me wrong.
See you soon.
Central Park is usually bustling. But not today.
Today, it’s quiet. Empty. A perfect sanctuary for solitude, for secrecy.
Flakes fall from the sky as I tighten the red scarf around my neck.
I stare out into the snow covered fields.
It’s almost heavenly here. Innocent. But not for long.
It’s going to get tainted. Nothing beautiful ever lasts. Nothing stays white forever.
At 9 a.m. sharp a hand appears on my shoulder, and I gasp.
“Good morning, bella. Sorry, I am late.” The feminine voice soothes my fraying nerves, and I crane my neck, frowning as Tony offers me a cheeky grin.
“Look at you…” She releases a soft laugh.
“You expected a man.” She brazenly strokes the underside of my jaw, smirking.
“I am Antonia. Toni. It is wonderful to finally meet you.” Her touch burns at my skin as she adds, “You are even more beautiful in person, did you know?”
“I…” I blink at her, lost for words. A woman?
Toni’s thick black hair cascades down her shoulders, framing her stunning face. Her deep dark brown eyes hold my gaze, and I suck in a sharp breath as she sedates me with a sultry smile, and sits down beside me.
“Here.” Toni reaches into her jacket and pulls out a manila folder. “I found what I could about that account holder. It is rather…strange, though.”
“Strange, how?” I ask, ignoring the fluttering feeling inside my stomach as I open the folder and flip through the documents she’s compiled.
“Well, it took me a few days to uncover the name of the account holder, but it’s right there.
” She points to the name on the document.
“Mikhail Nicolua. He immigrated to America in ‘93 from Romania.” She flips the page. “He had a few odd jobs here and there, but he’s spent the last ten years driving a taxi here in the city.” Another page.
“But it’s odd…” She glances up at my puzzled face.
“As of three years ago, there is no employment history. See?” Another page.
“I thought perhaps he may have retired or left the country but look.” She points to a housing deed.
“His son, who worked previously at a bodega, purchased a five-bedroom mansion in Stillwater around the same time. Peculiar, no?”
My frown deepens. “Stillwater?”
“It is a gated community thirty miles away,” she explains, relaxing back into the bench and hiking her ankle over her thigh. “Well? How did I do, bella?”
My nose scrunches as I skim through all the documents again. I was hoping for answers. But there are none here. Only more questions.
“Does Mikhail have any connection to Cavanaugh Industries?” I ask, swallowing. “Maybe to a subsidiary? Or a member of the family? Did you find anything more?”
Toni shakes her head, a hint of pity in her tone. “No, Emery, I did not. I assume you are not happy with my findings?”
“I’m just…” What is going on? “I’m just confused.”
Toni pouts, leaning toward me. She gently places her index finger between my brows. “Do not frown, bella. It will ruin your pretty face.” My spine shivers, and she chuckles, pulling away. “If you have more questions, then go to him. Like I said, only thirty miles.”
“I can’t just show up and—”
“Of course you can,” Toni smirks, standing up.
She dusts the hardened snow off her jacket and tilts her head.
“You can do anything you want, bella.” She checks her watch, sighing.
“I am afraid I must leave your enchanting company but,” her dark eyes electrify mine, “call me sometime.” She cups my chin, tilting my head back.
“I am always looking for new…friends.” She drops her hand, chuckling under her breath. “Good luck, Emery Jones.”
Luck? Luck has never been on my side. But I can’t stop now, can I? Not when I’m this close. Not when the puzzle is almost complete. I just need one more piece. A piece Damon refused to part with. A piece that unwittingly will rewrite our ending.
If only he didn’t lie. If only he didn’t keep so many secrets.
If only, if only.
The Mercedes rumbles as I pull up to the gates of Stillwater, my heart pounding with trepidation. Unease tugs at me so desperately I’m tempted to turn around and drive away. But I can’t. I need answers. I need the truth. With shaky hands, I roll down my window and press the intercom button.
A voice crackles through the speaker, demanding to know my purpose for visiting.
“Hi, this is, uh…” Think quick, Detective Idiot. "Emily Johnson," I respond, my voice firm. "I'm here to see Mr. Nicolau. Mikhail Nicolau. I’m with…” I need a cover. “I’m the new legal counsel for Cavanaugh Industries.”
There's an agonizingly long pause that makes my palms sweat, but then, the gates open. Oh, God. With a shaky breath, I drive through the gated community.
Stillwater is impressive. Manicured lawns. Extravagant mansions. Ostentatious displays of wealth. But I can feel it, smell it. Something rotten. I can taste it in the air.
When I arrive at the address Toni provided, my heart pounds in my ears, and I struggle climbing out of the car, my legs unsteady.
Breathe.
I straighten my posture, steeling myself as I press the doorbell. The chime echoes through the foyer, and I brace myself for impact. After a couple of charged seconds, the door opens, and a young man appears, his posture defensive, almost angry.
“Yes?” he asks, crossing his arms. “What do you want?”
I muster up the courage to put on a fantastic performance and offer him a Lux-worthy smile. “Hi, I’m Emily Johnson, the new counsel for Cavanaugh Industries. May I speak with Mr. Nicolau?”
The young man’s lips twist into a smug smirk as he leans against the door frame. “I am Mr. Nicolau. Speak to me.”
I feign a giggle. Lux taught me many transferable skills. “Mikhail Nicolau.”
The young man conceals a brief glimmer of contempt before yelling down the hall. “Tata! There’s someone here to see you from Cavanaugh Industries!” He turns back to me, grinning. “Maybe we can talk later, you and me, huh?” And he disappears.
I calm myself with a quiet breath, my nails digging into my palm as I wait for Mikhail to appear before me.
I close my eyes for a beat, but before I can soothe my nerves, a rough, eastern European accent grunts out, “Why are you here?” My head snaps down, and I frown as Mikhail glowers up at me from his wheelchair. “You said no contact.” He crosses his bare arms over his chest. “What do you want?”
My pulse quickens as I give him a once-over, studying his disheveled hair, his fitted T- shirt, and the various tattoos etched onto his skin.
My heart rattles as my gaze lands on a certain tattoo. A date carved into his forearm. A date I would never forget.
“That… That tattoo…” I stammer, my chest aching, dull pain spreading throughout my entire body. My vision blurs, my knees weak and failing as I breathe out my question. “What… Why… Why do you have that?”
“This?” he grunts, glancing down at the stark black ink. He releases a thick, choking laugh. “This is when I won the lottery, lawyer lady.” He whips his head at me, beady eyes narrowed. “You should know this date, shouldn’t you? It’s the day—”
The day I died.
For the last time.
“Lady?”
It’s well past midnight when I get the call.
“Hello?”
"Is this Emery Jones?"
I stir, groggy and fatigued. "Yes, this is Emery."
"Miss Jones, this is Dr. Aster calling from New York City General.” I jerk up, wincing from the sudden pain. “We have good news for you. A suitable heart has become available, and you are scheduled for a transplant later this morning.”
“Emery…”
Time seems to stand still as those words sink in. A wave of emotions floods through me—relief, gratitude, and a touch of fear.
Someone just died.
“Emery… Can you hear me?”
"Tonight?" I whisper, my voice barely audible.
“Darling, wake up.”
"Yes, tonight," Dr. Aster confirms. "We understand it's sudden, but it's an incredible opportunity. Please be prepared to come to the hospital within the next few hours.”
“Emery…”
My eyelids flutter open, and I find myself in a sterile hospital room. The harsh fluorescent lights sting my eyes, and I groan softly, trying to gather my bearings. My head throbs as I shift my gaze toward a figure hovering anxiously by my bedside.
"Damon?" I murmur, my voice weak and raspy.
The man's features soften with concern, and realization dawns on me, dissipating the cloud of confusion.
"It's okay, darling," Quinton reassures me, his voice gentle and soothing. "You fainted earlier, but you're in the hospital now. The doctors are taking care of you."
“Why…” I slowly prop myself up, my chest aching. “Why are you here?” The scent of hospital cleaner pricks at my nose. “Why am I here?” I glance around, foggy. “I was at…” The heart rate monitor beside me sounds in frequent, alarming beeps. My eyes widen and I jerk fully upright. “That man… He had—”
“Shhh…” Quinton pulls up a stool and sits down beside me, cocooning my shaking fingers between his steady hands. “Relax, Emery. Please. I’ll-I’ll explain everything.”
I frown, temples pulsing. “I don’t understand, Quin. Why… Why are you here? Why…?”
Quin swallows, unable to meet my flustered gaze as he says, “Mikhail called my father shortly after you arrived, and my father called me.” My frown deepens.
Quinton sighs. “My father, Charles, was the Cavanaughs’ lawyer.
He’s the one who…” He winces. “He’s the one who set up the offshore account for Mr. Nicolau after the accident. ”
I shake my head, not following. “What accident? What happened? I—”
“Shhh…” he hushes me, stroking my forearm. “Just breathe, darling. I need you to—”
“No!” I jerk my hand away from him. “Tell me! What happened? Why does he have that tattoo?” I place a hand over my heart. “Why does he have that date?”
“Emery, please—”
“Tell me!”
Quinton sighs, nodding. “Three years ago, Damon was involved in a hit and run. He was drinking and—”
My stomach drops. “No.”
“He…” Quinton cringes. “He was on the phone with me while it happened. He, uh, he ran a red light and hit a cab. The cab swerved into a telephone pole. The driver was paralyzed.”
“Mikhail…” Nausea stirs inside me. “He was paying him off.”
“There was also—”
“No,” I whimper, shaking my head as tears roll down my cheeks. “He didn’t…” My heart hammers with the truth, with the repercussions of his actions, of his recklessness. “Please don’t—”
“There was a passenger in the backseat,” Quinton dreadfully confirms. “She,” agony grips his features, a deep sorrowful pain, “died.”
“My…” I sob, manically pat my chest. Oh God… “My heart… It’s—Quin… It’s here. He… This heart is—”
Quinton’s eyes widen with shock. “What?”
“April 16, 2020,” I whimper out, closing my eyes. “At 3:23 a.m.”
“Emery…”
“I have her heart, Quinton,” I weep, hating the truth. Hating myself. Trying so hard to hate him too. “The woman who died. The woman he…” I can’t finish the sentence.
“Cavanaugh…” Quinton’s warm touch lulls my fraying nerves. His tone drips with genuine honesty. “He… He doesn’t know there was a passenger.”
I gasp. “What?”
“He doesn’t know…” he trails off. “His father… My father…” Quinton hangs his head. “They didn’t tell him.”
“He doesn’t know?” I whisper. Oh, God, if he knew… If he knew that he killed someone. I glance up at Quinton, confused. “But you knew? You knew this whole time, and you didn’t tell him?”
Quinton offers me a weak smile. “I told you I’m not a monster, Emery. I am no saint, I know.” He swallows. “But I am not a monster. It was…an accident. A horrible, terrible accident.”
My gaze darts to my left hand, to where a ring will one day sit. Monsters aren’t born, are they? They’re created. And even the most wicked of beasts still have a soul. Except the ones that are dead. Those monsters have nothing.
Humans can die many deaths. The physical might not be the worst death of all.
If Damon knew the truth, he would die. He would breathe only for the sake of torture. He’d blame himself. All over again.
Some monsters deserve grace. Deserve a chance to come back to the world of the living. Only then do they stop being monsters. I can’t… I won’t be the person who turns Damon into a living, breathing monster. The truth would kill him. It would push him over the edge.
And I can’t lie to him. I can’t look into his eyes every day and lie.
“You asked me if I had a passport before,” I whisper, peering up at Quinton through soaked lashes. “Why?”
“My mother’s fundraiser,” Quinton says softly. “It’s in Switzerland this year, but I could cancel—”
I nod, knowing what I need to do. “Tonight. I want to leave tonight.”
“I’ll get the jet ready,” Quinton says. “What about—”
“We’re all monsters, Quin,” I say. “Some are just louder than others.” I glance over his shoulder. “Get the doctor. I want to leave. I need to tie up some very loose ends.”
Tie them up and never let them unravel.
For my sake.
But mostly for his.