20. Keira
KEIRA
T he hum of the engine fills the silence. The world passes by outside the window—gray streets, sleepy storefronts, half-dead trees lining the sidewalk like skeletons bracing for winter.
Jayson hasn’t said much since we left the estate.
His jaw’s tight, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift with the same quiet tension he carries in his spine.
He’s not a man who does small talk. And I’m not in the mood for it.
Still, when he speaks, his voice is low and deliberate—more instruction than conversation.
“You came home for the weekend,” he says. “Got in on Thursday night, left for a friend’s house until Sunday.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“You stayed a few days with a friend. Doesn’t matter who. You’re private. You don’t give names.”
“Right.”
“If they ask why you didn’t come back when the news broke?—”
“I didn’t want to deal with the press,” I finish. “My father was always a magnet for a media circus. ”
He glances at me, the corner of his mouth twitching in what just might be approval.
“You’ve got this,” he mutters.
Do I?
I nod, too numb to answer out loud, because the truth is—this isn’t something you ‘get.’ This is something you survive. I’m nineteen years old. And I’m Mrs. Jayson Caluna. Married. To a man who kills for a living. To a man I barely know. A man not of my choosing.
The ceremony was rushed, signatures scrawled in ink still wet when my new husband decided he needed to “clear his head” with a drive.
Not exactly a honeymoon, but I didn’t expect champagne and roses.
Not when the only reason I’m his wife is because it grants him legal protection.
Spousal privilege. A legal loophole dressed up as matrimony.
He asked if I wanted to collect some of my things. As if I’m still allowed a version of my old life. As if I even have an old life to return to.
I think he believes he’s being generous.
He told me—calmly, like we were discussing weather or taxes—that I could continue my studies.
That I could come and go from the estate as I pleased, give or take.
The only non-negotiable was the estate itself.
I had to live there, full-time. Just in case anyone ever decided to dig into the authenticity of our union.
He framed it like a compromise. I call it what it is: a gilded cage with slightly ajar doors. And I? I'm the girl who walked in willingly. Because the alternative was death.
So yes, I “got this”. But at what cost?
I stare out the window.
The houses are getting more familiar now. They wear their normalcy like a mask—white fences, wind chimes, trimmed hedges. The same neighborhood where evil lurks behind manicured lawns. Bad things happened here when I was young and no one looked too hard.
I can feel the weight of it pressing on my chest.
“I won’t tell anyone,” I say suddenly, the words slipping out before I can second-guess them. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
He doesn’t respond right away. His fingers drum once against the steering wheel.
“I know.”
That’s all he says. Just that he knows . He doesn’t trust me—not really. Men like him don’t trust easy. But I hope he understands one thing—I have no reason to talk. No one to tell. No interest in dragging the truth into the light when it’s already buried deep enough to suffocate us both.
Because some truths are safer in the dark. And this one? I plan to keep it buried.
The moment we turn onto my street, something coils tight in my chest—my breath hitching, my spine locking like my body already knows what’s coming.
Jayson guides the car up the long, winding driveway, each turn pulling me deeper into a past I swore I’d outrun.
And then it’s there. My father’s house. Still pristine. Towering. Pretending to be something it never was. It hasn’t changed—but I have, and that makes all the difference.
A crime scene dressed as a mansion.
“I can go in alone,” I say softly, my voice steady even as my stomach twists.
Jayson cuts the engine. He doesn’t move.
“You sure?”
I nod. He looks at me, and for a moment, something flickers in his eyes. Then he leans back, jaw tight again.
“I’ll be nearby.”
Of course he will. He’s not the kind of man who saves you—he just holds the pieces in place until you’re ready to shatter .
I open the door and step out into the fading daylight. My bum leg aches, and a thread of hot fire shoots up my calf, but I keep going, though slower now.
The air here smells different, tainted. And as I hobble toward the house where I once lived—I tell myself the same thing I’ve whispered since I left for college:
He can ’ t hurt me anymore.
But we both know that’s a lie. Because some monsters don’t need to be alive to keep haunting you.
I make it to the threshold and stop, casting one last glance over my shoulder.
Jayson hasn’t moved from where he stands, half-shadowed by the truck’s open door, jaw clenched like it’s the only thing holding him together.
I lift my hand, slow and uncertain, and wave—a sad little motion that says I’m fine, even if I’m not .
Then he gets in the truck and waits. The silence that follows is suffocating.
Inside, the house feels colder somehow. Emptier.
I stand in the kitchen, staring blankly at the toaster on the counter like it might have the answers.
I should go upstairs and pack my things.
I’d prefer to shower, have myself a little pity party, then maybe sleep for a week—but I can’t.
The weight of everything I’ve been through in the past few days presses into my shoulders like wet concrete.
And now I’m here to pack a few things then go back to that prison Jayson says will be our home.
Then—a knock. My breath catches. My heart stutters once, then goes wild.
I cross the kitchen slowly, fingers grazing the edge of the countertop as if grounding myself to reality. I cross through the house to the front door and peer through the peephole. I see that it’s Jayson.
I open the door. He’s standing there, windblown and scowling like he’s angry at himself for following me to the house. Maybe he is.
“I thought you might need some help,” he mutters. When I know what he really means is that he’s worried I’d run.
I snort. “You didn’t bother knocking the last time you were here,” I remind him.
He walks in behind me, shutting the door with a soft click that feels too final. I don’t know what he expects—that I’ll fall apart? Make small talk? Pretend we didn’t just bind ourselves in a bloodstained contract masquerading as a marriage?
But I say nothing. Instead, I lead him to the kitchen. Wordless. Careful. I still don’t know how to read him. His face is a locked vault, and I’ve got no key. Just a sick feeling in my gut that whatever’s behind that expressionless mask could eat me alive.
“I should grab my phone,” I murmur, breaking the silence because it’s choking me. “It’s probably dead by now.”
He steps aside without hesitation, without emotion. “Then do it,” he says. Dismissive. Like this conversation is a waste of oxygen. Like he’s doing me a favor just by existing near me.
But even standing still, Jayson Caluna shifts the entire gravitational pull of the room. He’s the kind of presence that makes silence louder. He doesn’t fill a space—he dominates it.
I nod and bolt upstairs, heart pounding too hard for something so simple. At the top, I take a sharp right toward my bedroom, deliberately not looking left. I can’t. That’s where my father’s room is. Was. I don’t want to see it. Don’t want to feel whatever I’ll feel if I do.
Downstairs again, I plug my phone in beside the toaster like this is any other day. Like I’m not a captive in my own home. The screen stays black for too long, and the air thickens with the sound of nothing.
To distract myself, I busy myself with the kettle. My hands tremble slightly. Enough to betray me if he’s watching closely.
I glance over my shoulder but keep my gaze trained just to the side of him.
“Do you want one?” I ask, without meeting his eyes. I’m afraid of what I’ll find there. Or worse—what I won’t.
“I can’t say no to caffeine,” he says, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes on me like he’s trying to memorize me in this space. Like he’s not sure how many times he’ll get to see me like this—so domesticated, with a little fire still left in my bones.
When the phone finally wakes up, he glances at it as notifications start to flood in, then looks away quickly, as if respecting my privacy.
“You should take my number,” he says, his eyes fixed on me, even as the phone keeps chirping.
I unlock the phone and open my contacts list before I hand it over without a word.
Jayson’s hands are rough, precise, and oddly gentle as he programs his number into the contacts list. He doesn’t add his name—just a single letter: J.
As he’s handing it back, a second knock echoes through the house.
Sharp. Measured. We both freeze. I look at him.
He lifts a finger to his lips, that same calm control slipping over him like a second skin. “Answer it,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not here.”
My stomach twists.
“Who could it be?” I whisper.
“Answer it and we’ll both know,” he says, already beyond the kitchen, out of view .
My hand trembles as I walk toward the door. The knock comes again—firmer this time. Impatient.
Behind me, the kettle starts to boil—hissing into the silence like a warning shot. Jayson steps out from the shadows just long enough to flick it off, then melts back into the wall like he was never there. I can’t see him, but I feel him. Coiled. Watching. Ready.
Every nerve in my body winds tight as piano wire as I walk through the house. I reach for the doorknob and pull it open. Two police officers stand on the porch. My heart slams into my ribs like it’s trying to break out.
“Keira Bishop?” one of them asks, stepping forward.
“Yes,” I answer, barely louder than a breath. My voice sounds thin, foreign, as though it doesn’t belong to me.
“We’d like to speak with you about your father’s disappearance.”
The words hit sideways. I blink at them, confused.
“Disappearance?”
The taller one nods, eyes raking over my face like he’s cataloging every blink, every flicker of emotion. “We received a call from Mr. Bishop’s office. He didn’t show up to work on Friday, and no one’s been able to reach him since.”
Mr. Bishop.
Not Mayor. Mr Bishop. The sum of what my father’s name has become.
It hits me like a quiet slap—the title’s already been stripped.
Most people cling to those labels long after the term ends.
They become part of your name, stitched into your identity.
But not this time. Not with him. It’s like the world’s already begun erasing him, piece by piece.
“Oh,” I murmur. “Okay.”
“Mind if we come in?”
I hesitate for half a second before pulling the door wider and stepping aside. “Sure. ”
They follow me into the living room. I smooth my hands down my jeans as I sit, trying to look casual. The effort is wasted—I feel like a rabbit being measured for a trap.
“You said he’s disappeared?” I ask, even as panic echoes behind my ribs.
The officer with the notebook raises an eyebrow. “I’m surprised you wouldn’t know that, considering you live here.”
“I don’t,” I shoot back, maybe a little too fast. “I’ve been away at college.”
They exchange a look. A whole conversation in a glance.
“I just came back for a few days,” I add, trying to reel it in. Jayson told me not to offer more than what they ask, but nerves make me stupid. “To get away. That’s all.”
“We came by two days ago,” the other one says, tone just a bit too sharp. “And again yesterday. No one answered.”
“And?” My mouth is faster than my brain now. “Is there some rule that says I have to be home every second I’m in the city?”
Another glance between them. Another silent message I don’t understand.
“Miss Bishop, you don’t seem particularly concerned that your father is missing.”
“I didn’t know he was missing until you said so,” I snap. “And even then, I’m still not sure I should be.”
One of them leans back, eyes narrowing slightly. “And why’s that?”
“Because,” I say, folding my arms, “he does this. He vanishes. He ghosts his own staff, his so-called friends, hell—even me. Whenever it suits him.”
That seems to catch them off guard. The younger one jots something down in his notebook.
“His secretary told us he had no travel plans.”
I shrug, shifting in my seat, channeling every ounce of calm I don’t actually feel .
“I don’t know what his schedule is like.”
“Can you think of any place he may have gone to assist in our investigation?”
I shake my head, shoot him a sympathetic look. The officer’s jaw tenses.
I lean back in my chair, head tilted slightly, and look him square in the eye.
“Well,” I say coolly, “I guess you’d better send out a search party then, hadn’t you?”