Chapter Eight
Enimton
AKA
Ashen
The cottage door creaked as I pushed it open, a low groan that echoed in the dark. I tossed my keys onto the small wooden table, the clatter sharp against the silence. The air smelled of old books and dust and the familiar weight of my life as a Gravestone pressed down.
I stripped, showered, then sank onto the bed on top of the covers and stared at the embossed ceiling. My favorite diner. Helen’s laugh. The jukebox blaring Have You Ever Seen the Rain. It all felt like a dream I’d stolen, one I had no right to keep.
But I’m back in the cage.
My parents hadn’t put me in the cottage out of kindness. They wanted me close enough to control, but not in their lives. This cottage, my so-called home, was a leash that kept me where I could be watched.
Protected, according to them.
Controlled was how it felt ever since I’d stopped taking the sedatives.
Am I paranoid? The estate’s security system blinked in greeting from so many corners, inside and out .
. . a reminder of their eyes on me. Always watching.
My parents’ mansion loomed in the distance, its lights glinting through the window like cold stars.
I’d spent my life doing what they wanted: staying quiet, staying out of trouble, following their rules.
It’s kept me safe. But the word safe tasted bitter, like the sedatives I’d stopped taking.
Was safe supposed to feel this bad?
I sat up, running my hands through my hair, my gaze settling on a tattered book across the room. Treasure Island sat there, its spine worn from childhood nights hiding from Father’s temper.
I really should throw it away.
I remembered imagining myself like Jim Hawkins. The fantasy of finding a treasure map, sailing away to some tropical island, and battling pirates had given me a space where I could imagine myself being daring and adventurous.
If that were me, I wouldn’t be here in this cottage.
This wouldn’t be my life.
I’d leave regardless of the risk.
So, what’s stopping me?
I flopped back onto the bed and covered my face with one arm. I was given an opportunity to save my family and what did I do? I fumbled it so badly I nearly killed a man.
One of the men I’d read about in the journal.
That damn journal.
No treasure map for me.
No, when I uncover something it’s full of separated twins, experiments, and the inner thoughts of a madman.
Simmons’s obsession, his sick need to prove circumstance shaped a person more than their blood. And my parents . . . funding his work. Why? The journals didn’t say what he had on them, only that they paid to keep him quiet. About what?
Initially, Simmons had something on them.
Later, they were too tied to him and what he’d done to have any chance of escaping his control.
What secret was worth that?
What was so important to hide that they backed a psychopath?
Not that I’m much better.
What did I do? I stole Simmons’s journals, nearly exposed my family’s secrets to the world, then just . . . gave the journals back.
I could have taken a stand.
I could have taken the journals to the police . . . or other authorities.
But me?
I’m no hero.
Pressing my palms against my eyes, I tried to block out the memory of the night I ran Dylan off the road. The screech of tires. The crunch of metal.
Yes, I called 911 and lingered in the shadows until they came.
But that wasn’t enough.
I went to see him at the hospital, to make sure he was okay.
To confirm he was alive.
That’s not heroic either.
I left without telling anyone what I’d done.
Do I really require more proof that I’m a Gravestone?
I stood, pacing the small room, the floorboards creaking under my weight.
The window framed the mansion’s lights, a silent accusation.
“Why didn’t you stop him?” I muttered, my voice cracking in the quiet.
Father’s controlled fury, Mother’s cold suggestion to send me away.
Even back then they’d known what Simmons was doing.
Blackmail or not, you had power. Money. Why didn’t you fight him?
Were you afraid, or just as evil as he was?
The thought twisted my gut. I’d spent my life believing family was everything, even if they hated me. But what kind of family does that?
As a child, I’d learned to stay invisible. Don’t break anything, don’t cry, don’t be too emotional. They’d sent me to institutions for my “instability” and pumped me full of pills that dulled the world.
To protect me or them?
I stopped pacing, staring out the window. I could go to the police. Tell them about Simmons, the journals, the twins.
My heart thudded, a wild thing in my chest. But who’d believe me? Enimton Gravestone, the unstable son, off his meds, and clearly confused.
If I was lucky, they’d medicate me again and let me continue to stay in the cottage. If I wasn’t . . . they’d send me somewhere I couldn’t get out of.
I’d spent enough time tied down or put in solitary confinement to not want to do anything that sent me back there. I sank back onto the edge of my bed, my breath ragged. At least here, I can come and go.
I can see her.
Helen. Her name hit like a spark in the dark.
I closed my eyes. Her face bloomed in my mind .
. . those brown eyes behind pink glasses, her bold laugh when we sang Every Breath You Take at the diner, her wildflower scent, fresh and fearless.
She doesn’t care about money. She sees me—Ashen, not Enimton.
But what could I offer her? A man with nothing, living in his parents’ shadow, haunted by secrets I couldn’t unlearn?
Probably batshit crazy.
She’d sent me a quick message so I’d have her number, but I hadn’t yet responded.
I reached for my phone, tempted to call her, to hear her voice, to be Ashen for a moment longer.
My thumb hovered over the screen, then stopped.
What would I say? “Hi, I’m a mess, but I can’t stop thinking about you”?
I tossed the phone onto the bed, the thud loud in the quiet. She deserves better.
I imagined a life where I was free, where I could call her, take her back to that diner, share another peanut butter bacon burger, laugh until the world felt bright and safe. How do I get there? How do I become that man?
By doing nothing?
That hadn’t worked out well for me.
By taking action?
That also had gone badly.
I can’t pretend I don’t know what my family did.
I can’t continue to live like this.
I grabbed my phone again. There were people who knew more about all of this than I did—the twins who had already reunited. I could call them. Apologize again. Maybe they’d help me understand what I’m supposed to do in this situation.
No, they’d been clear. They never wanted to see or hear from me again. Dylan had said, “Getting to know you has been a pain.”
They wouldn’t help me.
Why would they? I was the son of the very people who’d played God with their lives.
Helen’s smile flashed in my mind. Her glasses slipping down her nose, her fingers brushing mine over a chocolate-dipped fry.
She deserves someone who fights, not a man who hides.
I whispered into the dark, “I’ll find a way, Helen.
” The words felt fragile, but they steadied me.
No more mistakes. No more being too much.
I closed my eyes again, her face lingering in my mind.
I don’t know how, but I’ll find a way out of this.
For her.