Chapter Twenty Five
The warped box sits between us on the rug, no one wanting to disturb the contents before Rhys is ready.
He’s kneeling beside me, close enough that our knees brush, but he has yet to reach inside and bear its contents.
I watch his fingers flex, and his shoulders bunch as if he’s bracing for impact.
Sitting opposite, Clay’s dark eyes have found a spot on the rug to settle, patiently waiting out Rhys’ inner turmoil.
Cracking his neck side to side, Rhys seems about ready when Addy swans into the living area, a huge tub of dessert in her hands and a spoon hanging out of her mouth.
She looks over the three of us, then the box, and decides that there is an Addy-sized gap between Clayton and me that she should fill.
“Are we having a séance or something?” she asks after popping the spoon free from her mouth. Nestling the tub in between her crossed legs, she digs into the trifle she’s apparently found without offering it around.
“Uhh, not quite,” I reply, my eyes darting around everyone present. “Just a box of stuff Clay found. We were hoping it might give us some idea of where Rhys’ mom is or if she’s involved in…you know.”
Licking my lips, I decide not to finish that sentence.
Not when there’s too many variables. Not when scratching this itch feels like letting the bad omen back into our lives.
As much as Rhys won’t agree, since we came to the manor, it seems like we’ve been blissfully isolated from the rest of the world.
Despite the tormented past clinging to these walls, I’ve felt…
safe. I just wish those walls could talk.
They must have all of the answers we’re looking for.
“Sooooo, what are we hoping to glean from staring at it?” Addy muffles around her mouthful.
Rhys rolls his eyes and grumbles something inaudible, then sits forward and tips the box on its side.
Paperwork scatters across the rug. Files, folders, envelopes bound with string.
Methodically, we all reach for a few documents, sifting through on the hunt for anything of use.
All except for Addy, that is. She pulls out her phone and leans back against the sofa, taking her dessert with her.
“We should start with a filing system,” Clay states, having already seen some of these papers. “Medical over here, legal over there and miscellaneous on that side.” Following the point of his finger, I sift through the documents while Rhys moves slower, his jaw clamped tight.
The first few files are labelled with dates, reference numbers, and a hospital’s header, although thick black lines of redaction slice through paragraphs to cover anything that may have been helpful.
Placing it into the medical pile, I move onto a stack of letters addressed to Phillip Waversea, some from legal representatives, others to private specialists whose names I don’t recognise.
The paper is thick between my fingers, screaming of money.
Della Mae’s name appears and disappears like a ghost between redacted blocks, sometimes reduced to initials and sometimes referenced only as the patient.
My chest tightens as I read fragments that weren’t fully scrubbed away.
Progressive decline. Respiratory support. Long-term prognosis guarded.
Another letter mentions medication schedules so complex that they look more like military operations than treatment plans.
Assisted ventilation. Power backups. On-site equipment.
A note about relocation being “ill-advised due to instability.” I glance up at Rhys, whose eyes are locked on the page in my hands, his breathing turning shallow.
“She was sick. Real sick, and this letter is dated over two decades ago.” I state quietly, though it feels redundant. My meaning is obvious as we circle back to my assumption from this morning. People’s lives aren’t packed up into dusty boxes and forgotten about if they’re still alive.
Rhys’ blue eyes are dull, a sweep of misery washing over him before it’s quickly pushed aside. I saw it, though. The daunting realization that he’s been falsely hating this woman for abandoning him.
“Well, I suppose that’s…better,” he forces out.
Clay’s brows tighten as he looks up, and I share a quick glance with him as Rhys clears his throat.
“She didn’t just leave of her own accord, or my father didn’t bully her out.
Either she was left to die, or she passed away here. I just hope it was peaceful.”
Placing the paper down, I snuggle into his side and band my arms around his middle.
Exhaling hard, his chest deflates beneath my cheek, and his head rests on top of mine heavily.
I know Rhys would have gone his entire life purposely avoiding looking deeper into his mom’s disappearance, but we don’t have that luxury anymore.
Someone allowed Kenneth to use her house to keep me captive, and if it wasn’t her, we need to look a little closer to home. This home, specifically.
“Well, firstly, Della Mae was stunning,” Addy suddenly says, her face illuminated by her phone’s screen. Waving her spoon around, she reads robotically from whatever article she’s found.
“Young model, Della Mae Taylor, born in West Cork, Ireland. Spotted at sixteen while working weekends at her aunt’s café.
Relocated to America within the year, signed to Marrow & Finch Modeling Agency.
Known for her sharp cheekbones, striking blue eyes, and an androgynous edge that made her a favourite for print rather than runway.
” Addy pauses, scrolling, her brow creasing slightly.
“It says she was private. Rarely took part in interviews, avoided social events. Described as polite but distant. Prone to fainting spells on set, which were often brushed off as exhaustion or low blood sugar.”
“She was the polar opposite of my father,” Rhys grunts from above me. My fingers toy with the hem of his t-shirt, listening to the rest of Addy’s findings.
“She met Phillip Waversea at a charity gala in her early twenties. Real fairytale stuff on paper. Wealthy academic benefactor, ten years her senior, very charming, very powerful. They marry within eighteen months, and fall pregnant almost immediately. After that…” She trails off, her thumb scrolling back and forth vigorously.
“There’s nothing. No photos. No interviews.
No sightings. Her name disappears completely.
Either the Waverseas are extremely private people or their PA did an amazing job of burying everything thereafter.
” Addy lowers the phone and finally looks up at Rhys.
“I can’t find a death notice or evidence of a divorce.
They’re still legally married, but any property or shares visible are solely in Phillip’s name. ”
Rhys doesn’t speak, although his arms tense around me.
I know without looking that he’s staring across the room, his gaze lingering beyond the walls of the manor, like his version of the past is finally shifting into focus.
I tighten my hold on him, my thumb rubbing slow circles into his side, offering what little comfort I can.
Setting her dessert aside, Addy sits straighter, concern rippling through her usually bright expression. Clayton has the same look, although he’s busying himself with organizing the paperwork.
“Guys, if there’s no death certificate,” Addy mutters.
I try to cut her a look, but she’s already talking.
Speaking what we’re all thinking into existence.
“What if she was disposed of, like, in another way? What if she never left this house?” Addy’s brown eyes flicker around the room, visibly hunting for hidden alcoves that could be hiding a body.
A cold weight settles over all of us, the implications of what we’re thinking having too many consequences to bear.
To my surprise, it’s Rhys that shifts first, setting me aside with careful hands and rising to his feet.
“Christ, I’m going to need to be drunk for this.”
It was a long night of Rhys drinking until he passed out, his limbs a dead weight thrown over my body.
I managed to catch a few hours of sleep before I couldn’t take the heat or heaviness of him anymore.
Slipping out of bed, I curled up on an elongated adult beanbag in the library and didn’t wake until roused by the delicious smell of food wafting through the manor.
It’s there, in the kitchen, I find Addy sitting cross-legged on the kitchen island, practising sign with Clayton, who has opted to sit on a stool like a normal person.
In the background, Fiona is busy cooking, her head bobbing to a quiet hum of the radio.
Sunlight pours through the tall windows, warming the marble floors beneath my bare feet, the satin of my pajamas hanging loosely from my frame.
Thanks to Addy’s signing, Clay looks over his shoulder, and the smile he gives simply melts me from the inside out.
To think, this man could barely manage more than a grunt when I first met him.
Now he’s out here, blond hair shining and smiling like a Greek god.
He’s wearing yesterday’s T-shirt and jeans that have seen better days, yet he looks more relaxed than expected.
“What’s got you all chipper today?” I can’t help but grin, curling my arms around his neck. Leaning into me, Clay’s head nudges my receiver.
“I just saw the most beautiful girl in the world. Do I need a better reason?” On the countertop, Addy snorts.
“Oh, charming. I’ve been talking to you for the past hour.
” Thankfully, there’s a glint of humor in her expression.
Twisting, Clay scoops me up with a small squeal and plants me in his lap.
Kissing my neck, his stubble makes me laugh, and Addy groans.
“Ugh, get a room, you two. Some of us eat here.”