Chapter 21
MAEVE
Normal. That’s what I’m pretending to be today. Because the alternative is letting myself drown in the dark, and I’m not sure I’ll come back up if I do.
The glow of my computer screen burns my eyes with Pinnacle’s latest report staring back at me like a neat little lie. Another round of names, dates, and outcomes stamped with one word over and over, like a seal of approval.
Successful.
Successful.
Successful.
Signed, Mr. Anthony Garrett.
It’s bullshit. At first, I thought Mr. Garrett was setting a trap for me. Now, I realise he wants me running around like a hamster on a wheel, chasing a destination I’ll never be able to reach. He’s trying to suffocate me in data.
Each document is just window dressing for the sins they’ve buried. I skim the pages, stomach churning. These are the files they want me to see. The ones that paint them as heroes.
I know better.
The USB in my pocket presses against my leg like a loaded gun. The documents Ethan handed me don’t match these polished versions. His files tell a different story, one that drips with innocent blood.
It’s all pretence. But I suppose Pinnacle needs to keep their shareholders happy. No-one likes to lose.
Especially me.
For ten years, I’ve been losing. First Bethany. Then myself. And I’ve crossed enough lines to know there’s no going back.
I press my fingertips into my eyes, willing the pressure behind them to ease. I’m not chasing a killer anymore. I know who the monster is. I’ve become part of his sick and twisted game of revenge.
And he didn’t even have to try. He just waited for me to give in.
I swallow hard, shoving every thought related to Asher and Caleb into the back of my mind.
The fluorescent lights above my desk flicker, casting dancing shadows across the cluttered mess. Scattered papers, hastily scribbled notes, and grainy photographs of previous patients, form a chaotic mosaic of my investigation. Each piece is a fragment of a larger, more sinister picture.
The mundanity of it all is almost laughable, considering what I’d woken up to this morning—Asher’s appearance. I froze up like an ice sculpture the moment he touched me. Not because I was afraid. No, it was because some twisted part of me didn’t want to pull away.
The darkness inside him calls to the darkness inside me, like long-lost lovers only now finding their way back to each other. It’s the only explanation I can give, considering my feelings for him aren’t rational.
So surely, somewhere, buried in the files Ethan handed over, there must be an explanation as to why Caleb and I don’t remember each other from our time at the orphanage. They suppressed his memories, but why didn’t it affect Asher? It can’t just be because he took over. Caleb doesn’t remember much at all, as though those years have somehow been picked from his brain.
I shove my hand inside my pocket and wrap my trembling fingers around the small metal object taunting me. There’s no going back now. I know too much. And too little, all at the same time.
Asher needs names.
I need more answers.
And Caleb? Well . . . he’s going to stay in the dark a little longer.
I glance around the office, clutching the USB in my hand. Everyone’s busy. No-one’s looking at me.
Good.
I plug it into the port on the side of my laptop and open the next lot of files. My mouth goes dry as I click on the next one in line. It’s the same as the others on here.
Names reduced to cold, sterile data. Lives measured in trial numbers and outcomes.
I scroll down and stop. One name punches through the fog of data, buried in the footnotes of a report titled Phase One Trial Subjects .
Dr. Arthur Sterling.
Lead Researcher. Employed from January 2000. Retired 10 years ago. Last known address: 17 Wickham Crescent, Thornhaven.
I stare at the words.
Sterling.
Twenty-four years at Thornhaven Orphanage. The things he must have seen. The things he must have done.
I scribble the information on a sticky note, my fingers shaking so hard the pen almost slips. This could be something.
No, it is something.
And if Asher has his way, Sterling’s days are numbered.
With another glance around, I shove the sticky note into my handbag and continue to click on file after file. There must be hundreds, if not thousands, of names.
Yet, there’s still no mention of Bethany. It’s as if she never existed at all. So, what did they do to her? Why hide what happened when every other atrocity they’ve committed is documented?
Even my documentation is there. My life reduced to a few paragraphs on a single page, like static. Easily ignored. Still, my records don’t paint the same picture as Caleb’s, not even close.
Ethan’s mother must have known the danger she put herself in by compiling all these files into one tiny hand grenade. It’s possible she did run if Pinnacle were onto her.
Or . . . maybe, Asher took her out. That’s his MO, to take out anyone connected to the orphanage. Yet, something doesn’t sit right. Every other body he’s left in the open, for someone to stumble across, mutilated in a way only he could enact. Well, every other except Dennis. His way of protecting me, I suppose. Or more like, protecting himself.
So why make Ethan’s mother disappear for good?
I shake my head, rubbing my eyes. This is too much right now. Hours have ticked by, each one bringing me closer to something big. I just don’t know what that is yet.
And the girl Ethan mentioned? It must be Bethany. Her files have been extinguished for a reason.
Maybe I need a break. Everything is blurring together. I lean back in my chair, placing my hand on top of the laptop screen.
A folder labelled Historical Documentation flies up before I can close it. I pause, dropping my hand back to the keypad.
How historical are we talking? Do Pinnacle’s tentacles weave through decades of atrocities?
Scanned versions of old documents fill the folder, but my focus zeros in on an old photograph. I click on the image. It’s a faded, worn photo, one taken before digital cameras and smart phones. One someone has uploaded. But that face is unmistakably familiar.
My breath catches, a hollow ache forming in my chest as I stare at a pair of dark, shining eyes on the screen. My mother—young, vibrant—stands next to a man in a crisp black suit. His hand rests on her shoulder, the gesture a little too intimate. Protective, maybe even fatherly. But it feels more like a warning.
It’s in his expression. That smile. The way it stretches unnaturally across his face, the strange way his eyes gleam, like he’s in on some kind of sick joke.
A chill runs up my spine.
It’s then I notice the imposing brick building behind them. I double-click the image and zoom in, squinting as I lean closer to the screen. The background is slightly blurred, but the name on the sign stands out in sharp contrast, etched into my memory forever.
Thornhaven Orphanage.
But it’s the caption beneath the image that sucks all the air from my lungs, leaving me breathless.
Evelyn & James Lockhart, 1986.
The name slams into me like a runaway freight train.
James Lockhart. My mother’s father.
My grandfather.
I trace the edge of the photo on the screen, the glass cold beneath my touch. Why didn’t she ever mention him?
James Lockhart, the man at the top of Pinnacle’s rotten hierarchy. The architect who orchestrated Thornhaven Orphanage’s atrocities. The man whose tainted blood pulses through my veins.
None of this is a coincidence. Mr. Garrett . . . he knew, all along that James Lockhart is my grandfather. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? He’s testing me, seeing how far my loyalties run.
My thoughts fray like wires stripped of insulation. Breath after ragged breath, I try to make the pieces fit. But they don’t. They twist and cut and bleed.
Why?
Has he been here all along? Watching me? Waiting for me to figure it all out?
Questions rage like a storm inside my head, each one more unsettling, more terrifying than the last.
But the worst one?
Why didn’t he want me?
A shadow falls over my desk, the familiar scent of stale cigarettes infiltrating my nostrils. I snap my laptop shut, and spin around in my chair.
Shit.
Terry.
My heart skips in my chest.
I glance around the office. What time is it? Everyone has left, even Lydia, who didn’t even bother to say goodbye. It’s like I’ve become invisible to her. And I suppose I have.
Still, she left me alone . . . with Terry.
His usual smirk is replaced by something cold, more dangerous. Don’t suppose I blame him considering the state he ended up in the last time we crossed paths like this.
He leans on the edge of my desk, his gaze heavy. “Late night, Lockhart?” he says, his tone low, almost mocking.
“I’m busy, Terry,” I say, attempting to keep my tone casual, but my voice shakes.
Of course, he notices.
He chuckles, a hollow sound, and moves closer. Too close. “Seems you’ve been very busy, haven’t you? How’s that arsehole boyfriend of yours?” A scowl forms on his lips, jaw tight. “Mutilated anyone else lately?”
I’d give anything to have Asher here right now. Even Caleb.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, standing abruptly.
The chair scrapes across the floor, the sound grating in the tense silence.
Terry snaps a hand out, clamping around my arm, vice-tight. His fingers dig in, pain shooting through me. My pulse whooshes in my ears, and the reek of sweat chokes the air between us.
When was the last time he showered?
“Don’t play stupid with me, Maeve,” he spits out. “It’s not a good look for you.” He shoves his other hand in front of my face, waving it around like it’s a prized possession.
Two fingers, gone. I swallow the acid rising into my throat.
“Did he tell you what he did to me?” His grip tightens, and I clench my teeth. “The way he cut me up like it was nothing? Huh, Maeve? Did he?”
Tears sting my eyes. This isn’t happening again. “Let go of me, you prick.” I slap him across the face, struggling against his grip.
It does nothing. His upper lip twitches, a hollowness behind his eyes now, like something rotten has finally surfaced.
He leans in closer, his breath hot against my ear. “You think that lunatic boyfriend of yours can protect you now? Blokes like him, they’re ticking time bombs. Crazy bastards. One day, he’ll go off, and you’ll be the one picking up the pieces. Or worse.”
I square my shoulders, my breath sharp, painful through my nostrils. Every part of me wants to retreat, but I’ve stood my ground against Asher. Terry is nothing compared to him.
“Let. Me. Go.” I grab hold of his mutilated hand, and sink my teeth into it, hard enough to pierce flesh.
Blood coats my tongue, and I swallow the urge to gag, maintaining my composure.
“Fucking bitch.” Terry releases me with a shove, his good hand fisted in the air.
He clenches his teeth, nostrils flaring. I lift my hands, covering my face, and brace myself for what’s coming.
I wait.
“Jesus,” Terry says. “I’m not going to fucking hit you.”
Tentatively, I lower my hands. I’m met with Terry’s hard glare, cold and full of hatred. His eyes linger on me for a moment longer, then he steps back, wringing out his bleeding hand.
“Consider this a warning, Maeve,” he says, pointing at me. “Don’t go sobbing to your big, scary boyfriend. The next time, I’ll be waiting, and you won’t like what happens then.” He turns and stalks away, leaving me on shaky legs, and unable to take a deep breath.
The bruise from his fingers is already forming on my skin. My throat clogs up, but I refuse to give Terry the satisfaction of seeing my fear.
His footsteps fade, and I grab my things, racing out of the office.
The darkness outside claws at my skin, and the shadows lurking around every corner are another potential threat to my waning mental stability.
Not that there’s much of that left. It feels like I’ve fallen into a black hole, where no light can escape.
Where I can’t escape.
Sniffing, I climb into my car, and grip the steering wheel, staring straight ahead at the empty parking lot. The noise in my head grows louder as I replay the events of the day.
The files. Dr. Sterling. Terry’s warning.
The photograph of my mother with her father, the CEO of Pinnacle.
The pieces are there, but they don’t fit. Not yet.
I snatch my phone from my handbag and bring up Ethan’s number again. My thumb hovers over the screen. He told me not to contact him again, but I need to know who James Lockhart really is and why he’s never shown himself to me before now.
I press the call button, and wait, my leg bouncing. “Come on, come on, come on.”
Will he answer considering he wants nothing to do with me? I wouldn’t blame him. I’m nothing but a magnet for darkness.
The ringing stops.
“Ethan?” My voice shakes.
I’m met with heavy breathing on the other end.
Then a muffled groan comes through the car’s speakers. “Maeve?” he says, his voice cautious. “I told you not to contact me again. You don’t know who is watching.”
“I know, I’m sorry, but I found something,” I say, attempting to keep the urgency out of my voice. “On the USB you gave me, I found a picture of my mother, Evelyn Lockhart. She was with a man, James Lockhart.”
Ethan sighs. “What do you want to know?” I can hear the hesitation in his tone.
“Anything you can tell me.” I start the car and pull out onto the deserted road. More silence. “Please Ethan.”
“Fine,” he finally says. “But after this, we’re done.”
My grip around the steering wheel tightens. “Okay. Just tell me.”
“James Lockhart,” Ethan says after a long pause, his voice tight. “I wasn’t going to say anything. Not unless you forced me. But yes. He’s the one who started all of this. The orphanage, the trials, the cover-ups. And it all goes back to his daughter. She killed herself years ago. Word was, she had these seizures or episodes or something, and he thought he could fix it—fix her. But he couldn’t, so he decided to play God with other kids instead.”
The words hit me like a bullet to the chest, and I swerve off the road, the tyres skidding over loose gravel. A sob escapes me, but I manage to pull the car back into line.
“No,” I say, shaking my head even though Ethan can’t see me. “My mother died in a car accident when I was eight. That’s why I was put in the orphanage. I didn’t have any other family.”
“I don’t know what you want me to tell you,” Ethan says, sighing. “You were lied to, Maeve.”
“No. You’re . . . you’re lying. My mother, she—” The truth slams into me, undeniable and nauseating.
My eyes blur, and I veer onto the side of the road, skidding to a stop, my breathing shallow. I shove the door open, barely making it out of the car before my knees hit the pavement, and I double over, clutching at my stomach.
She killed herself?
No. No, that’s not possible. She wouldn’t have left me alone, right? Not to fend for myself in that place. Everything I thought I knew dissolves, the truth bleeding through like spilled ink.
My chest tightens. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Just pieces, slipping away.
My mother, my beautiful, fierce mother, was trapped inside this nightmare long before I ever stepped into it.
“Maeve?” Ethan’s voice crackles through the car speakers. “Are you still there?”
“I’m here,” I say, leaning against the side of the car, knees pulled up to my chest. “I’ve got to go, Ethan.”
“Maeve, wait?—”
I hang up before he crushes me even further. The pieces of my childhood are starting to fit together, but the picture they’re forming is almost too horrifying to comprehend.
James Lockhart. The man who ruined so many lives is the same man who ruined mine.
Still is.
The same man who put me in Thornhaven Orphanage.
The one who never wanted me, but now, for some reason, wants me to know exactly who he is, and what he’s capable of.