Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
REMI
“ Y ou have reached—” Brielle’s voicemail clicked in instantly.
I hung up and hurled my phone across the table, watching as it skidded across the laminate surface. My pulse pounded against my skull, frustration clawing at my ribs like an animal desperate to be freed. Thank fuck Denny’s was quiet this time of day, or I’d have heads turning. Even tucked away in this shadowed corner, people still watched—eyes lingering too long, curiosity pricking at the edges of their interest.
“That bitch.”
My jaw clenched as I ground my molars together, muscles in my neck twitching with restraint. My fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the table, my mind circling the same maddening thought. Three weeks in Marlow Heights, and I still hadn’t seen my mom.
The first time I called, Brielle claimed they were short-staffed and said I couldn’t visit. Then it was, “ She’s taken a turn for the worse,” and I was met with silence when I asked what that meant. Now, even calls from my new number were funneled straight to voicemail.
Something wasn’t right.
“Hey, kid.”
I lifted my gaze, narrowing my eyes as Arti slid into the booth across from me, setting down two mugs of coffee. The scent of burnt beans curled into the air between us.
“Uh, sure.”
Arti pushed one toward me before wrapping his hands around his own, a sheepish expression tugging at his weathered face.
“I’m sorry you haven’t been able to see your mom.”
The mention of her name sent my pulse skittering. A million questions crowded the tip of my tongue, fighting for dominance.
She and I had never had the perfect relationship. For most of my life, she was absent, barely a shadow in my periphery. Then the first stroke hit, and the roles reversed—suddenly, I was the caregiver, the one making sure she ate, took her meds, and stayed alive. I tried. Fuck, I tried. But the last stroke had gutted what little strength she had left, and I was forced to let go. Forced to trust Brielle. That trust, even as thin as it was, was rapidly unraveling.
“Is she okay?” I forced out, my throat tight.
Arti hesitated. “She’s stable, but… things don’t look good.”
The words landed like a lead weight in my chest. I didn’t need him to elaborate. Her prognosis had been bleak from the start. But now, she was slipping faster than expected, and I wasn’t even allowed to see her.
“What happened?” My voice iced over, my gaze locking onto his like a blade pressing to a throat.
Arti flinched. His grip on his mug tightened, his knuckles paling. “These things happen sometimes….” He shook his head, lips pressing together like he was holding something back. “Just—she doesn’t have long, kid. I hadn’t heard from you in a few days, so I thought I’d check in. Doll hadn’t seen you either, but as luck would have it, you were here.”
“So it seems.”
He nodded, glancing down at his coffee like it held answers. “Brielle and Brock are heading out of town for a few days. A conference or something. As acting manager of the home, I can get you in to see your mom if?—”
“That’s great.” I cut him off. I didn’t need to hear anything else. Opportunity had knocked, and I was already reaching for the door handle.
Something wasn’t adding up. The sick feeling in my gut had only grown with each dodged call, each excuse Brielle spat out. If I could get inside Hollow Pines, check on Mom, see for myself what the fuck was going on—maybe I could finally get some answers.
A slow crawl of unease crept across my skin, but I shoved it down.
Arti drained the rest of his coffee and stood, rapping his knuckles against the table in a nervous rhythm. “I’ll text you when they’re gone. Will you be able to get there, or do you need?—”
“I’m fine.” My lips curled into something that might’ve been a smile if it weren’t so tight.
“Good. Good.” He grimaced, then left me alone in the suffocating silence, my thoughts spiraling like vultures circling something already half-dead.
I pulled out my phone.
Remi
Are you able to give me a lift to Hollow Pines Care Home later?
Domino
Yes
Domino
Let me know when
Remi
Thanks
A slow breath pushed past my lips, tension bleeding from my shoulders, if only slightly. Domino’s presence in my life had become something inevitable. A force of nature—unrelenting, consuming. I didn’t question that he would come.
With nothing left to do but wait, I pulled out the MacBook he had given me for college and opened up the assignment on trauma analysis. A study of shattered bones, splintered by force.
My life was an interesting dichotomy. By day, I studied the scars left behind—learning to read the silent stories of the dead, unraveling the violence imprinted into their remains.
By night, with Domino, I let the darkness inside me breathe.
And something told me this visit to Hollow Pines would blur the lines between the two even more.
The blacked-out SUV Domino picked me up in moved like a ghost through the dirt track, its heavy tires devouring the uneven terrain with barely a jolt. The suspension worked overtime when we hit a pothole, but I hardly felt it.
Dusk bled into the sky, that strange in-between time where night hadn’t fully arrived but daylight had already fled. Thick clouds churned above, restless and heavy, like they were waiting for something—like they knew something I didn’t.
I exhaled, turning to Domino. “Will you stay here and wait for me?”
Possession flickered in his dark green gaze, wrapping around me like invisible chains. This wasn’t my choice. I knew that. Everything Domino did was by his own design.
He tilted his head, studying me like I was something he already owned. “Only if you don’t take too long.” His lips curled at the edges, something dangerous lurking beneath the surface. “I don’t like sharing my things.”
I should have recoiled. Should have told him I wasn’t a thing . But that part of me—the rational part—had been eroding since the moment I met him. Instead, something inside me thrived under his attention, twisted itself into knots at the idea of being kept .
I swallowed hard. “I won’t be long.”
As we approached the care home, Domino veered off onto a narrower track, hidden between the trees. I hadn’t seen this path the night I arrived with Mom, but it provided the perfect cover. Far in the distance, I spotted small homes dotting the hilltop—staff housing, if I had to guess.
One house stood apart from the others, larger, isolated, watching the rest like an outcast refusing to acknowledge its own kind. It was bigger, grander than the others. There was no doubt in my mind it was Brielle’s.
Once I’d seen Mom and rifled through Brielle’s office, I’d be heading there for answers. Not just to suffocate the unease curling around my throat but to understand why Mom had spent her life avoiding the only family she had left.
She never spoke about them—ever—apart from that one time.
All I knew was that my grandparents had died five years before I was born and that around the same time, Mom cut ties with Brielle. Completely.
The whitewashed building loomed tall and sterile, swallowing what little light remained in the sky. Domino’s SUV faded into the shadows, invisible from the care home, as I followed his instructions to a back entrance. It led through the gardens—a small, overgrown seating area abandoned except for the overflowing ashtray perched on a side table. Flowers spilled from cracked pots, their petals curling inward as night settled.
A cold wind stirred through my hair as I stepped up to the glass doors and tried the handle. Luckily, it was unlocked, and I slipped inside, shutting the door behind me with a quiet click.
Darkness blanketed the room. It took my eyes a long time to adjust, pulling shapes from the shadows—a sitting area, its worn-out couches and wingback chairs arranged around a dead fireplace. A flat-screen TV hung on the wall, powered down, its black screen reflecting the dim emergency lighting overhead.
The air was thick with antiseptic and something cloying, a sweetness that clung to the back of my throat, stubborn and nauseating. I moved carefully, my footsteps a whisper against the polished floors. The staff barely spared me a glance—I had learned how to make myself invisible, how to move through spaces without drawing attention.
It didn’t take long until I found the staff room near the end of the hall. The patient list was tacked to the wall next to the kitchenette, displaying names and room numbers. My fingers traced down the page until I found her. Angelica Cain – Room 213, Second Floor.
A floor plan was pinned beside it, showing the entire layout of the facility—including which staff members were assigned to each section and their scheduled breaks. A quick glance told me exactly what I needed to know. The two nurses on Mom’s floor were due for their break in the next five minutes.
Moving swiftly, I navigated the halls, counting my steps, keeping my breathing controlled. The building felt like a vacuum, as if sound barely carried past its walls.
Something nagged at the edges of my mind, a loose thread that I couldn’t place. I replayed my conversation with Arti at Denny’s, picking it apart, stitching the pieces together. Then it hit me. Arti wasn’t on shift tonight. His name was listed under the staff attending the conference—alongside Brielle and Brock.
A cold prickle ghosted down my spine as questions spiraled in my mind. Why had he been at Denny’s? Why had he said he was checking in on me?
The realization sent a cold spike through my chest, my pulse stuttering against my ribs. No one in this town was who they said they were. Not Brielle. Not Arti. Not Kyran. Not the staff who walked these halls with pleasant smiles and careful hands.
I didn’t know who I could trust—who was lying, who had their own agenda. It suddenly felt like everyone had an ulterior motive, a hidden piece of themselves they kept just out of reach.
Everyone except Domino.
He had never pretended to be anything other than what he was—a monster. A man who thrived living in the dark. A man who ended people’s lives without a trace of remorse, who kidnapped people from cemeteries and kept them in gilded cages. The irony wasn’t lost on me. I had more faith in the devil I knew than the ones who hid behind masks.
A soft shuffle of footsteps echoed down the hall. I tensed on instinct at the top of the stairs and spotted an open closet door. Just as one of the night staff rounded the corner toward the stairs, I slipped inside, pressing my back against the shelves stacked with linens and spare medical supplies.
The rhythmic click of his shoes against the polished wood floors sent a pulse of static through my veins. Each step sounded slower the closer he got. Measured. I held my breath as each second stretched into another like time was bending and distorting. Eventually, the sound faded, swallowed by the next floor.
A quiet sigh slipped from my lips. I didn’t waste another minute and raced down the hall to where mom’s room was on the map. The door to Room 213 stood at the end of the hall, her name scrawled in blue ink on the chart hooked beside it.
Name: Angelica Cain
Age: 41
Condition: Critical
A red hashtag was stamped in the top right corner, a tiny detail that set my teeth on edge. The unease I’d been feeling since I stepped into this place curled tighter, twisting into something more suffocating. A warning light was flashing in the back of my mind, too urgent to ignore.
The handle to her room was ice beneath my fingers. I turned it slowly, the door groaning softly as I pushed it open. Mom’s room was dark, swallowed in muted shadows except for the glow of the heart monitor beside her bed. A steady beep. Beep. Beep. Was the only sign she was still alive. I stepped inside and held my breath. My eyes darted over the room, cataloging every machine, every wire, every tube tethering her to life. That’s when I saw it—the ventilator.
Thick blue tubes had replaced the oxygen mask I’d grown so used to seeing. They snaked down her throat, forcing her body to breathe, her chest rising and falling in a slow, mechanical rhythm.
My breath hitched. My stomach clenched, and bile coated the back of my tongue.
Why hadn’t Brielle told me?
More importantly, why hadn’t she asked me?
I was listed as Mom’s medical proxy. No decision should have been made without my consent. But they hadn’t called. Hadn’t even let me see her for three weeks. Excuse after excuse, lie after lie. I clenched my fists, the heat of fury breaking through the numbing fear.
This wasn’t right.
Nothing about this was right.
I stepped closer, swallowing against the tightness in my throat. She looked… smaller. Sunken. Her once-thick, dark hair had thinned even more, strands of dull gray fanning across the pillow in messy tangles. Her skin had lost its lingering warmth, turning pale beneath the sterile LED glow.
Too pale.
Too still.
A shiver crawled down my spine as I wrapped my finger around her bony hand. It felt like ice infused her veins as they protruded from her skin. I squeezed, desperate for something—for anything. A flicker of movement. A sign of recognition.
“Mom?” My voice barely made it past my lips.
No response.
Nothing.
The machines beeped, steady and indifferent to the storm raging inside me. I forced down the lump in my throat and blinked against the burning sting behind my eyes. I wasn’t leaving here without answers. My gaze flickered to the IV bags hanging beside her bed.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The clear solution slid down the tubing, feeding directly into her veins. Something felt off. I traced the tubes with my fingers, following them to the cannula taped into her elbow. My heart thudded harder as I squinted at the labels. They were blank.
No drug name. No dosage.
A cold prickle ghosted down my neck. I turned to the chart at the foot of her bed, flipping it open. Every single page was empty. Not a single note. No record of medications, vitals, or treatment.
Nothing .
I took a slow step back, ice settling into my veins. It was like someone had erased her. Someone had made her disappear on paper—as if she didn’t exist. As if she wasn’t meant to wake up.
A sharp breath shuddered through me like a rusty blade. This wasn’t just neglect. This was deliberate. I inhaled slowly, pressing my shaking hands into fists hard enough to feel my nails break the skin. I had to keep it together. Had to think.
Brielle had all the answers, and I was going to get them. I glanced toward the dark window, my reflection barely visible in the glass. It was like I’d never been here either, a ghost visiting another ghost.
This wasn’t going to be easy. First, I needed to get into her office and see what was in Mom’s files. Then, I was heading to the house on the hill—the one that stood apart, pretending it didn’t belong. The shadows had a way of revealing as many secrets as they hid. I was done being kept in the dark. I pressed a kiss to my mom’s forehead, whispered a hollow goodbye, and slipped out before I could drown in the weight of what I was about to do.
The halls stretched out in front of me, too long, too empty—like something was waiting at the end. But I ignored the gnawing unease in my gut and made my way downstairs, heading straight for Brielle’s office.
The key was exactly where I’d hoped it would be—perched above the door frame, tucked into the wood. It was careless, the actions of someone who thought they were untouchable. That no one would ever come for them.
Brielle was wrong, I wasn’t going to stop until I got to the bottom of everything.
The lock turned easily, the door giving way with a slow, whispering groan. I slipped inside, shutting it behind me in case anyone walked down the hallway. The office smelled expensive—mahogany, leather, with the faintest trace of perfume still clinging to the air. It was a room built to intimidate, to make people feel small.
A perfectly curated illusion, but beneath the polish, something was rotten. I moved fast, keeping my steps light and my hands steady. I rifled through all the drawers of her desk, but nothing stood out. It was utilities, medication shipments, and patient acceptance logs.
Where was it? Where did she keep the things she didn’t want anyone to see? My gaze landed on the bookcase. Floor-to-ceiling, perfectly curated, its weight pressing against the room like a silent guardian. My fingers trailed along book spines and intricate ornaments, pushing, testing—until something clicked .
My breath hitched as a hidden panel slid open. The safe that hid behind it was cracked open. The latch barely caught, like someone had left in a hurry. A mistake I’d use to my advantage.
I pulled the door open, my pulse spiking as the contents spilled into view. Stacks of cash. A gun buried between hundreds of files.
I yanked one free, my fingers shaking as I flipped through the pages. There were medical records. Falsified death certificates. Dozens, if not hundreds of victims. Many of the names matched those that had been plastered across the city. Their families still searched for them.
My blood turned to ice when I pulled out another one with mom’s name on it, Angelica Cain.
The crest on the folder was one I’d seen many times since I arrived in Marlow Heights. It belonged to the DeMarcos. People whispered about them in the shadows, too afraid to say it in the light of day, like the boogie man would jump out and kill them.
Fear slithered up my spine; my skin grew cold as I flipped through the pages, my eyes refusing to believe what was printed in black and white.
Mom’s death certificate except—she was still breathing upstairs. The question—for how long—infected my mind like a cancer spreading out through every neuron.
The death certificate looked genuine, with the cause of death being natural causes. Signed, dated, and stamped by the coroner’s office. My fingers felt numb as I traced every letter and stared at it in disbelief. The world started spinning, the edges of my vision swallowed by darkness. My stomach revolted, and I bent over, retching.
When the world came back into focus, I noticed a second document was stapled beneath it. A change had been made to her will. I didn’t even know she had one. The amendment was dated two weeks after we arrived. Was this why Brielle wouldn’t let me see her? The sickness that had only just abated grew stronger, the air suffocating as a web of lies revealed itself around me.
My pulse spiked, my breath coming in shallow, gasping bursts. The signature—it wasn’t hers. The angles, the pressure, the slant were wrong. It was a forgery. A fucking lie.
A hollow laugh ripped from my throat, raw and jagged, as my eyes skimmed the attached addendum.
Patient has suffered a severe stroke, which has affected motor control. Signatures may not match.
Tears scolded my cheeks at the gravity of the situation. Brielle was about to take everything from us. I slumped to the floor in a heap, pages scattering onto the ground around me.
I picked up the amended will. A $100,000 trust fund—meant for me upon graduation—would now be rerouted to Brielle upon my mom’s death.
I clenched the papers in my hands; I had to get out. I stuffed everything into my bag and staggered toward the door, my mind spinning, my body trembling.
But when I turned—he was already there. Leaning against the desk. Watching me. Waiting.
The dim glow of a lamp cast long, jagged shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp cut of his jaw and the eerie calm in his gaze.
My breath hitched. Had he been here the whole time?
“You didn’t even check the room first.” His voice was low, amused. Dangerous. “Anyone could’ve been waiting for you.”
My fingers tightened around the strap of my bag, my mind scrambling. “How did you?—?”
“I know you, piccolo agnello .” He straightened, stepping forward slowly, his presence swallowing the space between us. “I knew you’d come here.”
My pulse skittered. Had he… followed me? Had he been watching? The thought should have sent me running. Instead, heat curled in my stomach, confusion warring with the dark thrill crawling under my skin.
Domino reached out, brushing his knuckles against my cheek, smearing away a stray tear with his thumb. “You look so pretty when you cry.”
I swallowed hard. “I?—”
His fingers curled around my jaw, tilting my chin up. His intense gaze devoured me, tracing the raw edges of my breaking composure.
“You’re falling, aren’t you?” he murmured, lips ghosting over my cheek.
A shudder ripped through me.
“You don’t have to fight it,” he whispered. “Let it happen. There’s nothing you can do now.”
I should have stepped back. I should have pushed him away. But I couldn’t.
Because he was right.
I was falling.
And the worst part?
I wanted him to catch me so I could drown in his darkness.