Chapter 16
Chapter sixteen
Noah
The situation feels more relaxed now, probably because Rhys is drinking tea in his armchair watching TV.
The house is quiet except for the soft murmur of the news and the occasional clink of his spoon against the mug.
It feels strange to be in a killer’s living room and feel… comfortable.
Not safe.
I’m not stupid.
But… settled.
Like I’ve stepped into someone else’s life and been allowed to stay.
He is a man of order, and I am a whirlwind. Everything about him runs on routine. Predictable. Controlled. Intentional.
Every movement has a reason.
Every object has a place.
I think nothing in his life happens by accident.
The mug. The chair. The exact angle of the lamp beside him. I don’t think he even realizes he does it.
That makes it more important. Habits you don’t notice are the hardest to break.
It's hard to stay out of his way, but I'm determined to try. Watching his routine over the next few days will help; I can keep his structure without getting under his feet.
But right now I am burning up with questions. They sit under my skin, restless.
If I don’t ask them, I’ll start guessing.
And guessing around someone like Rhys feels dangerous.
“Do you think I'd make a good nurse?” The question comes out lighter than it feels.
It's not about his secret life, they'll have to wait, but it's a start.
“Yes,” he replies clearly, without moving his mug from where he is holding it in front of his mouth. “I don’t think any of my nurses could manage so many dogs in the kennels and still know what’s going on. You'd make a good kennel manager.”
The words land deeper than they should. No hesitation. No politeness. Just fact.
“I would love that.” I would be good at that. That thought feels new. Dangerous in a completely different way.
“I'm going to request planning permission for another kennel block behind the surgery. We could convert the old barn.”
“Uh, sure. Do you need more kennels?”
“We have kennels for post-op recovery and short-term observation, but we need a proper long-term care wing. I just couldn't picture any of my nurses running it.”
“Well, I know all about running it, but nothing about the care needed…” I give up talking as Rhys turns all his attention to his phone. He's doing it right now. Switching off.
Pulling away. Like the conversation never happened.
The room falls into silence. The mug he had been nursing is forgotten. And I have a feeling my life is becoming more entwined with his. Whether he wants it to or not.
“You look bored,” he observes bluntly. Not unkind. Just… efficient. “Go into my office and get the papers from the second drawer on the left.”
“Okay.” But being ordered around doesn't feel bad; it feels useful. I feel useful. That feeling is addictive. I could get used to this.
Being needed. Being told where to go, what to do, and how to help. Knowing I have a place.
So I trot off obediently to the office and look for drawers on the left.
There are no drawers on the left side of the room, so I try the left side of the desk. Of course he meant the desk.
He always means exactly what he says. I just have to learn how to hear it properly.
The second drawer is full of manila folders, all with weird codes on the spines. For a moment, my heart jumps, imagining grid co-ordinates for his bodies.
Latitude and longitude. Burial maps. Evidence he hasn’t burned.
But a quick peek inside the top folder kills that idea. It's too normal. Almost disappointing.
I gather them up in a messy armful and return to the only man who can understand them.
“There.” I carefully place the entire pile on the coffee table. He nudges the pile into a perfect line with the edge of the coffee table.
“Find B84FK.” He barely looks up from his phone, but I relish being useful and hunt through the stack for the right folder.
“What are the barn's measurements?” he continues as I find the folder and open it.
I quickly flick through architectural drawings of a barn until I find one with measurements on it.
“60 by 40,” I read. “I guess that's in feet?”
Rhys grunts without even looking up. “That's 20 kennels. 24 if we stack a few.”
I just nod and wait for him to give me another instruction. There are photos in the folder of a clean but unused barn, concrete walls, a decent size. Enough kennels for the farm dogs. Enough space for them to breathe.
Enough kennels to do this again. Rescue. Or something else.
Does this mean that Rhys isn't a cold-blooded killer? Maybe monsters don’t build kennels for rescued dogs. Just a vigilante with a hatred of puppy farms.
Everyone hates puppy farms.
That makes him a good man, doesn't it. It should. It almost does.
“Planning has been submitted.” His voice breaks me out of my daydream.
“I haven't decided…” Haven't I? Am I really undecided about staying? About gaining a proper qualification in animal care? About a role on camera tracking and documenting all my ladies as they find forever homes?
About staying in the house with a killer. A good, morally sound puppy-farm-owner killer. Not a serial killer, not a murderer, but a dog lover.
“I'm not giving you the barn. I'm doing that for myself. I've had the draft sitting there for years without the desire to do anything.”
Desire.
He used the word desire while thinking about me. My brain probably shouldn't latch onto one word like that.
But it does. It sticks and repeats, reframing everything he had just said.
“If another farm appears… would you go?” The moment the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Too revealing. Too close to asking if I matter. I can barely hear the words as they escape. I'm hoping he doesn't hear them as soon as I've said them.
“I don’t repeat mistakes,” he answers cooly. He sounds cold, certain. Final.
“Was this one?”
Am I one?
Is this kennel idea just a distraction so he doesn't have to talk to me? Something to focus on instead of me.
How deep would he need foundations? Is that where he buries the bodies? Or where he plans to.
“So many dogs,” he mutters, as if he’s still seeing them. Not the work. The weight of it.
“And me?”
“What about you?” He frowns.
“Do you regret finding me?”
He stares at me for a while. Not confused. Measuring.
A long while. An uncomfortably long while. Long enough for me to wish I hadn't asked. Long enough to imagine the wrong answer.
Doing nothing. Just sitting, looking, deciding.
“No.” His answer was simple, but not careless.
Well, he gave it a lot of thought, so I won't ask him if he's sure.
“I think I might go to bed,” I wilt under his gaze. “It's been a long day, and I have a feeling tomorrow will be busy too.”
“Yes. You have a lot to discuss. With the film producer, with my head nurse.” He blinks slowly. “With me.”
“I look forward to it.” All of it. Even if my discussion with him is about death.
As long as it isn't mine. I’m still not sure which side of his life I belong to, or if I’m supposed to survive either of them.