Chapter 18 #2
Amara guides me to the chairs. As I sink into the cold, uncomfortable plastic, I feel the walls closing in.
I'm surrounded by strangers, the noise of the station humming in my ears, and all I can think about is that missing face.
The void in my memory feels like a screaming mouth, telling me that the truth is far worse than a simple case of forgetting.
I don’t know how long we sit there. Time feels like it’s stretching, turning into something thick and suffocating.
Every time the heavy doors swing open, I flinch, expecting to see a ghost or a monster.
But instead, a man in a rumpled brown suit emerges from the back offices.
He looks like he hasn’t slept since the nineties—bags under his eyes, a tie that’s slightly crooked, and a weary, clinical expression that tells me he’s seen too many tragedies to actually care about mine.
"Miss Sorrell?" he asks, his voice a dry rasp. "I'm Detective Miller. Follow me."
I don't move at first. I can't. Amara has to nudge me, her hand firm on my back, urging me forward.
I follow him down a narrow, dimly lit corridor that smells of old paper and damp concrete.
The walls are a sickly shade of yellow, peeling at the corners, and the flickering overhead lights make the whole place feel like a fever dream.
He leads us into a small, cramped office. It’s a claustrophobic box filled with filing cabinets that look like they belong in a museum and a desk buried under a mountain of paperwork. Miller gestures to two wooden chairs that look like they’d give you a splinter just by glancing at them.
I sit, but I can't bring myself to look at him. I keep my chin tucked, my gaze locked onto the scuffed toes of my boots. I feel exposed, like if I look up, he’ll see the jagged holes in my soul, or worse, he'll see the shadow of Rhys lingering behind me.
"Right," Miller begins, leaning back in his chair with a loud creak.
"I've looked into the records for the Sorrell case.
Seven years is a long time, and as you're likely aware, the case went cold years ago due to a complete lack of leads.
No DNA, no weapon recovered, no witnesses who could provide a positive identification. "
The world stops. I feel a sudden, sharp ringing in my ears, drowning out the hum of the station. I slowly lift my head, my eyes wide and searching his face for some sign that he's joking.
"What... what do you mean 'cold'?" I whisper, my voice sounding like it's coming from underwater. "My father... he told me the man was caught. He said the bastard was arrested, tried, and is serving a life sentence in prison. He told me it was over."
Miller’s expression doesn't change. He doesn't even blink. "I'm sorry, Miss Sorrell, but no such thing ever happened. There was no arrest. There was no trial. There is no one in prison for the murder of Cordelia and Rosalind Sorrell."
The air leaves my lungs in one violent rush. I feel a wave of nausea hit me, a cold, sickening dread that coils around my stomach. My father lied. He looked me in the eye for seven fucking years and told me the monster was locked away, while all this time, the void had remained open.
"That's impossible," I breathe, my hands beginning to shake. "He wouldn't... why would he..."
"Look," Miller interrupts, sounding slightly annoyed now.
"The physical files for the case were kept in the archives, and normally, I would have let you go through them right now.
But here's the problem: I can't find them.
They're gone. Not misfiled—gone. It looks like they're in the possession of someone else, or they've been purged. "
I feel a chill run down my spine that has nothing to do with the drafty room. Someone stole the evidence. Someone erased the trail.
"But the digital system is clear," Miller continues, gesturing to his monitor.
"It's a cold case. No arrests, no suspects proven guilty, nothing.
We'll do another sweep of the archives, and if we find the physical folder, we'll let you know.
But as of right now, there is no one serving time for those deaths. "
The silence that follows is deafening. I feel like I'm disintegrating, the floor beneath me turning into a pit of black ink. My father’s face flashes in my mind—his controlling gaze, his secrets, the way he burned my mother's things.
He didn't protect me from the truth; he built a wall of lies to keep me blind.
Miller clears his throat, shifting some papers on his desk. "Given this... development... would you be open to making a formal statement? About that night? Anything you can remember now that might give us a new angle? I hear you are a key witness."
I don't answer immediately. I can't. I feel lifeless, like a doll with its strings cut. I slowly stand up, my movements mechanical and hollow. I don't feel the fear anymore; I just feel empty. A vast, echoing emptiness where my trust in my own family used to be.
"Thank you, Detective," I say, my voice flat and devoid of emotion. "I... I will make a statement. I just need to process what I've just heard."
I turn to Amara, who is looking at me with a mixture of horror and fierce protectiveness. I can tell she wants to scream at the detective, to tear the room apart, but she sees the state I'm in.
"Amara," I whisper, my voice trembling. "Please. Just take me out of here.”
The walk home from the station is a blur of grey pavement and suffocating silence.
Amara had practically begged me to stay, her voice laced with a desperation that almost made me cave.
She didn't want me alone—not tonight, not after the world I’d built my sanity upon had been ripped apart by a tired detective in a rumpled suit.
But I couldn't stay. I needed the silence of my own room to hear my own thoughts, or perhaps I just needed to be in the place where the lies had been told for seven years.
Now, I am sitting on the edge of my bed, the springs creaking under my weight. The room is freezing, the air tasting of dust and old regrets. I stare at the wall, my mind looping over Miller’s words. Cold case. No arrests. Files gone.
My father’s face flashes in my mind—the way he’d looked at me with that practiced, pitying expression whenever I asked about the man who slaughtered my sisters. He told me the monster was in a cage. He told me I was safe.
And then, it clicks.
A memory surges forward, sharp and vivid: the corkboard in Rhys’s office.
I remember the way the dim light had hit the pinned papers, the official stamps, the clinical layout of police reports.
I hadn't looked closely at the time—I had been too consumed by the terror and the electric pull of the man himself—but I saw them. Police files. Official documents.
They weren't stolen to erase a trail. They weren't purged by some corrupt official to protect a killer.
They are with Rhys.
The realization hits me like a physical blow, knocking the breath from my lungs.
He has them. He has the truth about Cordelia, about Rosalind, and likely the truth about my mother.
He’s been holding the pieces of my shattered life in his hands, watching me struggle in the dark while he held the torch.
I stand up so abruptly that the bed frame shudders. My heart is hammering against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. I don't feel the emptiness anymore; I feel a cold, hard spark of determination.
I reach for my coat, draped over the mahogany wardrobe.
It is a heavy, sweeping piece of Victorian craftsmanship, made of midnight-black wool that swallows the light.
The silhouette is sharp, with a cinched waist and a dramatic, flared skirt that brushes my ankles.
The collar is high and stiff, framing my neck, while the front is adorned with intricate, jet-black buttons that look like polished obsidian.
The lining is a deep, blood-red silk, a hidden secret against my skin, and the wide lapels are trimmed with a subtle, velvet piping that adds a touch of mourning elegance to the garment.
I slide it on, the weight of the wool grounding me, and fasten the buttons with trembling fingers. It’s a chilling night—the kind of cold that seeps into your marrow—but I barely feel it.
I grab my keys from the nightstand, the metal jingling loudly in the oppressive quiet of the house.
I glance toward the hallway. Silence. My father is gone, likely drowned in a bottle of cheap scotch with whatever pittance of money he had left before I returned.
The house feels hollow, a shell of a home built on a foundation of deceit.
Before I leave, I reach for the yellowed newspaper clipping—the one detailing my mother’s disappearance. I fold it carefully and tuck it into the inner pocket of my coat, right against my heart.
I step out into the night, the door clicking shut behind me with a finality that feels like a bridge burning.
The streetlamps cast long, distorted shadows across the cobblestones, and the wind howls through the alleyways like a wounded animal.
I am entirely alone, a small, black figure drifting through a gothic wasteland.
But I have a destination.
I have to get to The Midnight Menagerie. I have to find the man who treats my trauma like a game and my life like a dollhouse.
I have to find Rhys Castellan.