Chapter 19 #2
"I'm already inside your head, Ophelia. I've been there since the moment we met," he says, stepping closer, his presence looming over me, suffocating and magnetic.
"Stop being so bloody stubborn and look at the facts.
The police couldn't find any suspect that came and went in your home during the time of the murder.
No neighbor, including the ones who were on the streets during that time the butcher got in, saw anyone but your father.
The only constant in that entire tragedy was Thomas Sorrell. "
I feel like I'm drowning. The room is spinning, the amber light turning a sickly hue. I want to scream, to slap that smug look off his face, but I'm paralyzed by the possibility that he's right. I look at the red strings on the board, the web of obsession, and for a second, it looks like a noose.
"What the fuck are you actually saying, Rhys?" I whisper, my voice trembling. "Stop dancing around it with your poetic shite and just say it. Exactly what are you saying?"
Rhys stops. He's so close now I can smell the scent of expensive tobacco and something dark, something metallic. He reaches out, his fingers barely grazing my jawline, forcing me to tilt my head up. He doesn't let me look away.
"I'm saying there's a reason you can't look people in the eye, Ophelia," he murmurs, his gaze piercing through me. "And it's more than just some quaint fear of seeing your own reflection in their pupils."
I freeze. My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"You didn't just see a blur of shadow that night," he continues, his voice a haunting caress.
"You saw your reflection in the eyes of the man who held that butcher's knife.
You saw yourself mirrored in the eyes of the monster who slaughtered your sisters right in front of you.
Your mind didn't just block out the trauma—it erased the face because the face was something you couldn't possibly survive knowing. "
A cold void opens up in my stomach. I feel the air leave my lungs in one long, shuddering gasp. The memory—the blur—starts to itch, a phantom pain behind my eyelids.
"Then..." I swallow hard, my voice barely audible, a fragile thread of sound. "What does that say about the man's face? What the fuck does it say about the face I saw... that my mind had to erase just to keep me sane? But I'm not even sane right now.”
Rhys doesn't pull away. If anything, his grip on my jaw tightens, his thumb pressing firmly into the soft skin of my cheek, forcing me to maintain that agonizing eye contact. His eyes are like two black holes, sucking the air and the light out of the room, leaving me stranded in the dark with him.
I quickly take my eyes to his lips. I can't afford a panic attack right now.
A slow, predatory smile curls the corners of his lips. It isn’t a comforting smile; it’s the look of a man who has just flipped the final piece of a puzzle and is savoring the picture it creates.
"It says, Ophelia," he whispers, his breath hot against my lips, "that the face was so fucking familiar that your soul screamed in terror. Your mind didn't erase a stranger. It didn't erase some hooded butcher from a nightmare."
He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a guttural, haunting vibration that echoes in my chest.
"It erased the man who tucked you in at night. The man who kissed your forehead and told you that you were safe. The man who spent the seven years pretending to be your fucking savior while he walked over the blood of your sisters without blinking an eye."
The world tilts. I feel a sudden, violent surge of nausea, my stomach churning as the words sink in. I try to jerk my head away, but he holds me fast, his gaze pinning me in place.
"Your father didn't step in that blood to get to you, love," Rhys sneers, his voice dripping with a cruel, cold clarity.
"He stepped in it because he was the one spilling it.
He didn't drag you out of the carnage—he created it.
And when you looked into his eyes, while he was still holding that knife, while your sisters were twitching on the floor...
you saw the truth. You saw the butcher."
"No..." I gasp, a sob breaking through my throat. "No, you're lying! You're a fucking liar, Rhys! You're just trying to break me!"
"I don't need to break you, Ophelia. You're already shattered," he murmurs, his tone shifting back to that terrifyingly soft, possessive caress.
"I'm just the only one honest enough to show you the pieces.
Your Papa isn't a hero. He's a fucking butcher who played the long game, and you've been living in his shadow, smelling his scent, trusting his touch, all while he kept the secret of those girls' screams locked behind a smile. "
I feel a scream building in my lungs, a raw, primal sound that wants to tear through my throat.
Everything I thought I knew—every memory of safety, every shred of love I held for Thomas—is being incinerated in real-time.
I look at the files on the desk, the blood-splatter diagrams, the missing morgue reports, and suddenly, they don't look like theories anymore. They look like a confession.
"You absolute bastard," I choke out, though I'm not sure if I'm talking to him or the ghost of my father.
Rhys lets out a dark, low chuckle, his fingers sliding from my jaw to wrap around the back of my neck, pulling me flush against his chest. He holds me there, tight and suffocating, as I begin to shake.
"There it is," he whispers into my ear, his voice sounding almost satisfied. "The truth. It's a bitter fucking pill, isn't it? But don't worry, my sweet, cracked doll. Now that you know who the real monster is... you only have to fear me.”
I stare at the board, my voice shaking but stubborn. "How can I believe that? I don't remember seeing my Papa's face on the butcher holding that knife. The only time I remember him is when he came to hold me, carrying me away and telling me I was safe now. How can I believe what you're saying?"
Rhys doesn't let go of me. His thumb strokes the corner of my mouth, slow and deliberate. "You don't have to believe me. Or the police. You just have to believe yourself."
"What does that mean?"
"When you're ready to know exactly who you saw that night," he says, voice low and certain, "I'll take you to the Sandman."
"What exactly does that even mean?"