Chapter 23
The room felt smaller by the second as he donned something that you’d wear to paint a room.
My skin buzzed, nerves screaming under the surface, waiting for his next move.
I should have known this would be the outcome.
My stomach twisted, and I lowered my eyes to the floor, counting the lines in the wood.
“Look in the mirror,” he demanded.
My pulse beat a violent drum in my ears as I lifted my gaze and did as he instructed.
He moved toward it, touching the intricate carvings on the side of the frame.
The mirror was full length and the craftsmanship that went into making it was exquisite.
He spared no expense in having it custom designed.
Carved into the deep, dark mahogany were vines and leaves.
They twisted and weaved their way around the edges. In the uppermost left corner were cherry blossoms. Spring. Directly across were sunflowers. Summer. Straight down from there were maple leaves. Autumn. And across from there were holly berries. Winter.
I hated this reminder almost as much as I hated the coffin bed I slept in. In the deepest recesses of my heart, I consoled myself that at least I wouldn’t be seeing that piece of furniture anymore.
He let me stare into my reflection for a minute, to sit with the terror, and then he hit the switch. I somehow knew he would.
Jenny.
I stared, frozen in horror. She was curled up in a ball on the other side of the glass. Her battered face, at least somewhat hidden from my view by her blonde hair. Her back rose and fell with labored breathing. My stomach twisted. Nausea rose and threatened to burst forth.
Then, without warning, he turned it off, and it was just me once more.
I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. The sound of his approaching footsteps signaled that he wasn’t in any hurry.
A pen slid across the table in front of me, forcing me to tear my gaze away.
Following it was a crisp piece of paper.
“Come on, now,” he murmured, amusement curling around each word. “You used to love writing, didn’t you? Pouring your heart and soul onto the page. All the accounts and even your hopes and dreams you’ve shared in those little journals.”
I swallowed hard, forcing down the bile clawing its way up my throat. He leaned down, his fingers barely grazing the nape of my neck as he whispered. “If I had time, I’d have you write me a poem like you did for Andrew. Maybe a heart-breaking elegy of what you’ve done.”
My breath hitched, and heat exploded across my cheeks.
“But alas,” he continued, straightening with an exaggerated sigh, “I don’t have that luxury.”
“Master?” I questioned, not understanding fully.
“Yes, as upset as your precious Andrew was, he won’t be able to live with himself if he doesn’t send someone round for a welfare check. Not given what you told him. Oh, don’t look so hopeful. He wouldn’t do it himself. His ego wouldn’t allow for that.”
My shoulders sagged, the tiny sliver of hope his words gave dissolving.
“No, he’ll send one of his stupid friends.
Nikolai King would be my guess. He has connections within the police department.
Several judges too. He’ll get a court order to search the house.
I couldn’t have him potentially find you, near death—barely clinging on.
No, it’s better we get this over and done with. The quicker the better.”
He reached into his pocket, pulling out a neatly folded slip of paper. Without another word, he placed it in front of me.
“Unfold it. It’s been a while since you’ve had the luxury of writing, so you’ll need the assistance.”
My hands wouldn’t move. His fingers tapped twice against the wood. Tap. Tap. I forced myself to reach for it, my fingers trembling as I unfolded the note. The words stared back at me.
A confession. My confession.
Tears filled my eyes, blurring my vision. My lungs tightened as I read the damning lines. He had written every word as though it were mine. Somehow, he’d managed to mimic my voice. And now every twisted detail, every fabricated lie, would sound like me. My breath came in short, sharp bursts.
This was inevitable. I always knew I’d die at his hands. His, or someone like him. My past prepared me, and no matter how much I wanted to believe there was a way out, there wasn’t. I could almost hear the Mask laughing at me.
You thought you could escape, silly, silly Summer. You didn’t learn after all. I tried to teach you. Hell, I re-wrote you, piece by piece, taught you escape was an illusion.
The fight drained from my body before I even realized it, leaving only a pulse and the steady rhythm of surrender. Resigned to this fate, I let my fingers curl around the pen and pulled the paper closer. Maybe once I stopped breathing, I’d finally find peace.
The walls closed in on me. I lowered the pen and wrote. It scratched across the paper, each stroke jagged and tense, nothing like the soft curves from the poem I wrote last night for Andrew. Satisfied with my compliance, he leaned back against the couch.
The words formed beneath my hand, sealing my fate with each copied letter.
I kept my breathing even, my face blank, but inside I died a littwith every line.
When I reached the final one, I hesitated for the briefest second.
Then, with a steady hand, I signed my name with a flourish.
Clicking the pen closed, I set it down. I lifted my eyes. His gleamed with dark satisfaction.
“Finished already? I thought for sure you’d fight me. How disappointing.”
“Yes, Master, and I’m sorry.”
He snatched the letter I had written and compared it to his. After ensuring every word was the same, he pulled out the envelope with the photographs. Without a word, he strode to the fireplace and tossed those, along with his original note, into the fire.
The flames caught quickly, licking at the edges of the paper, curling in on itself as it darkened.
I imagined the images burning. First, the one of my son, followed by the horrifying one of Jenny.
They vanished into a blur of blackened ash along with the note.
I watched until nothing remained but the flames.
Poof—gone. Erased. And with it, any chance of the truth.
“Please,” I begged, tapping into the tiniest reservoir of hope that wouldn’t die.
“In about thirty minutes, I’m going to call up and have Nigel bring Declan down here. You know how much he loves this mirror—his fascination with it. What is the first thing you think he’s going to do?”
I lurched forward before I could stop myself, knees hitting the floor hard. I barely felt it. I reached for him on instinct. “Cameron.” My voice broke, his name slicing through the air. “Don’t do this.”
He stilled for a moment, then his jaw tightened, and the muscles in his face pulled into something awful. Then, his arm jerked, the back of his hand catching my shoulder. He shoved me and stood.
“Are you done? Nothing you say is going to change the course of the next hour. You’re wasting your breath, which I can assure you, you’re going to want to preserve.”
A sneer marred his face. My words meant nothing. They never had. He adjusted his shirt, sighing like I was the greatest inconvenience he’d ever encountered.
Desperation burned through me as I forced the next words out. “Please, will you at least let me see him one last time, face to face? To hold him. He’s my son,” I whispered.
Something flickered in his gaze, making my heart drop.
Amusement flickered for a brief second, but then, like a candle snuffed out in the wind, it vanished.
What replaced it was rage. Pure, simmering, unfiltered rage.
His nostrils flared, his jaw tightened as he ground his back molars.
Then he laughed. A sharp, bitter sound that cut through me.
“Come again? Did you call him your son?” He took a step closer, his voice dripping with mockery. “Oh, that’s rich. Your son? Are you really that stupid? Don’t answer that. Instead, tell me, what exactly have you ever done for him?”
I shook my head, my breath catching in my throat, but he didn’t stop. No, he was just getting started. And in my heart, I knew where this was going.
“You’ve not done a single thing to raise that boy. You barely held him as a baby. You’ve never bathed him. Never tucked him in. You’ve never nursed him through a fever or tended to him in the middle of the night when he had a nightmare.”
A sob ripped from my chest. “You never let—”
“Oh, fucking spare me. You are no mother.” His lip twitched in disgust, then he turned away and walked to the other side of the room.
I pressed a fist against my mouth. The reality of his words crushed me.
It didn’t matter that I wanted to do all those things.
It didn’t matter that I would have happily, if he’d let me.
Because the truth was. I wasn’t a mother.
Jenny was more his mother than me. The walls officially closed in, and I couldn’t think.
“Summer,” he drawled.
My head jerked up, and I froze. I blinked rapidly, trying to clear my vision. It didn’t work. A sour rush burned up my throat as he moved closer. My fingers went numb, and my body trembled uncontrollably. By the time he reached me, I wasn’t breathing. I finally broke.
“Now, now, don’t cry.”
He set the box he was holding down. I knew what was inside—instruments of torture.
“Earlier this morning, before picking you up and taking the pictures. I spent hours with Jenny and this box. I wore gloves and a hazmat suit. My DNA won’t be on her body at all. But can you guess whose will?”
“Cameron, please don’t do this. I’m sorry. I can do better, be better. I promise.”
“You brought this on yourself. Her death is your fault. Should have kept your big mouth shut. I hope betraying your family was worth it.”
“Please—”
“Shut the fuck up!” he screamed, silencing my pleas.