CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Abraham!”
I’m standing at an altar in a white, white, white church.
Arrangements of black roses surround me on all sides.
Is this a funeral? A wedding? I’m not sure.
I look down at the white carpet and gasp, realizing I’m standing in a puddle of deep red blood, spreading out to flow down the steps toward the aisle.
“Abraham! Oh God, no!”
Where is that screaming coming from?
Whose blood is this?
“Abraham! Please! God, please!”
I look out toward the endless rows and rows and rows of pews, all white in color. So much white. I can’t see the entrance—it’s too far away—but I know I need to go there. I need to get out to find where that screaming is coming from.
I take a step and fall onto my hands and knees, landing in the puddle of blood. It’s deeper than I thought, and I sink in to my elbows.
My head aches, and I reach up to feel the mask.
Why am I wearing this at my own wedding?
Wedding? Am I married?
The pain increases. It pierces through my skull. I move my hand around to the back of my head. Sticky, mushy, bloody brains await my fingertips.
Oh God.
I’ve been shot.
“He’s dying! Oh God!”
I look up, and there she is.
Anna. Lisey. Analise.
Standing in a wedding dress, soaked with my blood.
And I smile and say, “At least we finally got what we wanted.”
A groan ripped through my throat as I came to.
My head ached horribly, the pain reaching through my skull and causing my brain to throb, and I reached up to touch the spot where I'd been hit, half expecting to find the blood and brain matter from the nightmare, only to panic when I realized the mask was no longer in place.
"Fuck," I mumbled with a gasp, opening my eyes and immediately slamming them shut at the bright light streaming in through a window.
I was in Gerald's office, I quickly realized, lying on one of his leather sofas. And, as it would appear, I was alone for the moment.
Where the fuck is my mask? And who took it off of me? Who’s seen my face?
I slowly sat up, keeping my eyes closed as I tested my capabilities. I didn't feel dizzy or nauseous, but the sensitivity to light and the splitting headache suggested I still likely suffered a mild concussion from when whoever the fuck had struck me in the head.
Carefully, I rose to my feet, pressing a hand to my pounding forehead as I cracked one eye open, just enough to guide my way around the office to the desk. There was nothing on the surface but an open laptop and my mask lying on the keyboard.
I picked up the mask, then tugged it on, and when it was securely in place, I squinted my eyes and took a closer look at the laptop screen. And if the concussion alone wasn't enough to make my stomach roll, the image displayed there certainly was.
Because on the screen was a dark, gritty video, and in it, both of my brothers were bound and gagged, their wrists chained above their heads.
There was no sound, and there was no telling if the video was live.
But in that moment, someone—a man wearing a hood, his face hidden from view—took a swinging punch at Shawn's chin, knocking his head back with the blow.
Rage coursed through my bones with such tremendous force that I brought both fists down onto the keyboard, breaking it and sending keys flying like scattered chess pieces.
"Was it worth it?"
I looked up to see Gerald standing in the doorway, a grim expression on his face.
"We had a deal," I said, crossing the room quickly to grab the lapels of his crisp tuxedo. "You piece of shit, we had a fucking deal!"
He cocked his head, unperturbed by my outburst. "Tell me, my boy … was shoving your tongue down my stepdaughter's throat on her wedding day part of that deal? Because, correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t remember that being in the fine print."
I was seething, ready to snap his fat neck at this very moment, but his words gave me pause, and he could sense my reluctance.
"I know everything, Abraham," he said with a condescending smirk. "So … surprise."
"Let them go," I demanded, my tone weakened by the truth that I had fucked up. "They have nothing to do with any of this shit. Just let them go. Please."
He shrugged with painful nonchalance. "As much as I love hearing you beg, I decided … maybe I want them too, since you seem to have a problem with keeping your hands to yourself. You're a liability, kiddo. No self-control. Maybe Isaac or Shawny boy will prove to be a better asset."
"No," I protested, shaking my head. "I'm telling you right now, Ike is a loose fucking cannon, and Shawn is scared. He’s emotional. You'll never get what you want out of them. Let them go, and I swear to God, I will play by the fucking rules from now on."
He narrowed his beady little eyes with interest. "No more canoodling with Analise?" He wrinkled his nose and shook his head and added, "Your stepsister, Abraham. For fuck’s sake.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and instead said, "I will keep my distance from her."
"So, no more secret rendezvous?"
"No more."
"And you will do what I say, when I say to do it?"
Without hesitation, I replied, "Yes."
He pursed his lips, tipping his head to the side and considering me as he crossed his arms over his chest.
I started to relax, started to believe he'd release them from wherever they were being held, but then he shook his head.
"Nah," he replied. "I have use for them."
"You're a fucking son of a bitch—you know that?" I spit at him, my rage stealing the ability to take a deep breath. "You broke your fucking promise. What the fuck is stopping me from breaking mine?"
"Because I will kill them all," he said in an eerie calm. "All of these people you want to save and help, I will squash them all like the little insects they are and make you fucking watch. Is that what you want?"
Oh God. I held a hand to my forehead and turned to face the window. I wanted to scream, to break everything in this house.
How the fuck was I supposed to save anyone, accomplish anything, when I had Gerald Crowley breathing down my fucking throat?
All of this will be for nothing.
Unless I end him before he ends me, I thought, staring out the window toward the bluff.
I’ll burn this whole fucking house down with him in it.
"Fine,” I muttered. “But you won’t hurt them anymore. You hurt them, and I will hurt you.”
"Hmm … okay, I can agree to that. Come!" He clapped his hands, and I turned to watch as he began to head back out the door. "Let's go let them down. Gotta make it quick though. I have a wedding reception to get to, and I paid way too much to miss the filet mignon."
***
The descent to the basement felt like a long one with the barrel of a handgun pressed to the middle of my back. One of Gerald's gorillas walked behind me at Gerald's insistence, and I wondered if he’d been the one to knock me out at the shore.
He must’ve had help, I thought. He’s too short to have gotten me here by himself.
We walked from Gerald’s office, down the upstairs hallway, to the winding staircase. By the time we were through the sitting room where Analise had stitched up my leg, and halfway across the library, I sighed noisily, and Gerald stopped to glance over his shoulder.
"Got something on your mind, son?"
"Oh, nothing important," I answered, boredom in my tone. "Just wondering where you do your laundry."
He tipped his head curiously. "Why's that?"
"Well, if your machines are in the basement, I can't imagine what a nightmare that would be on your old bones," I said. "No wonder you need me to do your dirty work. Your joints and back are probably fucked."
His curiosity was replaced with irritation. "We have a housekeeper to do the laundry."
I barked an obnoxious laugh and looked behind me at the unamused gunman. "Can you believe this guy? Can't do anything for himself."
Gerald grumbled and began to move again. The gunman nudged me with the gun.
"Let's go, Reaper," he encouraged quietly.
I did as he’d said, but as I followed Gerald, I raised a brow and asked, "Reaper?"
"That's what all my men have been calling you," Gerald said, a hint of pride in his tone. "They say you're brutal, quick, and clean. No hesitation whatsoever, like the Grim Reaper. And then, of course, there’s the hearse."
The inquisition dropped from my face as a sickening ache began in my stomach.
They admired me.
I'd earned myself a nickname, which I supposed was only natural when they had nothing else to call me. For years, I'd maintained my anonymity, but they were bound to call me something. Just like Analise had reverted to calling me by a name she’d chosen.
I just wasn't sure that Reaper was the name I would've hoped for.
Yet …
What else were they supposed to associate me with?
The Grim Reaper represented death, just like a plague doctor, ushering the inevitably damned toward life's next journey into the one hereafter.
Was that not what I'd spent my adult life doing?
Whether in malice or kindness, every occupation I had embodied the end of life.
Reaper.
The angel of death.
Are you proud of that, Leonard?
Is this what you hoped for when you wanted me to be empathetic?
Gerald led us through the dining room, then the kitchen, where we came to a door I’d never seen before. He looked over his shoulder and offered a grin and a waggle of his brows.
“Ready?”
“Open the damn door,” I muttered with a roll of my eyes.
And he did, and in that moment, anguished, pained cries from my brothers reached my ears. The breath in my lungs stilled as I fought the urge to throw Gerald down the stairs, but the gunman at my back wouldn’t miss the opportunity to shoot me dead if I did something so reckless.
"Oh, will you listen to that?" Gerald exclaimed as we walked down the stone staircase into a room empty of all else apart from my brothers, hanging from the rafters in the center of the room, and a wooden chair off to the side. “Like music to my ears!”