Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
brETT
Jane Evangeline: Entry #5
I’m not sure how to feel about what R-57 told me tonight, though one thing is clear: my assumptions about him couldn't have been more wrong. Despite that horrifying white mask, he’s a kind man. A good man, no matter what that disgusting organization has made him to be. And what they do to those children—My God! I’m nauseous just thinking about it.
From what I gather, the Sanctum has a dedicated team of Reapers assigned to Rook acquisition—a term which just means buying young children and placing them into intensive training regimens.
The boys are sorted based on intelligence, physical capability, and mental endurance. The highest-ranking children are placed into Phantom training programs, the middle set into Reapers, and the lowest-scoring ones into the Disposer units.
R-57 said he joined his Reaper program at just six years old. And what was even more shocking was that he was the oldest boy in his unit by a year. I can’t imagine being that young, forced to train for hours in the heat. Forced to learn to forage and make your own meals. To endure horrible injuries, disease, and starvation while a cruel older Mask stands over and laughs at your pain. R-57 claims he got off easy—considering what he befalls the children who go through “Phantom” training—but I know I will have nightmares about his personal stories for years to come.
I was so overcome with sadness after he told me that I pulled him into a hug. It was stupid, but I just couldn’t bear to think of him going through life so cold, so alone.
And the craziest thing? He let me hold him. Even wrapped his arms around me and hugged me back. I know this is stupid, that I should run from him and this case. Go back home and live a quiet, safe life with my daughter. But I just can’t stop.
More than that, I don’t want to
Lemon. It’s the first thing that invades my senses as I wake, and I breathe deep, appreciating the fresh scent. A yawn tears from my mouth as I snuggle deep into my pillow, freshly laundered linens mixing heavenly with the smell of lemon cleaner.
Hold the fuck up. When’s the last time I cleaned my apartment?
My eyes spring open at the same time I launch my body toward my nightstand, wrapping my hands around my gun. My back tweaks as I wheel around, shifting the tip of the barrel in an even arc around my bedroom. What did you do now, you sick motherfucker?
Through the drug-addled fog, I begin the process of sweeping my apartment—a near daily occurrence, at this point—but like all the other times, I come up with nothing. No gifts. No creepy notes. With a sigh, I drop the weapon to my side and pad back into the bedroom.
Venom mews from the foot of the bed, licking his chops and flicking his tail lazily. Clearly, only one of us is still concerned by a strange masked man breaking into the apartment. I frown down at my—supposed—best friend, but still run my hand over his back affectionately.
“Damn. Have you been getting into the food bag again?” I wonder aloud, patting his belly. “The vet is not going to be happy with us, Venom. ”
Venom narrows his eyes, swatting at my hand with one of his T-rex arms. Noted. Don’t make fun of Venom's weight.
I straighten with a sigh, looking once more around the room for clues. There’s nothing out of place—like when you stay at a hotel and come home to your room magically cleaned and straightened. Part of me wants to go into the bathroom to see if there's a fresh pile of plush white towels waiting for me. Why would the Phantom clean my apartment? And why am I all giddy inside thinking he did it for me? Like a favor. Or a gift.
Curiously, I walk into the kitchen, noting how all my dishes have been cleaned and put away. There's a fresh trash bag in the bin, and my weeks’ worth of Chinese containers and empty wine bottles are nowhere to be seen. The scent of lemon is far more potent in this room, and by the look of the floors, someone came through with a mop and probably wax.
What the actual fuck?
In a daze, I move to the bathroom, my mouth dropping to my chest at the sight before me. I was totally joking about the towels, but… there they are. Three fluffy, freshly laundered towels lay folded on the side of my tub—something that hasn’t looked so clean and white in ages—probably since before I moved into the unit. I run my hand over the top of the stack, nearly moaning at the plush texture that greets me. Better than sex. Or better than what limited experience I've had with the action . I snort, pulling away and moving back toward the bed. I plop onto the edge, my mind and body numb as I stare out at my now-spotless bedroom.
He… he cleaned my apartment. Why would he do that? I shake my head, unable to piece together the clues. Intimidation? No. Appreciation? Definitely not. A headache builds behind my lids the more I try to figure it out, and I ultimately decide he did it because he’s just fucking insane.
Insane. Yes. That makes the most sense. Way more than if he did it to be nice—or, God forbid, if he cared about me. That would be horrible. So horrible.
Wouldn’t it?
The rest of the day goes off without a hitch. I get through my paperwork before lunch, then spend the rest of the day poring over the evidence we have on the Phantom. I click through the few surveillance images we’ve managed to obtain over the past few months, scouring the background for any clues.
“What are you up to?” I murmur, zooming in on the only frontal image we have. It’s always creeped me out—the way he seems to know the camera is there. The way he seems to be looking into it, toying with whoever is on the other side. A chill runs down my spine at the sight of that soulless black mask, and I quickly click to the next slide.
Before I can stop myself, I scream.
“Brett?” Jim’s voice sounds out somewhere to my right, but I can’t move—can’t speak. All I can do is stare at that image on my screen—an image that was definitely not in the Phantom’s file yesterday.
“Brett? Brett what’s wron?—”
The rest of Jim’s question is cut off as the contents of my stomach make their way onto the floor. I squeeze my eyes tight as I continue to dry heave, that image burned into the back of my mind and making it difficult to breathe.
I’m vaguely aware of Jim touching my back, but I’m too out of my mind to care. Why? Why the fuck is there a picture of my mom in his file?
My body shudders, another wave of nausea overtaking me as that image flashes in my mind—her pale gray skin, those horrible, awful gashes covering the skin of her lifeless body.
Why? Why, why, why ? —
“Jesus fuck!” Jim curses, finally discovering the photo on my screen. “What the fuck is this?”
“My…my…” I gasp, trying to speak through the vise constricting my windpipe. My mother. My poor, sweet, mutilated mother. Another heave racks my body, and Jim rubs gentle circles into my back.
Oh God, this is making it worse.
“Please don’t,” I murmur, attempting to sit up straight so he stops touching me. “I’m okay. I just?—”
“Jesus… is that…?” Jim’s eyes are wide as he faces me, a look of horror clear across his face. “How did you find this?”
Something in the back of my mind nags me for his choice of words, but I shake it off. I’m clearly not in my right mind if I’m starting to become paranoid of Jim.
“It was… in his file,” I gasp out, reaching toward the mouse to click out of the image. “The Phantom’s.”
Jim is faster than me, turning off the monitor before I touch the mouse. “Fuck, Brett. I can’t believe you saw… I can’t imagine what that must be like. To see her like that… this should have never happened.”
You’re telling me. For some reason, the thought has a hysterical laugh bubbling in my chest. Jim shoots me a look, clearly wondering about my mental state.
Makes two of us, buddy. I wipe the corner of my eye as my chest continues to shake, and Jim grows more concerned by the second.
“Brett? Talk to me, hon. Are you?—”
“I’m—fine.” I gasp, picking a spot on the floor and concentrating. “Fine. Totally fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” Jim murmurs, placing a hand on my back. My skin crawls, causing my whole body to flinch and knock his hand down. “Why don’t you head home a little early? I’ll cover for you.”
“I need to find out?—”
“I’ll find out how this got in here,” Jim promises, seeming to know exactly what I was thinking. “You can trust me, Brett. Go home. Drink a bottle of wine to get that shit out of your head. Just…” He sweeps his gaze around the room, making sure no one is listening before lowering his voice to say, “Take it from me. I’ve been doing this a hell of a long time, an d I know what seeing something like that will do to your head. Go home. I got it from here.”
I think about refusing, but then that image flashes in my mind, and a wave of nausea overcomes me yet again. Maybe it makes me weak, but I can’t seem to fight it off. And I don’t know how useful I would be to the team while I’m in this state. “Yeah. Thanks, Jim,” I murmur, giving him a small smile of thanks. “You’re right. I hate that you are, but?—”
“Shh,” Jim murmurs, pulling my head into his chest. I crinkle my nose as his spiced cologne assaults my senses, trying to think of anything other than the ants crawling under my skin from his touch. He wraps his strong arms around my shoulders, and my face is pushed deep into his chest. Another wave of nausea wracks me, but this time, it has nothing to do with what I saw on that screen.
I hate this. I hate this. I hate ? —
Just when I think I’m about to scream from the contact, Jim pulls away from the one-sided embrace. Only, he leaves one of his hands on my waist.
“This might be the wrong time to bring this up, but you smell really good.” Jim chuckles, looking down with blown pupils.
Ah fuck. This is so not good.
“Thanks,” I murmur, shifting out of his grip as I stand from my chair. “I think I should take your advice now. Thanks for everything, Jim.”
“Don’t mention it.” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach those honeyed eyes. “Get some rest, Brett. You look like you need it.”
I have no doubt about that.