Chapter 15 #2
“What’s so secretive about it that no one is allowed to come here?” I mutter under my breath before I turn around to go back into the hallway, ready to march downstairs and question Matilda about her odd behavior.
Except the short set of stairs on my left that halts my movements, and my eyes widen at the sight.
The small tower peeking from the roof closer to the part of the garden filled with statues flashes in my mind.
I thought it was just some kind of decorative architecture piece, but it seems to be actual space?
A sense of trepidation passes over me, my mind urging me to follow my original plan and go to Matilda. My curiosity is piqued and rebels at the thought, so against my better judgment, I walk up the stairs, noticing small cracks in them. The cold emanating from the walls makes my body shiver.
I see the lock on the door and twist it, sighing in relief when it opens easily, and enter into complete darkness as thunder rocks the sky, the sound so loud up here I cover my ears from the impact.
Blindly searching for the light switch, I finally find it and turn it on, only to gasp in shock.
The walls are filled with an endless display of black-and-white photos.
Girls of various ages in hideous conditions.
Their clothes are torn, dirt smeared all over them, bruises marring their bodies.
As bad as it looks, that’s not the worst thing about these pictures.
It's the desperation and agony glazing over their eyes as they stare into the camera lens, through the cage’s bars, at the photographer.
A string of red lines on the wall connects them all to different men, their photos crossed off with thick X’s.
The space also has several desks filled with dusty files, tape stacks, and two desktop computers.
A small couch and minibar occupying the right corner are the only indication that someone has ever lived here.
There are also thick journals and photo albums all over the floor.
“My God. What is this?” Silence meets my hollow question, of course, my criminal psychology elective class playing in my mind. Images pop in my head, one after the other, trying to shine light on the truth I’m trying to avoid, but what else could explain this? “No, it can’t be.”
It physically hurts me to look at these women and their pain, so I lean down, picking up one of the journals, dust flying up in the air, and making me sneeze.
I flip it open, hoping it will give me some clarity on what all of this means. I swallow hard at the perfect handwriting accompanied by a picture of a blond girl below it. It’s dated more than twenty years ago.
Suzanne
I found her on the streets begging for food, her beauty shining even through her ugly clothes that couldn’t hide a body perfect to bear my offspring.
Fifteen years old and loved to struggle, making her even more alluring to me.
Killing her hurt me, but she couldn’t give me what I wanted, so I had no use for her after breaking her.
Barely controlling my gagging reflex, I swallow past the bile in my throat and flip over the page. This time, a dark-haired girl is holding a stuffed bear, and my heart breaks into tiny pieces.
Ava
After my last experience, I decided that genetics might play a factor in my plan, and I should pick them well next time.
She was a little princess on the playground, adored by her parents, who, unfortunately for her, were so easy to distract.
Snatching her up wasn’t a hardship: A twelve-year-old who was supposed to give me what I so wished, yet she failed me too.
Died at birth.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, riffling through several more pages and finding similar passages. Each makes it harder and harder to control my nausea.
Through the years, I searched for perfect girls who could fulfill my needs in ways my stupid wife and all the social butterflies could never do.
And each time they failed me, for perfection requires effort and dedication.
I realized then I needed my own dungeon to keep all my girls, and using one at the time reduced my chances.
That’s how I found friends in human trafficking. It allowed me to create my own little kingdom where no one questioned my authority.
Where no one dared to say my name, wealth, and status belonged to my wife, or reminded me that what I got in my life wasn’t earned.
I’m the absolute king here
My friends…they helped me a lot, but I do keep tabs on their activities. Because you never know, these people could turn on you, and it’s always good to have something to blackmail them with, isn’t it?
I glance again at the men on the wall, realizing that their names correlate with the others he mentions in his journal. Does X mean they are dead or in prison?
By reading the dates and journal entries, it’s clear it was Orion’s father, Conrad, who did all these hideous things, but why does my husband keep all of this? Shouldn’t it belong to the police?
Scratch that…
Why was it never made public? These women deserved justice, their families deserved the truth, yet none of it was ever leaked to the press?
Was there a classified investigation?
I land on the page with another young girl, and pause. I stare at her without reading the passage, knowing what truth I’ll find in there.
Magdalena
I bought her for a high price. She came to me pure and untouched, having been taken away from a well-known family with generational wealth.
She was fifteen, slightly older than what I preferred, but her allure could not be questioned.
Far from perfect, she fought me every time and never came to me willingly, no matter how much I hurt or beat her up. The little bitch screamed and cried out that someday her father would save her.
It earned her only my laughter, for how could he if he thought she were dead?
She might have struggled and had an admirable spirit, but spirits could be killed—and that’s what happened when she got pregnant.
She’ll give me the perfect little son to bear my name, and he won’t have a single Wright blood cell in his system.
And just in time, too, as operating my business becomes harder and harder with Lachlan Scott and his fucking friends killing my business acquaintances left and right. Destroying my carefully laid plans.
I know once he finds me, he won’t show me mercy. He will kill me, so I have to go under.
When Magdalena delivers a healthy baby boy…I’ll burn this mansion to the ground with Orion and the staff who never showed me an ounce of respect, placing my dead, stupid wife on the pedestal. So they can all burn in hell.
The world might think I’m dead, but I won’t be.
No
I will create my own legacy, where my son will follow in my footsteps and not remind me of my shortcomings.
All the puzzle pieces click together at once.
“Actaeon,” I say, running my fingers over the washed-out picture where Magdalena cradles her baby bump while her torn clothes point out her less-than-stellar living conditions. “Sick bastard.”
So this is how the fire started, and something must have gone wrong because Conrad died instead.
Putting the journals away, I focus on the various tapes that must have been transferred to the computer as I see several files on the screen, each with different file names matching the names on the tapes and journals.
Clicking on Magdalena, I freeze when I see Conrad’s face adjusting the camera and moving back as the girl rushes into the farthest corner of her cage, trembling.
Smiling, he raises his whiskey glass as if in a toast and takes a large sip before throwing it away, the glass shattering into tiny pieces.
Then he starts to unbutton his shirt and clicks his tongue, addressing Magdalena.
“Daddy won’t find you here, so learn to be willing.
It would be less painful for you. I’ll be kind to you then. ”
The girl lifts her chin, though fear still fills her eyes, defiance crossing her face, and she spits in his direction, “I hate you.”
Conrad laughs. “Hate me all you want, Magdalena. Part of me likes your fight. Your father raised his princess right. You’ll give me a strong son.
Too bad he won’t ever learn who his grandfather is.
” Another bout of laughter, followed by him removing his shirt completely and taking off his belt.
“As the head of one of the most powerful cartels in our country, he will never accept my son and will kill our baby at the first opportunity to punish the child and me for the pain inflicted on you.” He points at her pregnant belly. “So he won’t ever know the truth.”
He proceeds to move toward her, and I stop the video, knowing what would happen next and hating that I have no way to teleport to the past and stop him from raping her again.
“That’s why Orion hides Actaeon’s real name.” If his grandfather is who I think he is…he would have never accepted Actaeon and would indeed kill him.
Which is tragically ironic, as Actaeon is his only heir. When Magdalena was kidnapped, her mother died due to the grief, and her father never remarried. Can’t blame the man for his feelings either. He adored his family, and Conrad stole it.
“What happened all these years ago?” And why is the evidence that could have saved so many locked inside this mansion? It clearly didn’t get burned during the fire.
I don’t understand the half of it.
I start clicking on random videos, and with each one, my soul grows colder and colder as my breathing speeds up, and my heart beats so wildly that I expect it to jump out of my chest and land on the floor.
Because in these videos, Orion methodically kills all these men in the pictures in vile ways. They thrash and cry for mercy he doesn’t show them.
Instead, he chooses to use knives, guns, electric chairs, and drills to commit crime after crime. Meanwhile, his face stays cold.
Horrific images that shatter everything.
As bad as it sounds, it wouldn’t have mattered to me because these men deserved what they got for all the atrocities they’d committed against women and children. Growing up with monsters taught me that some evil cannot be cured; it can only be extinguished.
But the last two videos…the last two victims…they destroy the bubble he created around me the past week, leaving me burning in this new reality where there is no escape.
The first video shows Orion spilling gasoline all around his father’s dungeon, probably hiding his crimes. There are no women in sight.
Did Conrad kill them all as well?
However, a man lies right in the middle, all bloody and gasping for breath while trying to reach for his gun, but Orion kicks it away.
Then he spills gasoline on him too, and the man cries out his name. Still, my husband ignores his pleas and walks up the stairs, right before lighting up a match and dropping it on the floor. Everything bursts into flames, while the man’s agonizing screams echo before it goes blank.
That’s how Conrad died; his own son killed him, most likely willing to let the fire hurt him so no one would ever question his involvement in this accident.
Orion must have killed his father first because in all other videos, he already had his scars. So not only had he turned Conrad’s plan against him, but he also decided to take justice into his own hands, without going to the police.
Stepping back, I shake my head and try to grasp the fact that his father did awful things and deserved to die. It still makes Orion a murderer, no matter the circumstances.
How could anyone excuse that?
There are laws for a reason, and if everyone went around killing each other by their own code of justice, where would it lead us as a society?
That’s not all, though.
With a heavy heart, I click the video titled “Grant.” My father kept messaging me for the past week, until Orion blocked his number and told me to ignore him.
He informed me he won’t be helping them to save the company, and I was fine with that.
Why is there a file with Grant’s name on it?
Sweat drips from my palms, and I wipe them on my dress before taking the mouse and clicking on the folder.
And right at this moment, I wish I hadn’t.
Because what I see there, once and for all, ruins my fairy tale and reminds me why I always preferred myths to reality.
At least they never give you illusions about happily ever afters and show humankind in all its vile glory.