by Lane Hart
I lift up onto my toes and search for the keyhole. My fingers probe the concrete and welded steel until I find the latch in the door. The metal fastening pushes in and, with a steady hand, I insert the key. It’s easy once you understand the trick.
The door unlocks with a soft click.
It opens.
And I step through the doorway into the outer chamber.
There’s a moment of pause, my feet hesitant to move, as I stand in the middle of the chamber. Boards line a row of newly poured concrete. The remains of Myer and Keller being disposed of to add another addition to Luke’s cellar.
Past the half-erected walls, the sculptures of faces frozen in time amid brutal torture taunt me to look. I’ve tried hard not to—frightened to see what might become of me if I didn’t escape.
But even more terrified to come face to face with Hudson.
He’s here, amid the sculptures, his likeness captured in eternal pain.
I look now. Walking through the warren of monuments, Luke’s shrines to death and revenge.
It’s not enough that they’re dead—he has to immortalize the torture they suffered. So that he can relive the kills, knowing he punished the people who harmed his sister.
I look around, telling myself this isn’t my world. Whatever hell I thought I earned…I’ve suffered. I looked my demons in the eye; I’m allowed to let go, to be free.
I take a step toward the spiral staircase, and a thump sounds.
It echos through the cellar, encasing me in dread, and suddenly I can’t move. I wait…and the noise comes again. Louder.
I whirl around, my pulse careening against every artery. I force my legs to work, for my feet to take me back to the cellar door. I look inside, and Luke is still asleep on the cot.
A bang ricochets through the underground room, and my eyes well with tears. I’m frightened and angry, and I can’t control the emotions rushing me, as I shake my head. I’m not hearing it. It doesn’t exist. Once I leave this dark place, I’ll never hear it again.
But that’s a lie.
I know if I don’t follow the sound, if I don’t confront the fear, it will follow me just like this damn cellar—and I’ll never be free.
Freedom is knowing the truth.
Yes. It is. It’s knowing the truth…and burying it in a deep grave and never giving it permission to see the light of day.
The noise becomes a steady beat, guiding me with a hunted rhythm, as I make my way through the labyrinth of sculptures and blown glass orbs. When I come around the last half-amassed wall, my heart ceases to beat.
A door.
Not a way out. Another way in, deeper inside Luke’s twisted mind.
It’s different than the bare concrete door that held me captive for days. This one is intricate in design. Carved bone and…teeth. A swirled design emblazons the surface. It’s beautiful and, it’s a warning.
It’s very presence screams: Do not enter.
I clutch the keys in my hand.
I close my eyes for too long, waiting for the sound—and when it comes as a heavy boom that rattles my chest, I step forward.
I push the key into the lock and push down on the handle. The door groans open, and I hold my breath.
No.
I shake my head, no no no firing through my mind like a gunshot, and I don’t know if I’m saying it out loud, or if I’m screaming. The frantic gallop of my heart drowns out all other sound.
Hudson is strapped to a chair in the middle of a white room. His wrists bound by razor wire. His feet are encased in a block of concrete. Clear tubes feed into his arms, either keeping him hydrated or feeding him intravenously, I’m not sure. He’s pale—he’s barely recognizable, thin and sickly. A railroad spike penetrates one of his shoulders…his other is coated in dry blood. I think of the spike that Luke used to shackle me that first day, and a nauseous pang hits my stomach.
My world tilts.
Hudson’s throat displays the crude scar from where it was slashed. Haphazardly stitched together, the sight gruesome. Like a Frankenstein monster. Yes—just like a monster.
And his eyes—those eyes that I can never forget—are watching me. He opens his mouth, but only the faintest whisper escapes.
“He can’t talk.”
I don’t flinch at the sound of Luke’s voice. Nothing is so jarring as the sight before me.
“But he likes to slam his block there to get attention, and he can hear just fine. You really did give him a show last night,” he says, and I close my eyes briefly. “I wouldn’t be opposed to an encore.”
He snags the keys from my hand, and I think about the knife peeking out of my back pocket.
“He grunts a lot,” Luke continues. “Makes enough noise to let you know what he wants, but otherwise, he’s useless.”
I swallow the bile glazing my throat. “You kept him alive.”
“I always keep them alive for a while. Until they give in, give up. Give a name.” He moves into the room. He stands close. I can feel his body heat along my back. “Hudson was by far the most stubborn. Either he was more afraid of what they’d do to him, or he really didn’t know who the man in charge was.”
A shuddering breath escapes. “Why didn’t you kill him?” I want to look away, but I can’t. Hudson gasps for air, in pain, unable to form words. He’s half dead already. “When you knew the answer, why didn’t you just kill him?”
It’s a selfish question.
After the truth of my partner was revealed to me, it was easier knowing he was dead. That he already paid his price, and there was nothing I could do. No decision had to be made, no punishment to decide. It wasn’t up to me, because he was gone. I never had to look Hudson in the eyes and ask why?
“You’re right,” Luke says. “I don’t need him anymore. You gave me the answer the first day you were here, Mak.” He spits my name, and I’m not sure if it’s meant as an insult to me or another affront to Hudson, using my nickname.
“Why then?” I demand.
“Look at the walls,” he says. “Look all around you. Here.” He takes a file from the wall where it’s pinned. And I notice for the first time all the white files that paper wall the room. They have names. God, how many more are there—how many does he plan to torture, to kill?
He holds the file out to me. Detective Royce Hudson is handwritten on the cover. I shake my head. “No.” I can’t open that file. It’s Pandora’s box. If I see what’s within, I’ll be sucked down into the same dark pit as Luke.
“I don’t want to know,” I say, as I attempt to get around Luke. I need to leave. I was so close… Escape was so close, and I need to go back. To just five minutes ago. Before I opened the door.
Luke blocks the doorway, an immovable force. He takes my hand and makes me accept the file. I lift my gaze to his, a silent plea trapped inside me.
“I was tempted,” he says. He swallows, his Adam’s apple working hard. “For just a second, I thought about what if. What if you were this beautiful angel with a broken wing sent to save me.”
“That’s sounds crazy.”
His smile is dejected. “I know. I figured that out. You’re no angel. But you’re still a beautiful interruption to my pain that made me question what if…we’re enough.”
I reach out to him, and he lets me place my hand to his chest. His heart bangs his chest wall beneath my palm. It’s enough for me—to know he’s alive inside. That maybe…
I remove my hand.
Luke lifts his chin, his gaze cast down on me. “After all this darkness, Makenna,” he says, “we’d never be enough for each other. You know this.”
“We could try…when it’s over.” But even as the words leave my mouth, I know it’s a lie. I glance around at the files. “This won’t ever end.” My voice quivers with the realization.
“Why should it?” Luke asks. “You think Myer and her empire are the only devils out there? There are so many…sometimes I can’t breathe, knowing that every few seconds someone else’
s daughter, sister, girlfriend goes missing, and the torment they endure. Pure hell, Makenna. That’s what’s inside my head. Pure fucking hell. And no, it won’t ever end.”
I nod, sealing my eyes closed against the flame in his luminous blue eyes. He’s my monster, and I have to accept him. There’s too much ruin to ever escape this cellar.
I feel his hand on me then. He palms my cheek, his thumb tips my chin up as he stares down at me, rapt for a moment, before he slides his hands to my shoulders and forces me to face Hudson.
Luke slips the necklace over my head, fastening the clasp together at the back of my neck. He places a tender kiss there, a cruel reminder of how much I love his touch, then the feel of his presence is gone.
“The longer I kept you here,” he says, his voice farther behind me, “the more I realized something.” He slips the knife from my back pocket into my hand. “He’s not my kill.”
I turn around, but it’s too late. Luke is already through the door. His eyes meet mine and, I see the truth in that ice-blue gaze. He digs his coin from his pocket and holds it up.
“Don’t, Luke,” I say, gripping the handle of the knife so tightly, my knuckles ache.
“You have a choice to make.” He flips the coin. “Heads, you kill him. Tails, you wait here to kill me.” He peeks at the coin. “Damn. I really hope the coin is wrong.”
He slams the door closed.
I hear the bolt slide into place with a chilling clink.
Chapter Eighteen
Crown
Luke Easton
Jennifer Myer has amassed an empire.
Now that her husband is dead, she’s the sole owner of all his companies. All his shares. Stocks. Bonds. Every investment. Every property.
She wears the crown.
And like a true queen, she has protection. Before her hired PI went missing and Keller was taken out, before Milton Myer was a pile of ash, she was safely concealed behind a man; she was unseen. Now, with a revenge-fueled vigilante on the loose, there’s a threat to expose her identity and position within Phiser.
She won’t be taking any chances. Too many players have been taken out for Jennifer not to have shielded herself with the best security that money—a shit ton of dirty money—can buy.
I’m parked across the street from Lake View Cemetery. Rain mists the air. It’s the kind of vapor rain that comes from all angles. That you breathe into you lungs with every breath. The gray-slate sky creates the perfect dreary backdrop for meeting unsavory types in a graveyard.
I reach into the passenger seat and grab the canister before I exit my Charger. I give the hood a pat, saying my goodbye. It will probably become a heap of dismantled scraps when Jennifer Myer’s guys get done with it.
Admittedly, Makenna was supposed to be here. She was the intended bait. She doesn’t present as a threat, and could’ve easily drawn Jennifer out with less of an entourage.
Me, on the other hand, I probably have at least three sharpshooters aimed at my head. But, I’m willing to bet no one pulls the trigger. Not out here. Not until Mrs. Myer gets what she came for.
There’s a particular thing this woman wants even more than a meddling ex detective.
Besides, Makenna is a busy woman at the moment.
There’s a twinge of shame—but it’s brief. Easily snuffed out. I’ve mastered the desensitization process. I can’t let flashes of our heated encounter weaken me. As I make my way through the cemetery, I swear I can hear her voice, see those dark eyes watching me. Whatever happens next, I at least got to experience her, even if it was artificial, a manufactured moment. It felt real enough.
Makenna taught me enough during her short stay in my cellar. I’m wearing thick long sleeves, for one thing. Women like to scratch.
And two, women are in control.
There’s no denying it. These past three years have been a service to Jules, the first woman of my heart. Her memory dictated every choice, every move I made. Until I looked into Makenna’s eyes in that alley.
In that suspended instant, she made me question the truth of myself.
Monster or man?
The fear tasted like acid, a painful realization that I was crossing into a darkness no longer governed by my desire for revenge. I was feeding the beast.
And I could’ve easily fell off the cliff right into the abyss. It’s easier than living with the pain.
I place Myer’s ashes in the crook of my elbow as I walk past two luxury cars. One is Jennifer’s silver Lexus. The other, her security detail. She’d rather not be here, opting to let her associates handle any unseemly dealings—like her husband used to do for her—but this has to be done right. It’s too important. She can’t have any more mistakes.
“Stop right there.”
I halt at the command. A large man in a gray suit steps from behind a tree and directs me to place the canister on the ground. I do so, slowly, then hold my hands up as he proceeds to pat me down.
“He’s clean,” he says to Jennifer.
She’s seated on a cement bench, surrounded by three other men, just as large and intimidating, in black suits. They’re dressed appropriately for the scenery. Even Jennifer is wearing an all-black pantsuit and big black shades. She’s a widow, after all.
“This is a tacky request,” Jennifer says. She stands and hooks her purse over her shoulder. “I take it there’s a reason you wanted to meet here, Mr. Easton. Some point you wanted to make.”
I pick up the canister. My chest ignites with that familiar ache as I spot the marble gravestone just feet away. “My sister is buried here,” I tell her. “I find it highly appropriate.”
She frowns, and fans away the two men standing guard over her. “Give us some privacy, gentlemen.”
The man to her right looks unsure, but he does as ordered. I wait for them to step aside before I say, “Her name was Jules. She was only sixteen.”
Pushing her sunglasses onto her head, Jennifer inspects me closely. Her eyes scan the scars on my face. “I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Easton. But holding my husband hostage won’t bring her back.”
Fire licks at the back of my neck. I tamp down the rage and swallow my practiced rebuttal. She’s in control. I need to let her be in control.
“Is that him?” She nods to the canister.
I nod once in reply.
“Let’s get on with it, then.” She pulls her phone from her oversized purse and taps the screen. She goes through a series of screens before she sighs. “Ten million, as requested.”
I pull my phone from my back pocket and click the banking app. The funds have been deposited into the account. Ten million dollars. That easy. Most likely pocket change to Mrs. Myer.
“Now,” Jennifer says. “I’d like to have my husband back. Do you know how difficult it is to take over your husband’s finances without a body?” When I say nothing, she sniffs hard. “Right. I imagine you do. That’s why we’re here.”
I set the canister on the grass, and the guy who likes to hover inspects it first, then unseals the lid. “Looks legit, Mrs. Myer.”
He wouldn’t know the difference if it was ash from a fireplace. “Then we’re done here.” I turn to leave, and the guy in the gray suit steps in front of my path.
“I’m not a forensic scientist, or whatever,” Jennifer says. “I’d be a poor business woman if I handled all my transactions on someone’s word.” She snaps her fingers, and two of the men take up either side of me.
“This wasn’t the deal,” I say.
I’ve only watched Jennifer Myer from afar. Clips on the Internet, shots of her during interviews. I’ve seen her interact on a topical level with people around her—and she’s every bit the title she’s earned, except for now. For a split second, I see the guise drop, and the ruthless nature she keeps repressed peeks through.
Her smile is devious as she circles me. Like a shark in the water, she scents an easy kill.
This wasn’t the deal we made. That deal required a trade, where I’d bring he
r dead husband’s ashes to a destination of my choosing, a public setting, and I’d receive millions of dollars for my effort. A payoff. A settlement for my pain and suffering.
Then I’d take the money and disappear.
This is only believable to people like Jennifer, who value one thing more than life. Money.
“The deal, Mr. Easton, will be fully transacted when I receive verifiable proof that these remains are Milton’s.” She ticks her head toward the luxury cars, and the men take hold of my arms and begin escorting me that way. “Until then, you’re welcome to be my guest.”
I laugh. “Are those accommodations located in a morgue?”
She walks ahead. “Says the man who stole a body and desecrated it. I should think that sort of man would feel right at home in a body locker.”
The barrel of a gun pushes against my ribs as I’m shoved into the backseat of the silver Lexus. The man follows me in, taking the seat beside me, keeping his gun aimed. Jennifer seats herself in the passenger seat, and her driver starts the car.
As we head out of the cemetery, I glance out the back windshield. The black BMW follows a car’s length behind. I settle against the backseat. “I saved the teeth,” I tell Jennifer. No reaction from her. “That’s your verifiable proof.”
“Even so, I’ll need to match dental records.” She slips on her shades. “Once that’s confirmed, you can leave Seattle.”
I smile. “Of course.”
She twists around, angling herself so that she’s looking directly at me. “What is it that you want, Mr. Easton? I mean, besides money.”
“I think we’re good enough acquaintances you can call me Luke.”
Her collagen-filled lips smirk. “Would you like an apology, Luke? Although I do feel badly for your situation, I didn’t kill your sister. Milton is dead. He can’t apologize to you, either. You made sure they were all dead. So what else is there left to do?”
My hands ball into fists. “This isn’t over.”
She expels a long sigh. “I didn’t approve of Milton’s extracurricular activities,” she says, her tone dripping with disdain. “Men like Milton…born with wealth, never having to want for anything, never being told no, they become easily bored. They seek out challenges, trophies of their own design.”