72

They didn’t take me to the interrogation room today. Not that it mattered. I was still handcuffed, as always. The cuffs had been my constant companions for the past five days, gnawing at the skin of my wrists. What started as angry red welts had deepened into bruises so purple they almost looked black. Every movement sent a dull ache radiating up my arms, but I didn’t flinch anymore. Pain was becoming background noise.

Instead of the usual dank box of a room, I was dragged to a different place. My legs barely worked, wobbling under me from the dizziness of not eating for days. I swayed like a drunk, only staying upright because two officers flanked me, each gripping an arm like I was a rag doll they couldn’t wait to throw away. Their grip was rough, their anger palpable.

On my right was Joe—the cop whose nose I broke earlier. He was muttering under his breath, no doubt fantasizing about throwing me out of a moving car. I could almost feel the hatred radiating off him like steam from a sewer grate. Joe was a dick. Even before I rearranged his face, he had the kind of personality that made you want to chew glass just to get away from him. I didn’t regret breaking his nose. Honestly, I’d do it again if I got the chance.

On my left was Tim. Big, bald, and dumb as a brick. Tim wasn’t evil like Joe, but he had the IQ of a wet sponge. Watching him try to form complete sentences was like watching a toddler struggle with a jigsaw puzzle. His head was so shiny it reflected the flickering hallway lights. I used to think he waxed it until I heard his wife, Tams, loudly complain about his "greasy scalp" one afternoon.

Ah, Tams. She was the reigning queen of this hellhole—a woman with a face like an angry potato and a voice that could shatter glass. Tams wasn’t just obnoxious; she was dedicated to the art of being insufferable. She spent most of her shifts gossiping loudly with anyone who would listen, especially her husband.

The things they said about other people were wild. Last Tuesday, Tams went on a rant about how she suspected one of her coworkers was secretly stealing her favorite brand of gum from the break room. Tim, bless his empty head, nodded along and suggested they set a trap to catch the "gum thief" in the act. I wanted to scream, “It’s gum, not gold bars, you lunatics!”

The best part? When Tams wasn’t around, Tim gossiped about her. I overheard him one day, whispering to Joe about how his wife had “really let herself go.” He claimed her thighs could "start a forest fire if she wore corduroy." I laughed so hard I almost got caught. But the cherry on top? When Tim wasn’t around, Tams did the exact same thing. She called him a "bald bowling ball" and complained about how his snoring was so loud, it rattled their bedroom window.

It was like being trapped in a live-action soap opera, and I hated every second of it.

Joe’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Stupid little brat,” he grumbled, jerking my arm hard enough to make my shoulder ache. “You’re lucky I didn’t break your face after what you did to me.”

I shot him a glare, hoping it would burn a hole straight through his skull. “You’re welcome,” I said sweetly.

He sneered, but he didn’t have a comeback. Satisfying.

Finally, we reached a door at the end of the hallway. Joe let go of me to yank it open, and I stumbled forward. He shoved me inside with enough force to send me skidding a few steps, then muttered, “Ten minutes,” before slamming the door shut behind me.

I stood there for a moment, catching my breath. The room was cold and dim, lit only by a single bulb overhead. It swayed slightly, casting shifting shadows over the plain table and two chairs at the center.

And then I saw him. And recognition slammed into me like a freight train.

Sitting in one of the chairs, his back partially turned to me, was a man. He wasn’t young—late fifties, maybe sixty—but he carried himself with an understated kind of confidence. His suit, a deep charcoal gray, was perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders. His short hair, streaked with silver, was neatly combed. He turned his head slowly, and his dark eyes locked onto mine.

His features were soft, almost kind. A strong nose, full lips, and a jawline that had softened slightly with age. There was a warmth to his skin, a richness that spoke of sunlit places I hadn’t seen in a long time.

The room felt colder as I stood frozen in the doorway. My breath hitched, the air caught in my chest as my eyes locked onto his. Alaric. Uncle Alaric. The man I hadn’t seen in thirteen years.

He looked different now, older. His dark hair was streaked with silver, neatly combed back, but the lines etched around his eyes and mouth gave away the toll of the years. His once broad shoulders, so firm and strong, now had a slight slump to them, as though they carried a weight I couldn’t see. The suit he wore—perfectly pressed, expensive—was still him. Always polished, always put together. But his eyes, dark and familiar, carried something else now. Something tired, almost mournful.

I remembered him younger, from before. The image of him in my father’s study flashed in my mind, his laughter rich and deep as he teased me about my crooked pigtails. Back then, he had been larger than life. Strong. Untouchable. But this man in front of me looked as though life had drained something vital from him.

“Hi, baby girl,” he said softly, his voice low and warm, the words washing over me like a forgotten lullaby.

My knees nearly gave out. The lump in my throat was sudden, sharp, and impossible to swallow. I stumbled forward a few steps, the cuffs on my wrists clinking together, as if they were mocking the sound of my trembling. My hands clenched into fists, my nails digging into my palms, a futile effort to stop the tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.

I had cried over him, along with other members of my dead family for years.

I wasn’t about to start now.

The chair screeched against the floor as I tried to sit, my shaking hands fumbling to adjust the cuffs so I wouldn’t feel the bruises scrape against the metal.

“Careful,” Alaric murmured, the same gentleness in his voice as when he’d helped me off my bike after I scraped my knee all those years ago.

I nodded quickly, sitting down with as much composure as I could muster, but I couldn’t bring myself to meet his gaze. I stared at the table instead, my vision blurring. I blinked furiously, fighting against the wave of emotion threatening to spill over.

“It’s been a long time,” he said after a moment, his voice measured, as though he were testing the waters of my silence. “Thirteen years. You’ve grown up so much.”

I shrugged, unable to find words. My throat felt raw, tight.

“How’s life been?” he asked gently, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table. “What’s... what’s it been like all this time?”

I shrugged again, keeping my responses clipped. “Fine.”

“Just fine?” His smile was small, hesitant. “You always gave more colorful answers than that. You used to talk my ear off about everything. I still remember when you were six, and you told me all about how you wanted to build a house out of candy.” He chuckled, a soft sound that only made the ache in my chest worse. “You even drew me blueprints. The kitchen was supposed to be made of caramel.”

I looked away, swallowing hard. “I don’t remember,” I muttered, though I did. I remembered everything.

He let out a small sigh, his voice turning softer. “You’ve been through hell, haven’t you?”

I didn’t respond, my fists tightening on my lap. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating, until I couldn’t hold back anymore. Though Dane had informed me about Alaric being alive, seeing them live and seating right across the table from me was...different. He was alive. I wanted to hold back. Not speak. But the question clawed its way out of me before I could stop it.

“You watched me for thirteen years?” My voice cracked, but I pushed through it, the words spilling out like poison. “You knew I was alive and never came?”

The tears fell before I realized they’d escaped, hot streaks racing down my cheeks. I swiped at them quickly, as though wiping them away would erase their existence.

Alaric straightened in his seat, his hands resting flat on the table. His face softened, and his brows furrowed with something that looked like regret.

“Baby girl…” he began, but I cut him off.

“No!” My voice was louder now, trembling but fierce. “You knew I was alive. All this time, you knew. Why didn’t you come? Why didn’t you—” My voice broke, and I slammed my cuffed fists against the table, choking on the sobs I couldn’t hold back anymore.

Alaric flinched at the sound, his jaw tightening. He reached out as if to touch my hands but stopped short, his fingers hovering just above the table. “I wanted to,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I wanted to every damn day, but it wasn’t safe. You have to believe me, I—”

“Safe?” I snapped, my tears blurring his face. “Do you know what it was like for me? Do you have any idea what I’ve been through?”

His eyes glistened, and for the first time, I saw the pain there, raw and unhidden. “I know, baby girl. I know more than you think.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with a meaning I couldn’t yet grasp. But the anger, the betrayal boiling inside me, refused to let me acknowledge it. Instead, I shook my head, more tears spilling as I whispered, “You left me. You left me alone.”

“I never stopped watching,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Never. Not for a single day.”

But it wasn’t enough. Not for me. Not for the girl he’d left behind.

I straightened in my chair, my fists still clenched, the cuffs biting deeper into my wrists. The heat of my anger flared, and I could barely keep my voice steady as I leaned forward, my eyes locking onto his. “You knew I was in New York. You knew Vaughn was coming to attack me. You knew everything, didn’t you, Alaric?”

My voice dropped to a low, dangerous whisper, the weight of the question settling between us. “How long have you been watching me? How long have you known what was happening to me while I was out there, alone?”

I saw the flicker of guilt in his eyes, the tightening of his jaw. The silence stretched painfully, thick with unspoken truths, and I pushed further, the suspicion gnawing at my gut. “And Dane… you kept him from me, didn’t you? Thirteen years, and you never let me see him, never let me be with him. Why?”

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding in my chest as the realization hit me, sharp and cold. “Tell me, Alaric… how much of this did you know? How much of my life—my pain—did you watch, and why didn’t you come for me? Why didn’t you ever come for me?”

His face was unreadable now, the warmth gone from his eyes, replaced by something darker, more calculating. He wasn’t the man I remembered. The Alaric I knew wouldn’t have let me suffer this way. The Alaric I knew would’ve come.

The seconds stretched on, the weight of my questions pressing in, suffocating the air between us. I could feel the shift in the room, a tension crackling like static.

And I knew, deep in my bones, that I wasn’t going to like the answers I was about to get.

Author’s Note:

Happy holidays, everyone!

To kick off the new year with a bang, I’ll be posting a bulk chapter update on January 1st—consider it my way of saying thank you for all your support and enthusiasm. I’m so excited to share more of the story with you!

And here's where you come in: I would absolutely love to hear from you! Share your wild conspiracy theories, your thoughts on the book so far, and let me know which characters have stolen your heart. What makes them stand out to you? Your comments mean the world to me and motivate me to keep writing. The more you share, the more I can give back in the form of new chapters!

Thank you all for your support. I can’t wait for what’s ahead in 2024!

With gratitude,
Pearlswrite.