“Are there keys?” he asked me.
I nodded and patted my jogging pants. Then I stopped. These weren’t the same pants.
“I threw your wet pants away,” Daniel said. “And I’m sure there were no keys in them.”
“Probably lost in the water,” I muttered.
Cynthia’s eyes flicked between us with curiosity.
“I’ll grab a tool from the garage,” he said. “You should come with me.”
“I’ll stay here and keep an eye on her.”
He was about to protest.
“She’s chained,” I added quickly. “And I don’t think she’s dangerous right now.”
Daniel didn’t like that. It was written all over his face. However, after a moment, he nodded and handed me the flashlight—and the knife. “Stay out of her reach. Use this if she gets close. I’ll be right back.”
“All grown up now, huh, Daniel?” Cynthia called after him as he disappeared into the hallway. “Just like your father!”
“He’s nothing like his father,” I barked.
Her eyes snapped toward me. They were sharp and full of fire. “All men are like their fathers,” she said, scanning me from head to toe. “Just like all women are like their mothers. Some more than others.”
“I don’t think I’m much like you,” I said. “You stabbed Hudson.”
“What are you talking about?” Her tone shifted. “Hudson is hurt?” She looked genuinely rattled, caught off guard in a way that didn’t feel staged.
“He’s in the hospital,” I said. “Hopefully he’ll make it.”
Her hand rose to her chest. “I didn’t do that! I’d never hurt Hudson!”
Her eyes darted around the room, frantic and wild. It was like the answers might be lying somewhere in the shadows.
“The monster,” she said, nodding sharply toward the shrine. Her mouth twisted with disgust. “Hedid that. That’s what monsters do. They hurt people. Remember?”
Careful not to lose sight of her, I took a few steps back until I bumped against the cold concrete wall. Then I slid down into a sitting position. The floor felt gritty beneath me.
Arguing with her about what she’d done tonight would lead nowhere. Cynthia wasn’t grounded in reality anymore. She probably didn’t even remember trying to kill me. The monster would take the blame. He always did. Maybe it was how she survived the weight of what had happened. Maybe as long as she believed he was still alive, she could pretend she wasn’t the one who’d killed Michael. It was a coping mechanism, one that had blurred over time until she trulybecamehim when the wind howled and the past returned.
Who knew? I wasn’t a therapist. Maybe even a therapist couldn’t reach whatever fractured part of her had taken root years ago.
Cynthia kept rambling, her words spilling fast—about Hudson, about how it couldn’t be, about the “bad, bad monster.”
“Mom?” The word slipped out before I even realized I’d said it.
That shocked her almost as much as it did me. The trance broke. She blinked fast, like she’d just woken up.
“Can you tell me anything about my real dad?”
She huffed and waved it off. “Pfff. Who cares about him?”
“I do.”
Her brow lifted, and then she shrugged. “All right. He was a loser. Died of a heroin overdose in prison. Got caught breaking into some senator’s home in D.C. High on crack.”
My chest tightened. “I already know that. Is there anything else? Anything that’s not...awful?”
