Once our breathing evens out, we start to reach for our clothes and dress. Rhys reaches out across the rug, fingers closing around my discarded receivers and pressing them into my hand. I pull my sweater on before clipping them in place.
“You can tell Clayton to come out now,” Rhys says. I stumble with one leg in my jeans, just catching myself on the desk before I fall onto my face. Rhys raises an expectant brow, waiting for my mouth to hang open like some type of fish. Realizing my mind has switched off, Rhys smirks.
“You have many talents, my love, but I’m certain picking locks isn’t one of them.” His foot nudges the letter opener that must have fallen from a filing cabinet. My cheeks flame for more reasons than one. Sighing, I finish dressing and point to the shelves.
“He’s behind the bookcase,” I point towards the shelves. Rhys’ brows snap together.
“Behind…” he repeats slowly, turning to stare at the wall of books. His eyes trace the spines, hunting for the seams amongst the shadows. He takes a step closer, then another, suspicion dawning as his gaze narrows. I move to his side, oddly entertained by the fact that I know something he doesn’t, my earlier embarrassment softening.
“You didn’t know?” I ask, unable to keep the small spark of surprise from my voice. Rhys shrugs against the fabric of his T-shirt.
“I don’t…come into this room by choice. And I don’t often hang around,” he replies flatly, still scanning for the opening as if he can conjure it into existence. “I assumed he was underneath the desk, which is why I rammed you into it so hard.” I glance back at the smooth surface behind us, huffing a small breath of laughter. Reaching for the bookend, I tug against its stiffness and watch the door further down the shelves pop open.
Clayton barrels out, a weathered box in his arms. He freezes when he clocks Rhys, eyes darting between us like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, before straightening and schooling his face into something far too casual.
“Oh, hi Rhys. Didn’t realize you were here,” Clay feigns innocence. Rhys doesn’t say a word, just stares at him, the air in the room thickening with a silence that could choke. Pressing my lips together, I stretch out and take the scuffed box, surprised by its heaviness. Turning to place it on the desk, Rhys swoops it and relieves me of the box before it touches the wood. Then he turns and dumps it back into Clay’s arms, purposefully knocking his chest in the process.
“Not here,” he grumbles, a shadow of tension returning to his jaw. “Whatever this is, we’re not dealing with it here.” His voice is strained, but I know better than to jump to the conclusion that he’s pissed. Partially, maybe, but it’s also a plea. Obeying this time, Clay leaves first, taking with him the evidence he deemed worth keeping. Bracing my hand on Rhys’ arm, I search his eyes for a sign of how mad he is, the scale ranging betweennumb to the bullshitandpissed as all hell.Although his gaze is blank, the skeletal figures inked into his skin seem to judge me. Damn, I’m judging myself.
“Rhys,” I say low enough for only him to hear, even though Clayton is halfway down the hall by now. “For the record, I didn’t mean to go behind your back. I’ve already upset you once today…you know, about your mom. I didn’t want to make any more assumptions without physical proof.” A flicker of misery filters across Rhys’ face before he pulls me against his chest.
“You didn’t upset me this morning. The whole fucked up situation kills me. The what-ifs and whys. I want answers as much as I don’t. I’m…scared that I might be wrong.”
“What do you mean?” I wriggle for an inch of room to look up at him. Despite how he tries to use the forward flicks of his dark hair to hide his eyes, I note the rawness held within them. I’d give anything to see Rhys smile again, genuinely smile without reservation, but we have to endure this first. We have to survive it.
“That I’ve misplaced my anger all these years. It was easier to hate my mom than miss her.” Rhys exhales slowly.
Clearing his throat, he guides me toward the door, his palm warm at the small of my back. Crossing the threshold, he pauses just long enough to glance back once, his grip tightening before he pulls the door closed behind us with a decisive click. I stay right beside him, breathing in his expensive body wash, knowing that whatever comes next, we’ve crossed a line together and neither of us is turning back.
Chapter Twenty Five
The warped box sits between us on the rug, no one wanting to disturb the contents before Rhys is ready. He’s kneeling beside me, close enough that our knees brush, but he has yet to reach inside and bear its contents. I watch his fingers flex, and his shoulders bunch as if he’s bracing for impact. Sitting opposite, Clay’s dark eyes have found a spot on the rug to settle, patiently waiting out Rhys’ inner turmoil.
Cracking his neck side to side, Rhys seems about ready when Addy swans into the living area, a huge tub of dessert in her hands and a spoon hanging out of her mouth. She looks over the three of us, then the box, and decides that there is an Addy-sized gap between Clayton and me that she should fill.
“Are we having a séance or something?” she asks after popping the spoon free from her mouth. Nestling the tub in between her crossed legs, she digs into the trifle she’s apparently found without offering it around.
“Uhh, not quite,” I reply, my eyes darting around everyone present. “Just a box of stuff Clay found. We were hoping it might give us some idea of where Rhys’ mom is or if she’s involved in…you know.”
Licking my lips, I decide not to finish that sentence. Not when there’s too many variables. Not when scratching this itch feels like letting the bad omen back into our lives. As much as Rhys won’t agree, since we came to the manor, it seems like we’ve been blissfully isolated from the rest of the world. Despite the tormented past clinging to these walls, I’ve felt…safe. I just wish those walls could talk. They must have all of the answers we’re looking for.
“Sooooo, what are we hoping to glean from staring at it?” Addy muffles around her mouthful. Rhys rolls his eyes and grumbles something inaudible, then sits forward and tips the box on its side. Paperwork scatters across the rug. Files, folders, envelopes bound with string. Methodically, we all reach for a few documents, sifting through on the hunt for anything of use. All except for Addy, that is. She pulls out her phone and leans back against the sofa, taking her dessert with her.
“We should start with a filing system,” Clay states, having already seen some of these papers. “Medical over here, legal over there and miscellaneous on that side.” Following the point of his finger, I sift through the documents while Rhys moves slower, his jaw clamped tight.
The first few files are labelled with dates, reference numbers, and a hospital’s header, although thick black lines of redaction slice through paragraphs to cover anything that may have been helpful. Placing it into the medical pile, I move onto a stack of letters addressed to Phillip Waversea, some from legal representatives, others to private specialists whose names I don’t recognise. The paper is thick between my fingers, screaming of money. Della Mae’s name appears and disappears like a ghost between redacted blocks, sometimes reduced to initials and sometimes referenced only asthe patient. My chest tightens as I read fragments that weren’t fully scrubbed away.
Progressive decline. Respiratory support. Long-term prognosis guarded.
Another letter mentions medication schedules so complex that they look more like military operations than treatment plans. Assisted ventilation. Power backups. On-site equipment. A note about relocation being “ill-advised due to instability.” I glance up at Rhys, whose eyes are locked on the page in my hands, his breathing turning shallow.
“She was sick. Real sick, and this letter is dated over two decades ago.” I state quietly, though it feels redundant. My meaning is obvious as we circle back to my assumption from this morning. People’s lives aren’t packed up into dusty boxes and forgotten about if they’re still alive.
Rhys’ blue eyes are dull, a sweep of misery washing over him before it’s quickly pushed aside. I saw it, though. The daunting realization that he’s been falsely hating this woman for abandoning him.
“Well, I suppose that’s…better,” he forces out. Clay’s brows tighten as he looks up, and I share a quick glance with him as Rhys clears his throat. “She didn’t just leave of her own accord, or my father didn’t bully her out. Either she was left to die, or she passed away here. I just hope it was peaceful.”
Placing the paper down, I snuggle into his side and band my arms around his middle. Exhaling hard, his chest deflates beneath my cheek, and his head rests on top of mine heavily. I know Rhys would have gone his entire life purposely avoiding looking deeper into his mom’s disappearance, but we don’t have that luxury anymore. Someone allowed Kenneth to use her house to keep me captive, and if it wasn’t her, we need to look a little closer to home. This home, specifically.
