“What is it?” Harper asks, her sixth sense perking up as well. Lifting the entire box and shifting towards the table, I spread out the blueprint I’ve found, smoothing it with both hands. The paper is yellowed, edges curled, but the ink is crisp. Along the top, the title reads, Waversea Auxiliary Treatment Facility. My pulse stutters as my brows knit together. Since when has our family owned a treatment facility?
Spotting the address, I note that it is right here, in the town neighboring the campus. Less than five miles from where we’re currently standing. The facility was marked as decommissioned years ago, closed due to funding issues. That in itself doesn’t track, as the Waverseas have more than enough money to spare. Regardless, the medical center was sold to a shell company whose name means nothing to me.
Harper’s warmth presses into my side, Clayton flanking her to scan the blueprint with his eyes. I watch her face as theinformation slots together, the way her brows draw in, the way her lips part just slightly. No doubt she agrees that the layout is wrong for a standard clinic. There are too many secured rooms, too much separation between said rooms, observation spaces tucked behind one-way partitions and a reinforced wing labeled simply as ‘Specialized Care.’ Whatever happened in those walls has my stomach twisting, the implications too severe to grasp.
“Was…Is this an asylum?” I breathe, all of the pretenses that I don’t care going up in smoke. Harper doesn’t have an answer for me, but her hand curls around mine. Reaching inside the box, Clayton pulls out a ledger of some kind, flipping through the pages. Grunting, he sets the ledge down, revealing an activity log.
“Whatever it was, it’s now being used as a distribution point. These records haven’t been updated in several years, but the pattern tracks.” Clayton points at the dates, smoothing his finger down the margin. “The last Friday of every month, always mid-morning. The facility may be closed, but someone’s still using it.”
“Mr. Kavanagh,” Harper nods. “Klara wasn’t lying.” I don’t know if her relief is at finally discovering a break-through or finding out her faith in Klara wasn’t misplaced. I, on the other hand, am having an internal panic attack. A break-through means this is real. It’s happening, and my mother could be closer than I ever realized. Slivers of air manage to pass through the tightening of my throat, my chest starting to pant. Harper’s hand grips me harder, her voice becoming distant.
All I can see is my mother’s face before my eyes, frozen in time in the photograph I kept. That’s the only way I can remember what she looks like, but even in my mind, she never seems to step out of the frame. I can’t conjure up the stretch of her smile, the pitch of her voice, the feel of her arms. She’s a ghost to me, a fragment of my past I’ve long since let go of. Or so I’d thought.
I stare down at the blueprint, at the neat lines that map out a place my mother has been going, whilst I tore my world apart in the name of hating her. Anger flares, sharp and sudden.
“She’s alive. She’s so close, and she never once tried to see me.” My voice sounds distant to my own ears, the roar gathering momentum in my head, blocking out the ability to think straight.
“Rhys, she might be sick, or scared, or both. She might have her reasons.”
“Fuck her reasons!” I lash out, my arm skidding the papers and the box clean off the table. I tug my hand free from Harper’s hold, not trusting myself to be near her when a rush of hot fury is consuming me. It’s at this point that the old version of myself would have lit up a cigarette just to drive into my flesh. That I’d trash everything around me, uncaring of the consequences when my rage finally passes. A set of hands lands on my shoulders, and as I turn back to tell Harper to stay away from me, it’s Clayton’s ugly face I’m greeted with.
“No,” he states evenly, his eyes black as coals and his hands shifting to remain on my shoulders. “We’re not doing this now. The last Friday of the month is this Friday. It’s not the time for losing our shit. It’s time to get some answers, for Harper’s sake. She was kidnapped and held hostage in your mom’s house. We need to protect her from it happening again. Those are the facts.”
Clayton exhales slowly, and despite myself, I mimic him. Breathing deep, I briefly close my eyes, drawing on the composure I live my life hiding behind. It’s not as quick as I’d like to answer my call, but eventually, the tightness of my throat eases. Swallowing, I nod slightly.
“Okay. Okay, now stop touching me.” Clayton releases me immediately, holding his hands up as he retreats. Without his bulky torso in the way, Harper is revealed. I fall into the trap of her wide, green eyes, like emeralds of purity that I came close totainting. Again. There’s a split second where the weight of what I almost did presses. My hand slips to the back of my neck, thumb digging in as heat crawls up my throat and stains my cheeks pink.
“I’m—” I start, regret already choking me. Harper doesn’t let me finish. Her mouth crashes against mine, stealing the words right off my tongue. I taste the comfort she provides, and it tastes like home. When she pulls back just enough to breathe, her forehead rests against mine.
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Harper says, and I believe her. That’s the terrifying part. I merely stand there, the cold of the basement feeling like a permanent feature of my limbs. I know I have to see this through, and that Harper will make sure I do.
Beneath the apprehension, she is practically buzzing in the way she does when there’s a problem she needs to solve. So far removed from the running, the hiding and the way fear carved itself into her soul. Purpose does that to her. I can only hope that after all of this, whatever the outcome, I can still give her that buzz of excitement.
“Time to go,” a voice calls out from the top of the stairs. Mclean’s shadow peels itself away from the light, his keys jingling in warning. Harper squeezes my hands once before turning, Clayton already moving instinctively to be beside her. Carefully, they repack the documents, returning everything exactly as we found it before leaving. This time, I’m the one who hangs back.
With one last look over my shoulder, I glance at the rows of shelves we’ve disturbed. Somewhere above, the academy sleeps, oblivious to the secrets we’ve uncovered. Somewhere west, a building everyone’s forgotten about is opening up once a month to keep my mother alive, or to keep her contained. Both outcomes terrify me.
We slip out the way we came, stepping into the cool night air. Mclean doesn’t hang around, locking the door before striding towards the parking lot where his van is waiting. Harper wraps her arms around herself to banish the chill, but when she looks up at me, she’s smiling. Tonight must seem like a huge success, and in the spirit of keeping her spirits high, I smile back. Clayton watches me as if he knows better, tucking Harper into his side and guiding her down the stone steps. I huff out a breath, pulling the collar of my sweater higher.
Deep down, I wished we hadn’t found anything tonight. Coming up empty was the easy option, meaning we could forget about it and move on. Move anywhere that’s not here. Instead, I must face the truth, face the desire of the young boy inside who always longed to see his mom again. That’s the hard path, but at least it’s one I no longer have to walk alone.
Chapter Thirty One
Friday rolled around far too quickly, considering how much we tried to delay it. The logical way to do that seems to be allowing Rhys and Clay to rack my body with orgasm after orgasm, then curl up watching movies in bed until we were sure to sleep most of the next day. That way, aside from Eddy letting himself in each morning to clean and, at Rhys’ request, restock the refrigerator, there’s no daytime activity drawing attention to the house from those passing by.
Last night, however, we decided to forgo our terrible routine and actually catch some sleep before waking at daybreak. Sleepy-eyed and irritable, we down coffees in Rhys' kitchen before sneaking into the garage. Clayton takes the driver's seat of his truck, one that he still won't claim to love more than the orange one, but I catch the way he strokes the steering wheel before Rhys hops in.
Wrapped up in a hoodie and yesterday’s jeans, I snuggle down in the back seat, my hair thrown into a messy bun on top of my head. There’s grit in my eyes and a dull ache behind my temples, but despite all of that, a thread of anticipation filters through me. I swear, I’m going to get Rhys some answers today,whether he wants them or not. He needs to know, so that he can finally start to heal. What began with us being tormented has opened a can of worms none of us saw coming, but the lid is off now. We have to see it through.
Peeling out of the garage as soon as the door has risen high enough, we’re off campus before anyone else has stirred. Beyond the windows, the sky is washed in pale yellows and pinks, the sun just peeking over the horizon. Drawing my knees up, I watch the empty streets of the neighbouring town pass by, buildings looming like watchful silhouettes.
Clayton finds an alleyway a few blocks out and kills the engine, the truck settling with a soft ticking of cooling metal. The entrance we’ve come to watch sits directly opposite, the hidden medical facility that looks like it’s been forgotten by time. There are no signs to mark it as such, only the address we know exists.
The concrete façade is stained and weather-worn, ivy clawing up one side. Several windows are boarded over, others opaque with grime. A chain hangs loose around the handles, more symbolic than for security. It sure does appear abandoned at first glance, the kind of place no one would look at twice.
For a moment, none of us speaks. The truck becomes a holding cell for our collective breath, the kind of silence that is embedded with unspoken meaning. This is it. This is the place that lived only as a theory a few nights ago, blueprints and access logs hidden beneath the library.
I let that thought settle in my chest, and my gaze drifts to Rhys in the passenger seat. His jaw is set, teeth grinding faintly as he stares straight ahead, like if he looks away for even a second, the building might vanish. He looks like a modern-day sleuth in his black sweats, which hang loose on his frame, the sleeves pushed up to reveal the ink tracing his forearms.
