Breathing out harshly, I nod, coming back to myself. Clay’s right. One step at a time. Keeping a safe distance from the busted-up Nissan ahead, we pull away, hearts hammering as we keep watch on the side mirrors.
The drive stretches far longer than any of us expected. Streets open up into highways, highways to long, empty roads that carve through scrubland and forgotten stretches of civilization. The further we go, the more surreal it feels, like we’ve crossed an invisible boundary where money loses its power. Everything out here relies upon survival instinct.
Blinking down at my phone, the signal flickers in and out. Eventually, I lose all connection, and as much as my heart lodges in my throat, I don’t want to panic the guys. Clay is already stressed, muttering above his mic clip about the fuel gauge dipping lower than he’s comfortable with. There aren’t any gas stations this far out, and if we break down, I won’t be able to call for a recovery.
Just a little longer, I tell myself, eyes glued to the Nissan ahead. It rattles over potholes like it’s held together by stubbornness alone, finally turning off the main road onto a narrow dirt track that kicks up choking clouds. There’s no hidingthe fact that we’re trailing him now, so Clay pulls over on the side of the road, and we pass through the dust clouds on foot.
The moment my favorite biker boots hit the dirt, the weight of what we’re doing settles into my bones. The road is uneven beneath us, gravel shifting and crunching too loudly despite our creeping pace, every sound feeling amplified through the dual mic clips. It’s like having surround sound in my head.
I move between them without thinking, fingers curling into the back of Clay’s jacket with one hand and Rhys’ sleeve with the other. Rhys is rigid, his emotions locked down, and his jaw held tight. Clay stays half a pace ahead, scanning the area like he can shield us from whatever waits at the end of this path. There’s no space for words, only the shared rhythm of our breathing and the quiet understanding that whatever we’re walking toward is going to change something fundamental. Fear coils low in my stomach, but it’s woven with resolve. I vowed to help Rhys rewrite his past, and there’s no better way to do that than to confront it.
Chapter Thirty Two
Up ahead, a house comes into view. I almost miss it because it doesn’t announce itself the way other Waversea properties do. There’s no iron gate, no long drive, no manicured warning to turn back before it’s too late. Instead, it sits back from the dirt track like it’s trying not to be noticed. Small, modest, and definitely not whatever I was bracing for.
A narrow line of solar panels tilts along one side of the roof, catching the light. One window is boarded with wood that has been perfectly cut to fit, rather than but cleanly slapped on in a panic. The other is intact, a pale curtain hanging behind it that stirs faintly with movement from inside.
I clock the Nissan, discarded off to the side as if it was parked in a rush. Harper’s hold on my arm doesn’t relent, dragging me all the way to the small porch with no self-preservation. The steps groan behind our weight, placing us between two mismatched chairs facing the minimal yard as someone sits there to drink coffee and pretend the world wasn’t so heavy.
I hesitate, not knowing what she expects of me. To knock and say, "Hey, Dad, you look shit today?" Turns out, I don’t need to do anything, because Harper puffs out her chest and raps herknuckles on the door. I wish I could share in the small smile she gives me, the one that fully believes we’re about to cut off the hydra’s head. If that’s her intention, she doesn’t know her Greek mythology very well.
My feet twitch, preparing to bolt, when the door creaks open carefully, revealing a hint of a face peering through the crack. The air that seeps out around him is warm, humming faintly with electricity. It takes far too long for the recognition to flare in my father’s blue eyes, the crinkles of age around them seeming out of place. My stomach knots, my lungs forgetting how to work.
“Rh-Rhys?” he asks in a voice far too kind. I frown, taking a hesitant step back.
“What is this?” I ask no one in particular. Harper’s head tilts, her keen eye assessing the man who steps further out of the house. There’s an old stain on his T-shirt, cargos on his legs that are in desperate need of pressing.
“My God, Rhys,” he steps forward, arms raised. I take another step out of his reach, my heels teetering on the porch steps. In response, he lowers his arms and presses his lips together. “Maybe you’d better come inside.”
Whatever happens next comes in flashes of confusion. Gentle hands usher me into the house, Harper’s body tucked into my side and Clayton’s chest remaining at my back. I vaguely register a hallway, a kitchen. A warm mug is placed in my hand, my father’s sleeves now rolled up to the elbow. I lower into a dining chair, presumably because I’m told to, the wood not feeling entirely solid. He stands across the room, keeping a safe distance between us as he leans on a counter. I blink a few times. Phillip Waversea doesn’tlean. He stands ramrod straight with smug entitlement.
“Who are you?” I almost growl, grateful for Harper rushing to remove the steamy cup from my hands. A flicker of confusion passes his features.
“Um, Rhys, I’m your father.” He says it with such earnestness, it’s almost impossible not to believe him. My head spins. What in the Darth Vader hell is happening right now? “You…that’s why you came, isn’t it? To see us?”
“Us?” I nearly croak. Harper clears her throat to gain my attention, her eyes sliding to an adjoining room and back again. I stand with a wobble in my knees, closing the gap between us. The man claiming to be my father mumbles something that I don’t hear, or don’t want to hear, because my gaze has settled on her.
She’s seated in a recliner by the window, positioned carefully so the solar light hits her face. Tubing trails from beneath a soft blanket, disappearing into a compact medical unit beside her chair, its screen glowing with green numbers. She’s smaller than I remember. Frailer. Her hair, once thick and dark, has gone almost entirely silver, pulled back loosely with strands escaping around her temples. Her skin looks translucent, stretched thin over delicate bones, and when she lifts her head, it’s slow as if the movement costs her the precious energy she’s trying to reserve.
Her eyes, though. Holy hell, they’re exactly the same. Blue, warm, impossibly gentle. The way I’ve seen them in all of the dreams I refused to remember when each morning came. Now though, they rush back to me with a force that cleaves my chest in half. I must stumble, my knees buckling, because Clayton catches me, his sturdy shoulder propping me up.
That’s when she looks at me.
“Rhys?” she breathes, my name barely more than a hissed exhale. She stares eerily, as if seeing a hallucination, or perhaps a memory. Bringing a hand to her mouth, her fingers trembling,silent tears roll down her cheeks. A sob bubbles up behind her hand, her whole body folding in on itself from the force of it, and all I can do is stand there. The man who’s claiming to be my father is at her side in an instant, setting another mug down to crouch beside her chair.
“Shh, Della. You need to breathe, or you’ll set the alarms off again,” he murmurs softly but urgently. My gaze slides to the monitor she’s hooked up to, the numbers increasing. Clutching her chest, my mother battles with herself to get herself under control.
“Oh. Oh, my baby. I knew it. I told you he’d find us. I knew you would.” Harper nudges me to go to her, but my feet remain frozen. If standing in the doorway is almost killing her, I’m terrified to take a single step closer. I haven’t come all this way just to watch her die. Except then she reaches for me and, with some encouragement from those on either side of me, I stumble forward.
Taking her hand in mine, I startle at how fragile and cold it is. My father, apparently, watches me with a warmth in his eyes I’ve never seen before.
“It’s okay,” he manages a smile. “She’s tougher than she looks.” This earns him a light smack from the hand, the pair of them chuckling lightly. The disorientation I’m falling victim to doesn’t seem to be striking them in the same way. As it stands, my ribs feel like they’re closing in around my heart, trying to still it from beating. Shifting her thin fingers, my mother lifts them to brush over my hair. Her smile is delicate yet radiant, like she’s seeing something no one else can.
“You look so grown, so handsome,” she whispers. I try to look away, but it’s impossible. How ironic that I’ve made myself the embodiment of what I thought she’d hate out of spite, and here she is, calling me handsome. Her fingers shift from my hair tomy cheek, cradling it tenderly. “I’ve missed you every day. Every single day.”
I swallow hard, my throat burning. Twenty years of questions claw at my tongue, but none of them come out. Instead, all I can think of is that she left. That she disappeared without a word. That I cried myself to sleep, clutching a blanket that was then burned like evidence of a crime.
“What…what’s wrong with you?” I ask a little too harshly. I hear it back in my own ears, but my mother isn’t offended. She’s just sad, tears welling in her eyes once again.
