I cross to the bed, sit on the edge. He reaches for my hand, and I let him take it.
Within minutes, his breathing evens out. Sleep claims him, pulling him down into darkness.
I stay exactly where I am.
Watching. Waiting. Thinking about a red folder with my family's name written in gold.
And wondering what secrets Moore has been keeping about the Harrisons.
Chapter Eight: Elliot
Thenightmarecomesback.
Same basement. Same chair. Same hands on my body, cold and clinical, taking me apart piece by piece. Moore's voice in my ear, soft and reasonable, explaining why this is necessary. Why I deserve it. Why I should thank him for the lesson.
I wake up gasping, clawing at the sheets, the phantom taste of rubber gag still thick on my tongue.
The room is dark. I'm alone.
No. Not alone.
Jace is in the doorway, silhouette sharp against the light from the hall. He doesn't move, doesn't speak. Just watches me the way he watches everything: patient, calculating, waiting to see what I'll do next.
"I'm okay," I say. My voice comes out cracked, barely human.
"You're not." He crosses to the bed, sits on the edge. The mattress dips under his weight. "But you will be."
I don't know if that's a promise or a prediction. With Jace, it's hard to tell.
"What time is it?"
"0430."
Too early to be awake. Too late to go back to sleep. I sit up, pull my knees to my chest, wrap my arms around them.
"I remembered something else," I say. "While I was dreaming. About the files."
Jace goes still. That particular stillness that means he's processing, analyzing, filing away data.
"Tell me."
"There was a man. Moore called him his accountant. He came to the house every month with a briefcase. They'd go into the study and lock the door." I close my eyes, reaching for the fragments. "I heard them talking once. Something about transfers. Shell companies. A name that sounded like a place. Syrus? Cyprus?"
"Cyprus." Jace's voice is flat. "Offshore accounts."
"Is that important?"
"It's a thread." He stands, moves to the window, pulls back the curtain an inch. Grey light seeps through. "The accountant. Do you remember what he looked like?"
I try to picture him. The image is blurry, filtered through years of trauma and dissociation.
"Thin. Balding. He wore glasses with gold frames. He had a mole on his left cheek, near his ear."
Jace is quiet for a long moment. Then he turns, and there's something in his expression I haven't seen before. Something almost like satisfaction.
"I know who that is," he says.
His name is Gerald Whitmore The Fourth.
