“The kid’s identity was never disclosed. We don’t even know if it was a male or female,” I remind her. “Protocol would have been for them to go with family—maybe not even local.”
“It seems like quite the coincidence that twenty years later, Forsyth is under the same cycle of terror, that’s all.” She sets the paper down with more care than she picked it up, as though aware she’s touching a live wire. “I don’t know about you,” she adds, leveling a look at me over her shoulder, “but I don’t believe in coincidences. Not in this town.”
There’s a beat of silence–thick and expectant, the kind that makes the hum of the fluorescent lights feel suddenly too loud.
I watch her study the articles again, her jaw tight, her distrust of me and the world braided together so neatly I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. She isn’t wrong to question the pattern. She isn’t wrong to be afraid of it, either.
“Be careful with that line of thinking,” I tell her, softer than I intend. “Some things loop back on themselves because people can’t let the past die. Other times…” I trail off, because finishing the thought feels like stepping through a door I’m not sure either of us should open. “Other times, there’s nothing there at all.”
She doesn’t answer, but her expression says she doesn’t believe me.
And maybe she shouldn’t.
“One thing I can say with certainty, Lavinia, is that you shouldfocus on your family. The people you care about. Those are the ones that tend to become the victims in this place.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
Her sister. Remy’s friend Tate. Her mother. Her father. The Lucia line is one person away from being extinguished. We both know it.
I reach for the door again, and this time she lets me go. The scent of old paper clings to me as I step out, like the past trying to follow.
14
Damon
Arianette sits stifflyin the cushioned chair, knees pressed together, hands locked pretty much like she’s bracing for impact. The small office is too warm, too quiet. Bookshelves, a humming computer, and the faint smell of fresh paint from the tattoo parlor out front clinging to the walls. It’s not the kind of place you expect to allow your whole damn life to crack open.
Sy pulls a chair in front of her and sits so close their knees could touch if she breathed wrong. I don’t like that. At all. But he insisted this was the only way she’d focus, and we insisted she was doing this—so here we are.
When we got here, Perilini actually tried to keep us out of the room. Said it could, “interfere with the process.”
Yeah, well, too fucking bad. No one is alone with the Baroness except us. That’s non-negotiable.
I plant myself in the corner, arms crossed, jaw tight enough to crack teeth. Hunter stands beside me, equally unamused.
Sy’s voice drops to a soft, steady rhythm. Too soft for my liking–smooth, soothing, coaxing. The kind of voice you use with spooked animals and scared kids.
“Okay, Arianette,” he says, palms open, tone gentle. “I want you to take a slow breath for me. In through your nose. Good. Hold it… and let it out.”
Arianette does it, chest rising, then sinking. Still tight. Still nervous.
“Again,” Sy murmurs. “Deep breath. Let your body loosen. Feet on the ground. Feel the weight of the chair under you.”
Her shoulders drop a fraction. Not much, but enough that I notice.
He watches her carefully, eyes tracking every twitch. “You’re safe here,” he continues. “Nothing can hurt you. Nothing can surprise you. If anything feels wrong, you tell me, and we stop. Understand?”
She nods once, her voice barely audible. “Yes.”
Sy gives a small smile. “Good. Now focus on my voice. Just my voice. Everything else in the room can fade back. Hunter and Damon are here. No one's leaving. You’re okay.”
His tone grates on me. Not because he’s doing anything wrong, but because he’s leaning in close, voice so smooth it feels like it’s brushing against her skin. I shift my weight, fighting the urge to step forward and put some space between them.
“Let your eyes get heavy,” he says.
Arianette’s lashes flutter. Her hands unclench.
“That’s it,” Sy murmurs. “You’re doing perfectly. Now… I want you to picture a hallway. Long, quiet, and empty. You’re standing at the beginning of it. Can you see it?”
