“No…” His voice cracks. He shakes his head violently. “Leave me alone… you… you’re amonster… youkilledthem.”
The words hit me hard…a monster?I’ve been called far worse in my life but hearing it from Kit’s mouth… it actually hurts. Something tight and unpleasant twists in my chest.
I whisper, barely audible, “What?”
Kit scrambles to his feet, whole body shaking. He holds one trembling finger out toward me, not quite pointing, more like a desperate plea for distance. He doesn’t say another word.
I don’t move; I know if he starts screaming in the middle of the night it could turn into a scene I don’t want. So, I just watch as he flings the bedroom door open and bolts out into the hallway, bare feet slapping against the floor.
I stand here for a long second, staring at the empty doorway. “Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
I don’t want to admit it, even to myself, but I had been enjoying having him wrapped up in my arms tonight. Knowing he was safe. Knowing he was mine. God, what the hell is wrong with me?
I drag a hand down my face, jaw tight.This has gone on long enough.Being called a monster by the only person whose opinion seems to matter is the final straw.Fuck this.
I grab my black robe from the chair and shrug it on over my boxers, tying the belt with sharp, irritatedmovements. Instead of chasing after him right away, I head downstairs to my study on the first floor. The house is quiet and dark, the only sound the soft pad of my bare feet on the hardwood.
Once inside, I close the door behind me and cross to the far wall. I unlock one of the secure cabinets, press my thumb against the biometric scanner, and wait for the soft click of approval. The drawer slides open smoothly. I reach in and pull out the thick manila folder I’ve kept locked away for two years.
Vincent and Maria Everly.
The weight of it feels heavier tonight than it ever has. This is going to be a shock for the kid… finding out his parents were funding his nice little college life by working for a terrorist organisation. But I’d rather he hears the truth than keep living in this irrational, choking fear of me.
I tuck the folder under my arm, close the cabinet with a quiet click, and head down to the ground floor. The house is eerily still at this hour; every step I take echoing faintly in the long hallways.
I assume Kit’s run back to the safety of his little room, the way he always does when he’s scared. But as I pass one of the smaller living rooms, a flicker of movement catches my eye… someone pacing back and forth in frantic, uneven steps.
For a second, I just stand here in the darkened hallway, listening to the rapid, anxious rhythm of hisfootsteps. Then I quietly backtrack and push the door open, slow enough that the hinges barely make a sound.
Kit’s inside, both hands buried deep in his dark curls, gripping them tightly like he’s trying to keep himself from falling apart. The second he senses me, his head snaps up. His wide eyes lock onto mine with pure, animal fear. Like a deer caught in headlights, frozen mid-panic.
I step inside without a word and softly close the door behind me. The latch clicks into place with a finality that seems to echo. The silence that follows is thick, suffocating, and heavier than the chains down in the basement, heavier than the weight of the folder tucked under my arm.
I don’t move toward him. I keep my distance, making sure nothing in my body language feels like a threat. Slowly, I round the couch and lower myself onto the very edge of it, the leather creaking under my weight. The thick folder feels heavier than it should in my hands. I let out a long, tired sigh because I never wanted to do this… not like this, not in the middle of the night while he’s still shaking from a nightmare about me.
I hold the folder for one last second, feeling its weight like lead in my hands. This is it… once I put this down, everything changes. Once Kit sees what’s inside, I can never take it back. I can never return him to the version of the world where his parents were innocent victims, and I was simply the monster who stole him. The illusion will shatter.
My jaw tightens. With a slow motion, I lean forward and place the folder on the coffee table between us. The soft thud it makes against the wood feels deafening in the quiet room. I tap it once with two fingers, a small, final gesture. Then lean back against the cushions and lift my gaze to Kit. He frowns at me, then at the folder, confusion and fear warring across his face. I don’t speak. I simply gesture toward it with a small tilt of my head,go ahead, look.
Kit licks his lips, wipes his sweaty palms down the front of his sweats, and takes one hesitant step closer. “What is it?”
I tilt my head slightly and answer quietly, “The truth.”
A small, nervous laugh escapes him. “I’m not… I don’t…”
He can’t finish the sentence. Instead, he backs away from the folder like it might burn him. I can see how badly he doesn’t want to be near me right now, how every instinct is screaming at him to run.
So, I sit forward while his back is turned. I reach for the folder, open it, and begin laying everything out in silence.
First, I place the photograph of Vincent’s work… dense pages of complex equations, chemical formulas, and schematic diagrams for explosive compounds far more sophisticated than anything a normal professor should have been touching. The kind of work that could level city blocks if built correctly.
Next comes the photo of Maria standing outside a derelict factory on the outskirts of the city, exchanging thick folders with a shadowed man, their handshake captured mid-motion. She was the one who handled the logistics.
I lay out more images: the underground lab they worked in before we burned it down… sterile white walls, reinforced blast doors, rows of precision equipment that screamed state-level terrorism. Then come the thick stacks of reports Sam and Luke compiled… traced phone records, CCTV stills, credit card trails, even fake IDs with their cover names.
Finally, I pull out the letter. It’s short, typed on expensive paper, signed by the head of the organisation himself. It states that a year’s tuition for their son had been paid in full, and that as long as Vincent and Maria continue delivering results, Christopher’s existence would remain their secret. That they’d keep him safe, protected, and invisible.
I spread every piece across the coffee table until the surface is covered in cold, undeniable proof. Their work wasn’t just helping terrorists; it wasfuellingthem.
