Page 154

The rest of the entry sprawls across several pages, the handwriting becoming increasingly erratic as Amber records her fury over Arianette's disappearance. There are references to the open door, the forest, the river, and the failure of the ritual. Words are scratched out so violently that they have torn through the paper.

Then I reach a later entry.

November 3rd: Made contact with the new bride. She was out walking alone in the dark, hands covered in blood. Willingly got into my vehicle, and I took her to her uncle’s. I could have killed her then, but she looked like she was prepared to cause more destruction on her own.

The sound of something smashing to the ground startles me, and I see Remy standing over a mask shattered into pieces.

“Our mother did this.” He laughs once, but there is nothing amused about it. “She’s a fucking serial killer. I kept thinking this was a big game. That you would end up being the bad guy, but all along it was her.”

Whitaker's face tightens as Remy continues. “All those years while you were being a manipulative, controlling bastard, I thought you were keeping her from me so that you could fuck around with college girls and micromanage me.” He thrusts a hand into his hair and looks up at me. “But you were actually protecting us.”

“I did what I could.” I swallow. “While also being a manipulative, controlling bastard.”

For an extended moment neither brother speaks. Then Whitaker says, “We need to get the fuck out of here.”

I nod.

We leave the chamber through the opposite doorway and start down another tunnel, the passage narrowing as it carries us deeper beneath the earth. Remy takes the lead, moving at a steady jog, his flashlight sweeping across the walls and floor as Whitaker follows close behind him. I keep my attention fixed on the path ahead, trying to hold on to the urgency driving us forward, but something catches at the edge of my awareness. I slow, then stop completely, forcing Whitaker to pass me before I take a step backward.

My fingers skim over the stone wall, searching for whatever drew my attention in the first place. At first, all I feel is cold, uneven rock, but then my fingertips catch on a subtle break in the surface. I trace it slowly, realizing there is a seam running vertically through the stone.

The door is the same color and texture as the surrounding wall, so perfectly concealed that I could have walked past it without ever knowing it was there. But if we are following the same route Arianette described from her memories, there should be a room here. A room where⁠—

“Wait,” I call, feeling along the wall for a handle or some kind of mechanism.

Both boys turn back, and Remy retraces his steps until he is standing beside me. “What is it?”

“Arianette described something here…” My fingers finally catch on something metallic, and I pull. There is a soft mechanical release followed by a gasp of cool air that spills through the opening and washes across my face. I push the hidden door wider and aim my flashlight inside.

It is a small, dark room, barely large enough to move around in, and the beam catches on a rough plank of wood positioned against the far wall. Dark metal chains are bolted into its surface, their links hanging loose and rusted beneath the light. The smell hits me a second later, thick and stale, carrying the unmistakable tang of copper beneath something far more unpleasant. Sweat. Urine. Decay. It is the smell of a place where human beings have been left too long without anyone caring whether they survive.

“It’s a torture room,” Whitaker says, and there is no uncertainty in his voice. He knows exactly what he is looking at.

“Check every corner.” My pulse begins to climb as I step farther inside. “Anything that could be out of place, anything that doesn’t belong.”

The boys immediately set to work, sweeping their lights across every inch of the room and searching every crack, notch, and uneven section of stone. I reach for a chain and wrap my hand around the cold metal before yanking hard enough to make the links clatter against the wood. The restraints hold firm, the bolts embedded deep enough that there is no obvious weakness, but then I hear something beneath the noise.

It is faint enough that I almost convince myself I imagined it.

“Do you hear that?” Remy asks, staring at the chains.

I look at him, then back at the plank, and for a moment Arianette's description flashes through my mind. Laura hanging here. Her body marked with runes. A girl reduced to a piece in whatever sick ritual Amber had been constructing beneath our feet. My stomach twists as I stare at the restraints, wondering how many times this room has been used and how many women have been brought here. Why did Amber do this to them? What was she trying to prove, and how could she have convinced herself that any of this was justified?

Whitaker steps closer and presses his cheek against the plank, his features falling into sharp relief beneath the faint glow of his flashlight. There are moments when he looks so much like Amber that it catches me off guard, something in the shape of his eyes or the set of his mouth, reminding me exactly where he came from. Tonight, that resemblance feels cruel. Whatever happens next, I would not wish this night on anyone, least of all a son being forced to confront what his mother is capable of.

“There’s something behind there,” he says, his voice muffled against the wood. “Something moving around.”

My son’s long, inked fingers slide carefully along the plank, searching for a way in. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded knife, flicking it open with his thumb before running the tip along the edge of the wood. He moves slowly, testing each section until⁠—

Plink.

The sound is small, but unmistakable. The blade has struck something metal.

Remy immediately reaches for the spot, twists the handle, and a louder mechanical pop echoes through the room. The plank shifts backward, swinging open to reveal another passage hidden behind it. The foul scent from the room rushes through the opening with renewed force, stronger now that the air is moving, and I cough as I step back.

Remy pulls the collar of his shirt over his nose, but Whitaker is already moving forward. He strides through the opening as though something unseen is pulling him forward, his flashlight bouncing across the narrow walls.

He stops so abruptly that Remy and I nearly collide with him.