Page 35 of The Castle (Endgame 3)
You don’t have to forgive me. I can’t even ask for it, but I implore you to hear me out. You aren’t safe. There are men in this city who want revenge on me. Men like Gabriel Miller. I know you believe that’s over now, but I believe the worst is yet to come.
He may want you, and he may keep you.
He may even love you, in the only way he is able. That’s the greatest danger of all.
I still have my sources in this city, and they tell me there is a bounty on your head. Has he told you this? If not, how can you trust him? I send this in the form of a letter, knowing that his hubris will mean you get it, even if it exposes him for the monster he is.
With love,
Your father
My fist crushes the thick paper before I can even process what it says. A price on my head. First Justin, now my father. Even with their claims it would be hard to believe, except for the shooting at the restaurant.
I’m still stunned by the idea, hurt by it, terrified of it.
That’s why it takes me a moment to register the whisper in my ear.
There are monsters under your bed, but you and I know the truth. They aren’t all bad, are they? Some of them care for you. They care for you more than anyone.
I whirl, knocking the swivel chair with my knee. It rolls away, loud in the empty room. The silent room. There’s no one here with me. And I can’t blame the dreams this time.
Rage and fear collide inside me, leaving me shaken.
My mind is playing tricks on me. Or someone else is doing it.
At my mother’s house there were secret rooms built into the design, something easier to do back when an architect could be bribed. Despite the old-world design, Gabriel’s house is modern—with all the amenities and security that money can buy. How could whole rooms have gone unexplored? How could secret speakers have gone unnoticed?
Unless he’s the one who had them installed.
My hand closes around the silver hilt of the letter opener. I approach the painting, my eyes narrowed. Like the fake painting of my mother that came, the one that was replaced, this could have been smuggled in. An art dealer. An antiques store. There are a hundred ways someone with excessive money and power could attempt to gain entry into this house.
I pull my arm back and stab directly into a red tree, then slash diagonally across, revealing nothing but the hollow wood frame of the picture. That kind of violence should have shocked me back to reality, especially with the confirmation that it’s just an innocuous painting.
Instead the movement liberates me. I’m free to do anything, be anything. Even a monster, myself.
I lift the heavy painting from its hooks and toss it onto the rug with a thump. Taking hold of the letter opener again, I pull back and stab into the wood. My hand slides against the roughened splinters, making me cry out.
“Shit,” I whisper.
There’s barely a nick in the thick wood paneling. I’m a fly against concrete now.
Dropping the letter opener, I pick up a globe from the bookcase. It’s heavy, made from some kind of dark stone. I pull it back and slam it into the wall. The impact reverberates up my arm.
Pain barely registers, only a dim sensation.
“Good Lord,” comes a voice from behind me.
I turn and see Mrs. B watching me, her eyes wide pools of green.
Without answering I slam the globe again, and the metal frame breaks away from the sphere. A deep crack appears in the wood, almost to the ceiling. It’s impossible to grip such a heavy stone now, not with any surety, so I let it roll away.
“What are you doing?” she shrieks.
There’s a fire raging inside me, with every doubt and fear.
With every secret kindling to stoke it higher.
“Taking back my life,” I tell her.
I don’t even hear what she says in return, but she leaves me to my destruction. Am I creating a new life for myself? Am I destroying the one that I have? Thinking of Penny, catatonic on the bed upstairs, I’m not sure they’re even so different.
Crossing behind the desk, I pull the rolling chair over to the wall. It’s the largest thing in the room, the biggest thing I might be able to lift. Even then I feel my muscles strain against the expensive chair made of wood and leather and metal. Made to last.
I’m tired of living in the dark. Tired of being blamed for the sins of men. Tired of being moved around the board like an unthinking figure made of marble, meant to touch and to hold and to own.
I raise the chair above my head and slam it against the crack.
