GRAYSON
If hell had a point of entry, it would be Mize, Mississippi.
I crank the AC and towel off the sweat from the back of my neck, disgusted with the heat. Then I turn up the volume so I can hear her voice over the blast of the vents. Twenty-four hours after her rescue, London is giving a press speech to the media.
My finger traces the delicate curve of her face, the flatscreen a poor substitution for her soft skin. I drop my hand. It curls into a fist on my thigh.
“Though this announcement weighs heavily on my heart, I cannot bear its burden for one more day,” London says into a microphone. The flash of cameras doesn’t faze her. She’s a born actress for this world.
I smirk as I settle on the sofa of my RV. To everyone else, Dr. Noble is a truly burdened soul. A survivor. A hero. To me, she’s a dark goddess that should be feared.
“During the long and trying hours of my captivity, I suffered a mental collapse. Breakdown—no longer recognized by my colleagues or me—is the only way I can describe what transpired.” She pauses to look at the floor. So demure. “Due to the duress, repressed memories have been recovered of the man who abducted me.”
A thrill buzzes through me. As the attack of the reporters rises, questions shouted in unison, I leap off the couch, unable to contain my excitement.
Trust.
It’s as new for me as it is for London.
With great difficulty, I leave the RV. Her voice lingers in the background, calling to me, but I pull away from it, knowing that it’s only a matter of time until we’re together now.
The dilapidated house sits on an acre of dead land. Corn husks litter the front yard. Cracked paint peels along the siding. A broken bay window hints to a moldy and rundown interior. The guts are here, the foundation, but all that was alive has faded.
London’s childhood home.
I enter, the front door nearly falling off the rusted hinges. The floorboards creak beneath my boots. This was her beginning. Where her memories start.
I have to see the cage.
A padlocked door bars entry to the basement. It’s the only door in the house that remains intact, as if she’s returned periodically to make sure that no one can gain access. I wonder how many times a year she visits this basement, its truths haunting her, fearing discovery.
That fear no longer holds her captive.
I pick the lock easily enough, then pocket it, removing any evidence of her knowledge and involvement. When I pass into the dark and dank tomb, the sight of the bars ratchets my heart rate. It’s beautiful. All gothic wrought iron and medieval. A black prison full of nightmares.
I spend time here, feeling her presence. Making sure there is nothing here to tie her to her father’s crimes. Then I leave behind a clue only she will understand before I return to the RV.
The good authorities will be here soon. Digging and excavating. Unearthing the girls and London’s dark secrets.
Now that she’s free, I can be patient. I’m willing to be any and all that she needs. I’ve left her clues, pieces of my puzzle. My story will unravel the truth for her.
She’ll find me.
No, ours is not a love story. Ours comes with a warning.
And it’s not over yet.
Of course, no one heeds warnings. If ours began with a beware, my story begins with a threat.
Do not enter.
I was spawned in hell itself.
