Page 5 of The Deceptions

"He could recognize me, Sir," I say more forcefully than I intended, almost spitting every word.

Fortunately, the man who reluctantly gave me life taught me a long time ago to hold my tongue and emotions.

"There's no room for your weak tears, bitch. You should have been a goddamn boy. Then you’d be fucking useful." My father, Raphael's, words from years before continue to haunt me long after being in his presence.

"And Raphael?" I gag out his name, barely containing the trembles rocking through me.

I haven't seen or heard from my father since two days before all hell broke loose and we lost our lives. He could be dead. Alive. Hiding. The list is endless.

All I know is that he knew something was about to happen and fled without warning.

Coward.

"Unknown," Jonathan says, shaking his head.

"How, after all these years? You can't just disappear..." I trail off, rubbing my temple with my soaked, pruny fingers.

"We have ideas." That is all he says when he turns on his heels and takes a few steps away from me. "Let's get out of the rain, and we'll discuss the difficulties of this case tomorrow.”

Every case I take comes with difficulties. Life-ending possibilities. It's the joys of working for Veritas and putting myself into these situations.

"Give me a minute?" I ask, gesturing to the graves.

He nods, handing me the flashlight and wandering through the shadows toward our SUV waiting on a gravel road.

Lightning flashes again and thunder rumbles in calling, shaking the ground, and the trees sway in the frantic breeze as I fall to my knees, unable to hold back my emotions. I'm alone now. Able to process the situation without him watching over me. I'm fucked. Truly fucking fucked. A heaviness settles on my chest. A shriek rests in my throat, ready to release into the storm and carry it away.

All the anguish I've pushed away. The betrayals. My old life and memories.

I'm about to face them head on, crashing into them without a choice.

It's been taken from me.

Mud soaks through the dark denim clinging to my skin. My fingers curl in the wet grass, yanking at the blades until they're pieces in my grip.

"I will avenge you," I whisper, tossing the grass over my sister’s grave. Tears pour out of my eyes, finally escaping the hold I had on them and mixing with the rain. "I will make them fucking pay for what they did to you. And Mom. And me," I murmur, running my fingers over my mom's name over and over again, smearing mud across the marble. "I will bring them to their knees for ever doing this to us." I hang my head, suckingin several breaths into my aching, tight lungs. "And you," I say to my name, clicking the flashlight on and lighting it up one last time. "We will make sure they never hurt anyone ever again." The light moves across the surface of the marble, finally landing on the inscription I didn’t catch before.

Olivia Viotto - 17 years old. Gone too soon. But always in our hearts. 224.

“224, Trouble,” Huxley mumbles, gently kissing my lips as he hovers above me. “Today. Tomorrow. Forever.”

“224. Always,” I breathe, closing my eyes when he enters me for the first time. I choke out a breath, digging my nails into his shoulders.

“Fuck!” I cry out when thunder rolls through the clouds, blocking out my frantic cry. “Fuck!” I shriek, throwing my head back and embracing the water pelting my face.

Rage like I've never felt before swirls like shadows in my chest, clawing up my throat and infiltrating my brain. It sinks its nails deep into my brain until I'm no longer in control of myself or my actions.

I let the ghost nestled deep inside me free from the tomb she’s lived in for all these years, where I’ve hidden my resentments and murderous plots. All the anger. All the fucking grief. Everything I endured and felt unleashes from the depths of my fucking broken soul. Howling in pain.

Everything moves without my say so, moving on autopilot, connecting my aching fists and stinging hands to the marbled gravestone displaying my name and the number I never want to set my eyes on again. My hands burn like fire roaring under my flesh, angrily vibrating when I smash the butt end of the flashlight into the numbers on my grave marker. Over and fucking over again.

224? 2-2-fucking-4!

Our special phrase. Our numbers! Something we created as children. Carved into trees as a symbol of our undying love and devotion.

And he etched it into one last fucking thing.

How fucking dare he utters those words to me and then do this! And leave his mark when he's the one who fucking helped to end me.