Page 95 of Liar
After the nightmare of this evening, my plan is to derail them both.
I try not to feel any guilt as I cross my arms in the cold and make it to Main Street, where a restaurant owner takes pity on me and calls a cab. I use the time between my ride from Main Street to Weatherby Manor to remind myself that Thorne was the first to commit the ultimate betrayal.
He knew where I came from. He understood perfectly the poison that affected my family. He had the cure to my confusion, my loneliness, and the answer to why I was ripped out of the home I knew and thrown into one of hell. Still, he did nothing.
Thorne deserves to feel the pain that I’m living with. He should know the emptiness that happens when someone you love peels away your very essence, flaying you alive, then leaves you exposed, wounded, and alone.
“Thank you,” I say to the driver as he pulls around the back of manor as I’d asked.
There are no signs of skulking cloaks. They’re probably too busy serving their master or watching him bandage his nose as he rails about his latest plan to kill me.
Which means I have to act fast.
Out of an abundance of caution, I crouch low to the ground while making a break for the side door. The taxi driver must think I’m a nut, but I hear him motor off regardless, probably well used to the oddities of the elite of Raven’s Bluff.
He’d be correct, though. I finally understand who I am. An elite. A Weatherby. Malcolm’s daughter, born from violence and determined to break free.
Weatherby Manor’s silent, darkened hallways are almost cold to the touch as soon as I walk in. Malcolm wasn’t home a lot, but I always sensed his presence. The peaty smell of whiskey, his subtle cologne, and aftershave. There was always a light or two on, a soft gold to navigate through the insane amount of bric-a-brac this man collected over the years.
I don’t dare light my way through the first floor and to the western wing where Malcolm’s office sits, empty and sharp with the scent of leather. Just in case there’s an errant cloak lying in wait for me. Dash might’ve cleared the home before leaving, and I’m hoping that’s the case. I have no idea when he’ll return, so it’s up to me and my own devices on how I handle these next hours.
Traveling with the hunchback of a cat, I crawl to Malcolm’s desk, opening drawers and sifting through using only the starry night from the bay window behind me to guide my search. At last, I come across his phone.
I perch on his chair, turning it on and dimming the screen as much as possible. It takes me more time than I’d like to guess his code—I’m locked out for a good ten minutes after too many tries. I’m tempted to open a fucking chat box on his computer and call someone that way when finally, my birthday takes me to the home screen. That was never the one I would’ve thought worked.
“Thank god,” I mutter through the affectionate swell in my chest, swiping through his contacts. Malcolm’s been smart, so I don’t find what I’m looking for. A good thing, I guess.
Resigned, I dial 911 and hold the phone to my ear.
“911 operator, what’s your emergency?”
“Hi, um, I have information regarding an investigation into Damion Briar. I believe the FBI is working with the RBPD on this, and I’d be grateful if you could pass on the message.”
A pause. “I’m sorry, who is this?”
I take a deep breath. “My name is Ember Weatherby. And I have proof. There are ashes of a baby buried at the old cemetery carrying Damion’s DNA.”
Chapter 29
Ember
Monday comes too soon.
I spent the weekend cloistered in a police interrogation room, meeting with the man who’d become Malcolm’s confidant and friend throughout these past years. His name is Elijah Colt, and his rough, suspicious demeanor belied by his large, warm brown eyes eventually softened when my story remained consistent for hours. And I’m talking hours.
I told them everything. From the Societies to Damion’s affair with Savannah to the tragedy befalling their baby. I informed them of the Societies’ hideouts and the underground tunnels of Winthorpe. The catacombs housing their ritual items and their penchant for dangerous, deadly challenges to prove you were part of the elite. My examples included rape, assault with deadly weapons, and of course, drugs.
Did I feel like a snitch? Absolutely. Then all I had to do was remember Thorne’s stubborn duplicity and Damion’s maniacal glee at informing me that one of Malcolm’s rapists was my biological mother, and the information slips out of me like silk.
Both of them were only out for themselves. Well, so am I, and I’m determined to give Malcolm the justice he deserves. We deserve.
You’re nothing to Thorne.
He may have loved fucking you, but he’s proven how much he doesn’t love you.
His commitment to the Societies overshadows any claim you had on him.
Savannah’s slim arm curving around his as they look down on me in the catacombs plays on a loop in my head, even overshadowing the pleasure of shoving a fire poker into Damion’s face.