Page 29 of The Shadowed Oracle
“You want to elaborate on what that means?” she asked softly.
“We’ll get there.” Dean cocked his head at her, gesturing to her necklace. She’d been stroking it with her unoccupied hand all that time he’d been speaking, but just now realized it. “We have a lot more to cover first.”
At the possible implication of her father, a pit opened in her stomach. “The stone,” she said. “Does it mean my father was like Karis? That he was from this other world?’
Dean nodded. “Most likely. Yes.”
She searched his expression for something telling, yet found none. “When you were talking about your mom passing. Back there.” She tipped the gun ever so slightly in the direction they came from. “You gave me a look. Like you knew I’d understand. It was all there in your eyes.”
“What was?” Dean asked.
“Sadness. Understanding. But mostly I saw pity.”
“Pity?” Dean exclaimed. “You really think I pity you?” His voice rose, but not in anger. “No. I wasn’t deflecting. I’m sorry, but I really don’t know anything about your father. And I definitely don’t pity you, Ingrid.”
She felt that pit in her gut grow larger. As adamantly as she wanted to deny it, she realized that in the mystery, the secrets and the supernatural occurrences, she’d jumped at thepossibility that it all had something to do with her father—some explanation for why he’d left her.
“Then what was it?” she mumbled. “If not pity, what?”
Dean delivered his answer succinctly. “In that moment, I saw something in you. Recognized something in you. Something that I have in me. I saw… everything.”Dean struggled to get the word out, like it had been buried so deep he almost forgot his meaning.“Because we were given nothing.Denied basic decencies every child should receive. We were lied to and ignored our entire lives. So we’ve spent just as long filling that void with whatever we could cling to. Witheverything. Anger. Hate. Work. Pain. Everything and anything. And I imagine you’re just as sick of doing it alone as I am.” He dragged his hand through the sides of his hair erratically, his other hand still tightly clutching the wheel. “What I’m trying to say is, you’re not the only one. I may not have the eyes, or the visions, but I’m like you. Karis was more than a friend. More than a father figure. Hewasmy father. Only I didn’t know that. Not until after he was gone.”
Ingrid could only shudder. Again, she thought she’d heard him wrong. But the longer the silence went on, the clearer it became.
She thought about the similar experiences she’d had in the group home. The couples who would show up periodically when it was most convenient. They’d take her to their homes, show her what life could be like with a family, making promises and plans, only to vanish without warning.
Only with Dean, that promised family was already a reality. He just never knew it until it was taken away.
“I’m sorry,” Ingrid said finally, but got no response.
The residue from the sudden display of emotion hung in the car like a thick cloud, making the small space seem suffocating, unbearable.
For what felt like hours, Dean only drove, an intense but unreadable expression plastered on his face. The only audible sound was rubber on pavement. A humming, eerie quiet as the dark of the night became like a shadow following them, and the woods continued to grow thicker.
“We’re here,” Dean said finally.
Chapter Eleven
Tall tree brancheshooked over the top of the roof, encapsulating the entirety of the house in darkness. For miles in each direction, thick brush dominated the landscape, and the only connection to the main road was a thin dirt path protected by a six-foot-tall, spiked iron gate with aC, for his surname, Crassus, welded on both sides.
The exterior of the house was clean and bare. No patio furniture, potted plants, or anything indicating someone lived there. Only a rough old doormat was placed in front of the black iron front door, which itself was the most unwelcoming part of the house—no windows or decorations, just a heavy rectangular piece of metal with a small sliding port for a peephole.
“Didn’t get many visitors,” Dean said, cranking the key to let Ingrid inside. His demeanor had changed as he gave her the abbreviated tour. Back to his charmingly arrogant self, acting like there wasn’t a giant divide between the two of them in the form of a loaded weapon.
At that point, the gun was merely a symbol, a crutch for Ingrid, and she held it limply as she followed her host around.
The living room and bedrooms were similar to the front yard. Minimal, naked except for the essential couch, a bed, aside table here and there. But above all else, Ingrid noticed the glaring holes of nothingness where framed photos and personal belongings would usually reside.
It was like someone had hollowed it out intentionally.
Dean showed her where she’d be sleeping, where the fresh water from the well out back was accessed, then led her to the very back where another heavily fortified door occupied the end of a dark hallway.
Ingrid suddenly tensed up in the enclosed space. She was glad now that she still had her gun at the ready. With an intense glare, she silently pushed Dean to keep moving, get to the part where the hard evidence of what he was telling her could be seen plainly, fleshed out.
“You don’t need to remind me,” Dean said with a nervous laugh. He opened the complex locking mechanisms one after the other and descended the staircase that lay behind. “I read you.”
After reaching the bottom step, he flipped an industrial power switch, setting off a domino effect of overhead lights powered by an external generator. The clicks were followed by sudden fluorescent brightness, illuminating rows of decades-old file cabinets, gun racks, shelves of rusty antiques, novelties, books with strange symbols on the covers, bizarro knick-knacks that looked to be stolen from a foreign museum, and thirty-year-old hard drives, radios, and engines.
Shuffling to the corner with his hands up, Dean urged Ingrid with a nod to come closer. “Karis stored all kinds of things here,” he said. “Take a look.”
