Page 76 of A Touch of Dark
He might have known the identity of the specter haunting my nightmares. And all this time, he’s said nothing.
Could such a man really be deserving of all the hate Damien feels toward him? Could he have allowed prejudice to cloud his judgment in the case of Mathias Villa?
The answer makes my stomach churn. Deep down, maybe I’ve known it all along: yes.
Heyworth Thorne is human—and I’ve learned the hard way that every human, at their core, has the potential to become a monster.
“Where to, miss?” the driver inquires, which makes me jump.
“H-here.” I exit the car a block away from the press queue and spot my father amid a crowd of assistants near the entrance to the sprawling, Romanesque town hall building. It’s a ritual of his: show up early, prep his speech, and ensure that all optics are picture-perfect.
My heart throbs as I observe him and try to see the man most of the world has turned against. His gray, balding head. His warm, gentle smile that eased my fear when I needed comfort the most. I try my best to strip away twenty years of loving Heyworth Thorne.
But all I see is an old man preening for the cameras, desperate to salvage the one thing he’s cherished above all: his career.
I don’t even realize I’ve slipped through the throng of onlookers until he spots me from the top of the steps, still smiling in his charming way.
“Sweet pea…” He frowns, looking me over. I’m in pajamas, my hair a mess, my eyes bloodshot. This isn’t the perfect daughter he envisioned parading around today. “Didn’t you receive the dress?”
“Why?” It’s the only word I can get out as cameras flash and reporters shout questions. “Why did you lie to me? Why?”
“Juliana—”
“They said I was a liar. All the papers. The people. My own parents didn’t want me because they thought I was…” I can’t even say it.A murderer.“And you lied to me. Tell me he wasn’t one of your cases. Tell me that you didn’t know—”
“What on Earth are you talking about?” Diane asks, placing her hand on my arm. Beside her, Heyworth Thorne just stares at me, his eyes wide. “Darling?”
“Was taking me in some kind of pity party? A way to assuage your guilt? Or was it pride? Was that all I was to you?” I demand of them both. “All I am to you? A trophy?”
“Juliana.” Daddy blinks, reassembling his mask. How ironic. He used to punish those who hide behind lies, but that’s all he’s ever done around me. “We need to discuss this in private—”
“No!” I turn, my eyes streaming as I scan the crowd for an out, any outlet. I find one in darkness: a sleek black vehicle with a hand beckoning from the back seat. Of all the things to fear, relief shatters the pain ripping through me—and I cling to it like hell.
“Juliana!”
I push through the throng of spectators and climb into the car. Black leather upholstery makes for a chilling escape. So does the man seated beside me.
“Drive,” Damien commands, and I don’t give a damn where he takes me.
Just somewhere far from here.
“Have you known all along?” I demand as the car melds into the thick of traffic. “That my father defended him? Leslie’s killer? Do you know his name? Who was he?”
Damien says nothing. Too busy savoring the moment? Fine. I’ll give him plenty to gloat over. My tears continue to fall unabated. I don’t even try disguising the sobs ripping from me one after the other. “Who was he? I… I could press charges. Testify against him. Do something.”
I try to picture him. Simon. My father and Simon. Could Heyworth Thorne have known more about the attack on me than he let on? No. Even thinking as much triggers a wave of bile up my throat that I have to choke down.
But the sinking thoughts nibble away at what little sanity I have left.
All those years of Simon’s presents. Perhaps the man wasn’t as omniscient as he appeared—maybe my father let him in. Let him taunt me with those memories. Could the home I’d thought was a haven have been little more than a kennel, with me as the pet, locked inside for others’ amusement?
“I don’t know his identity,” Damien says, sounding eerily calm, no glee to be found. “I merely discovered the inconsistencies in Thorne’s prior cases. But the records were expertly expunged and I never learned a name. I will say that only a powerful man could ensure that. Someone in politics most likely—”
“He never stopped after that night,” I admit, my voice breaking. “S-Simon—that’s what I call him. Simon. Every fucking year, on my birthday, he taunts me with the same fucking ‘presents.’ Like the doll, and the rose, and the ribbon. It’s so I won’t forget. He’s still out there.”
The silence greeting my confession is too much, too thick. Desperate to shatter it, I keep talking. “He made us play a game, you see. I had to pick. Who he was going to kill. We were near the woods. Leslie and I were walking home after I got jealous of her stupid doll and…”
We fell into a madman’s trap.
