Page 71 of Change
“Twins—Ciara and Nessa. They’re distant relatives of the Unseelie Queen,” Uncle Gregory replied, stroking his chin. “She funded a large part of the investigation.”
Their names echoed through my thoughts, and the flickering of a memory stirred. Honey hair, striking eyes, and darkness swallowing around a scream.
They… were related to the Queen? But that would mean she’d died never knowing what had happened to them—all because I wouldn’t talk.
Guilt clawed at my throat, threatening to make me sick. But… what had happened?
Titus moved closer, and his touch brushed against my left hip. Meanwhile, Damen squeezed me more tightly against him. “Baby, it’s fine if you can’t tell anyone what happened. They’ll find other leads. You don’t need to worry about it.”
For an instant, I basked in the feeling of being protected—sheltered—but then realization struck.
It was so easy to give in—to let the others take care of me. But I couldn’t go back to the way things were before. It would only give the others reason to continue to treat me like I was fragile.
And I hated that more than anything.
“N-no!” I jerked away, turning to face them. Why I was feeling braver now, I didn’t know. I’d never been able to answer these questions before. “There are no other leads!” I could feel myself shaking, but it didn’t stop the flurry of my admission. I glared at Bryce, daring him to tell me I was wrong. “They werehere. They are h-here.”
“But…” He was holding his hands up in the air, placating, as he spoke more cautiously, gaze wandering briefly to Titus. “Okay. If you say so. They’re dead?”
His question rang through me, and my annoyance disappeared as my shoulders slumped.
Were they dead?
I stared at the floor. My skin felt clammy and cold, and I wanted the tiles to open and swallow me into the ground. “I-I don’t know.”
Damen followed me, pressing his palms against my cheek as he turned my face up toward his. His touch was hot, and his eyes burned as his thick brows drew inward and his fierce gaze bore into mine. “Repressed memories?”
Was he asking me? But it was Uncle Gregory who responded. “It’s not an uncommon symptom. In fact, the repressed memories themselves can be a trigger of PTSD. The body will still feel the lingering effects of the stress, even if the mind doesn’t remember.”
“Whatdoyou remember?” Damen asked, peering down at me once more.
I looked at the counter—the taste of burnt rice and cheap cheese still on my tongue—and swallowed. “This was the kitchen,” I almost whispered.
Obviously,it was the kitchen, and it felt stupid to say, but it was easier to keep the torment of my emotions at bay when we were focusing on facts.
But whether the men thought I was stupid or not, no one said a word. I moved back, stepping across the room. The wooden door was broken in two, the bottom holding tentatively to the frame on rusty hinges. I moved to it, touching the frame before stepping into the hallway.
Faint streaks of light punctured through the holes in the ceiling, illuminating the area enough to make out the weathered striped wallpaper that adorned the upper halves of the walls. Beige chair-railing outlined the bottom, and I trailed my fingers along the trim.
“If we were allowed to eat, we usually had to get our own food and take it back to our rooms, but sometimes we were allowed to go outside.” I paused, glancing to my left through a double-wide opening in the wall. “These doors were usually locked—only the adults were to use them. Mr. Richards would talk to clients and parents in that part of the house. But there’s a shortcut to our rooms through there, and I don’t like going the other way.”
“Why?” Damen asked, fingers brushing across my elbow. “What’s the other way?”
My focus drifted down the long hallway at his question, the answer on my lips, but froze.
My ears buzzed as the innocent-looking door loomed large in my vision.
The rest of the house was in stages of ruin, so how wasitstill in one piece?
“Where does that door go?” Damen’s question rang through my ears.
“The basement.”
“Downstairs.”
Titus answered with me—it was the first time he’d interrupted since this ordeal had begun—and the shock of it was enough to capture my attention.
He seemed tense, on edge, and his jaw tightened as he looked past me. “The door is the only one in the house still standing, probably because it was reinforced with steel. It took some time to open it, but it only led to a cellar. There was nothing in there except rotten food.”
