My sister is damaged, I know that, but deep inside her is the other half of me and my hold around her shaking body is a promise: I will never let her go again.
When our tears have dried and my muscles ache from holding her so tightly, she twines her fingers with mine and gives me an address.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Freya
THE BULLETPROOF VEST is heavy. My chest burns from the weight of it pressing against my cuts but according to River it was wear the vest or be left behind.
We drive over a bump and I suppress a wince. I have a feeling if River sees how much pain I’m in, he’ll insist on taking me back to the hospital. And there’s no way I’m missing this.
“We’re approaching now. Pink house on the right,” Jude says from the driver’s seat.
I press my forehead up against the window and look out. The bungalow is quaint. Pretty. It’s the sort of place you’d expect a sweet old couple to live, not the country’s most wanted serial killer.
Green vines of ivy climb up the pink walls and a warm glow emanates from the porch lights in the early evening dusk.
We’re only half an hour away from my house. The thought of my father living so close crawls up my back like that deceptively innocent ivy.
Jude doesn’t slow down as we near and I catch sight of the SWAT team vehicles in the wing mirror. “Everybody ready?” River asks.
We all nod and River twists in the passenger seat to look at me. “You sure you want to be here for this?”
I hold his gaze, steady, determined. “I’m sure.”
He nods. A glimmer of approval flickers in his eyes despite the fact I know he’d rather I was tucked safely away. His faith in me strengthens my resolve and I draw my gun.
Jude grinds the car to a sharp stop and kills the engine.
“Let’s go,” River calls.
We push the doors open and climb out. The back-up vehicles pull up behind us, the SWAT team pouring out in full combat gear. River and the team leader exchange signals and the SWAT guys go ahead.
Our approach is quiet. Two of the SWAT team position themselves in front of the door and silence hangs over us like a thunder cloud. They count down on their fingers, three, two, one...
The battering ram slams into the door and we explode into action. The door splinters and SWAT swarm inside, their shouts filling the air like cracks of thunder.
We follow after them, River leading us as we move seamlessly, the perfect team. It feels like I’ve been part of this group for a lifetime, not a couple of weeks. We lift our weapons, watching each other’s backs as we clear the different rooms of my father’s hide out. I grip my gun tighter each time, mentally bracing for seeing him again. He’s a smart man, he’ll come peacefully once he sees he’s outnumbered, but my father doesn’t need a knife to cut me. His words will do just fine.
We stop in the living room. Floral sofas and a coffee table with a white laced cloth have me questioning whether this is the right place but then I remember how good my dad is at living a double life. For seventeen years, to the outside world, he was a caring and loving father. To me and my sister, he was a monster.
I’m so hyper-focused it’s not until Harper, the SWAT team leader, joins us in the living room that I realize why we’ve stopped. We’ve searched everywhere. He’s not here.
I lower my gun. “No. No, he has to be here.” Panic threads my voice and Harper’s gaze flicks over to me before returning to River.
“There’s a basement,” she says.
My body revolts. Bile pushes at my throat but I swallow it down, already moving.
“Freya, wait,” River orders.
I don’t listen. I’m already out of the living room, my feet eating up the space covered by patterned rugs.
Two of the SWAT team stand guard in the hallway. One of the rugs has been pulled back to reveal a trapdoor secured with a padlock. Part of the wood has been sawn away, so the padlock is hidden flush against the floor. I wonder how many people have walked through this hall not knowing what lies beneath it.
I don’t know whether it’s the look on my face, or River and the guys at my back, but the SWAT agents part as I approach. I nod at the one with the lock cutters and he snaps the padlock between the metal blades.
I drop to my knees and remove the broken lock. The SWAT guys aim their weapons at the trapdoor and I wedge my fingers in the recess, gripping the edge of the panel. I take one second to compose myself, then I pull it up.
