In Silence She Screams (Midnight Mayhem 3)

I squeeze my eyes closed just as my phone pings.

Bishop: … anything?

I think over the words, squinting my eyes against the angry glare from my phone.

Me: Why are you so worried?

I leave it, tapping against the screen of the phone.

Bishop: Bro, you’re the only living Rebellis in your family. We need you alive. Don’t do anything dumb.

That is so much easier said than done. Don’t do anything dumb.

As if I had any choice at all.

Me: I know.

I plug my phone into the charger and turn off the bedside light. Why the fuck would Lilith go back to Patience? I knew she was a slave to the system, hungry for destruction and shackled to their world by her raw need to please, but to willingly leave as soon as she was back in Kiznitch didn’t make a lot of sense to me.

Unless that was what she fucking wanted? Maybe I was so caught up in her that I forgot why I was here. My real reason.

I make my way down to the living area the next morning, to find Killian and Keaton already at the kitchen counter, chatting. They instantly stop when I arrive, both turning to face me.

“How are the accounts looking?” Killian asks, watching as I slide out the barstool one over from him.

“Shit.”

Keaton pours hot black coffee into a cup and hands it to me.

I take it. “But you both knew that, right?” I look up between the both of them while sipping on my coffee. “Who did them before me?”

“Delila did it all herself,” Keaton says, sliding his ass up onto the counter. “She took on too much and was told to get an accountant for years before she died. Makes sense that it’s a shit show.” He nudges his head at me. He reminds me of Bishop. The hard, square jaw and empty void in his eyes. “How much longer you here for?”

“Hmm, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” I wriggle my eyebrows up at him while taking a large gulp of coffee.

Both of them look up to the entrance when King enters, opening the fridge.

“Anyone seen Lilith?” I wait for all of their answers, watching how they respond. Keaton shakes his head naturally, whereas Killian’s left eye twitches slightly before he says no.

“Kyrin said she went back to Patience.” I wait again, watching their reaction.

“Oh,” King says, taking a seat beside me. “She did.”

“How the fuck are you all so chill about this? That girl should not be back there. It’s like sending a junkie back into a crack house. She’s going to relapse.”

“But you knew she got better, which means you knew her before she came here…” King muses out loud, before finally turning to face me, his eyes narrowed. “Talk.”

I flick my tongue over my front teeth, chuckling. “I’m not doing this.”

Kyrin storms into the kitchen, banging the wall with his fist. “Yes, the fuck you are.”

It was different this time. The walls were painted black, but my Dollhouse was still in the corner of the room. All the white crystals that were hanging from the ceiling are now dyed black, too. I know that I need to hold on. In the back of my mind, I’m trying. But the thought is like grasping a ghost—poof, it evaporates as soon as I reach for it.

Footsteps sound down the corridor outside my room. So familiar, like that first sip of a memory, even though you’re hoping it just stays a memory. Music is playing softly through the speakers, my mind gaining clarity. I reach for the ends of what I’m wearing. New. Clean. A dress, black. Someone has washed me and put me in my room. How long have I been in Kiznitch? Has it been an hour? Two? A week? Images flash through my head as I continue to grasp the time, but a door opens and boots come into my view. Loafers, actually.

Oh.

“Look up at me, Little Doll…”

I do, tilting my head up to face him, even though it pains my neck to do so.

“You did so well. Now you’re home, and you won’t need to worry about them ever again.” He kneels down to my height and runs his finger over my cheek. “Are you ready? Because we sure are.”

He was my father’s best friend, confidant, leader. Patience’s home turf has always been here, but that’s not to say we had other “homes” in other places. Other countries. Maybe even your next-door neighbor.

His finger curls against my cheek and I close my eyes, leaning into his touch. My eyes pop open. “I’m ready.”

The lights are dim, but not enough to shield the stage. To the left, there are two girls tied to wooden poles, and to the right, a single coffin. I bring the microphone to my lips, smirking as the spotlight beams directly on my face.