Book 2 of 2, sequel to Alaska's Illicit.
In which Mikaere returns to Alaska, but upon arriving realizes that she has a new problem: Vaughn, Darren, or should she just stick with Jared?
Vaughn's past and life are revealed, and also a serial killer mi...
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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: THE TRUTH
Content warning: blood, cuts, violence
8 YEARS AGO
A despondent Ethan Harrison sits in the cold, wet corner pulling weakly at his chains. It is no use. Even if he somehow manages to escape, what could he tell the police?
Nothing. He has nothing, and it has been two days since he awoke in the basement. (Or is it a cellar? An old bar? He isn't sure.)
All he remembers is going for a drive to clear his head, his car still littered and messy from his camping trip the previous weekend, and parking downtown. He remembers getting out of the car and leaning on the hood, watching as the cars passed him by.
Until one ultimately didn't pass.
And then, he's waking up chained and assuming that he's been hit over the head, due to how the back of his skull hurts.
He has not yet met whoever has done this to him, and he's terrified.
All he hears is the almost constant sound of footsteps above him. Wherever he is, it must be busy.
And so he screams.
He yells and cries for help until his voice is rough and his throat feels raw and tears are streaming down his face.
And he's so angry - he regrets ever having met Penny if this is the result. If this is what he has been reduced to.
But no one appears.
It is just him, the chains, the cold room, and the knowledge that help is right above him, but completely out of his reach.
...
An old house and its porch swing used to have two very regular visitors.
One loved the other, and the other did not know.
But that was okay.
Because at least they were friends, the one reasoned.
They were so alike that it scared them at times.
They were one and the same, always looking for things that made them feel alive.
They were jokes told under streetlights and listening to old, nostalgic songs on an ancient radio. They were shelves of unread books and empty bottles on the floor.
She was all about sunrises without sleep and cinnamon and vanilla perfume. Singing in public without shame, and sparkling, handmade gifts.
And then suddenly she was dead, and he was heartbroken, drowning himself on rooftops.
