Burning Ember

Chapter 15

I had searched every nook and cranny of the house for what this key could open, but to no avail. As I strode towards the garden, the snow crunched beneath my boots. The fountain was capped with a thick blanket of it that sculpted over the stone rim. Gazing at it, visions of the masked man embracing me flooded back. I turned away, burying my hands in my pockets. Where else could I search that I hadn't already? My gaze drifted to the tree line, recalling Hale's mention of a cemetery beyond. Instinct urged me to retreat to the house, to avoid the foolish risk of danger. Yet, this time, curiosity triumphed over fear and hesitation. I sought answers, and this was the only path to uncover them.

Trudging through the snow, I made my way toward the line of trees. The distance from the house felt shorter than it appeared, a small mercy given the constant dip of temperatures into the thirties and the frequent snowfalls. As I moved through the trees, the sun was veiled by snow-laden branches. I frequently looked back to align myself with the chimney smoke, and soon, stone silhouettes emerged among the trees. It was the cemetery Hale mentioned. Gravestones, half-hidden by the snow, dotted the enclosed area. At the center stood a mausoleum, its black iron gate looming. I hiked my coat collar up and warmed my fingers with my breath, a cloud steamed the cold air surrounding them.

I approached the gate warily, key in hand. From my vantage point, it was clear the area was deserted aside from tracks that had been left and partially filled with fresh snow. Slipping the key into the lock, it turned with ease. Perhaps he hadn't anticipated my swift discovery, yet I felt a wave of relief knowing he wasn't there to greet me. As the gate creaked open, I stepped inside. Dominating the modest space was a tomb encased in cement, atop which lay an envelope that immediately captured my attention. Written on the front in the same handwriting as the masked man's, it said, Recognize her?

Sliding my finger between the sealed edge, I opened the envelope, fearful for what I would find. I withdrew a stack of photos, holding them face down in apprehension. I wasn't sure if I wanted to see them, or what would be there. His last victims perhaps? I took a breath and counted to three in my mind before flipping them over. My hand clapped over my mouth as tears burned hot against my chilled cheeks.

Though I had never seen these photos, I knew exactly what they were. These were taken the day I reported Gabriel to the police. The domestic violence—they had taken pictures of my whole body. Each bruise on my arms, legs and torso, the swollen side of my face, the blood trailing down my arm, the finger shaped bruises on my neck. Every mark he had left on me was staring right back at me, and I looked at the girl in the photo, the fear had been so consuming. I remembered it vividly. The way I tremored as I cried and cried. Initially relieved to be safe, but through the whole process, a group of male officers had interrogated me, asking if I hit him, saying that these things were never one sided. People don't attack people for no reason. But Gabriel had attacked me, and I hadn't fought back. Why didn't I fight back?

Dropping to my knees, the concrete unforgiving, I cried for the girl in the photos. I was not her anymore, and I knew then, I would never be her again. Helpless, weak. afraid. Too afraid to do anything other than scream even though that wouldn't stop him. My screams were fuel to the fire that he was. Gabriel had taken everything from me. He took who I was and broke her so severely that it turned me into this . . . fearful creature. I couldn't sleep because of him, I could hardly trust anyone because of him. With the exception of Hale, who's only been patient and kind.

Sometimes I couldn't even look at myself because of him. The scars I still had marked my body with constant reminders. Too sick of looking at them every time I saw myself to let my eyes linger for more than a few seconds. Then once, before I left, I had tried to take my own life, a scar marked that moment in time, too. I couldn't go through with it of course, but I had thought it would be easier. I had thought it was my only way out, and when I thought harder, I thought of Ivy. What it would do to her . . . and I just couldn't. It was another fight when he noticed, though I was surprised he noticed at all. He had grown so detached and withdrawn in the end, our only interactions if we had any, were violent.

Though I had been beaten down time and time again, a door had finally opened for me, and everything fell into place. Everything that led me here.

I shoved the pictures into my coat and turned back to the house as I wiped my face so, so the tears didn't freeze by the time I got there. Grabbing a few logs from beside the door on my way in, I tossed them into the fire before stripping off my coat. I set the photos face down on the end table. I had seen enough.

The fire soothed the cold as I stood before it. My mind still rampant with thoughts. He said, find me, but did he want me—to find me? I huffed out a deep breath as I slunk off to the kitchen. Overwhelmed was an understatement and the last bit of my wine was calling my name. When I came back through the house with my filled glass, a knock sounded at the door.

Stopping in place, I felt that familiar spike of adrenaline spear through. I crept to the window and looked out. Hale's truck was parked out front. I released my breath and sighed it out as I walked to the door and opened it.

Hale smiled holding up a case of beer. "I brought beer," he said as if I hadn't noticed it.