Broken Hands

87. The Act of Gunning

The closet door creaked as Grayson yanked it open, parting the clothes on the hanger to reveal the bottom of the locker. His fingers brushed against the box before he slipped it into his messenger bag. He exhaled deeply, casting a quick glance over his shoulder before stepping out of the room.

The house was alive with morning chaos—Julian's voice rang from upstairs, Raymond's hearty laughter mingled with Alex's exasperated tone, and the occasional thud of someone rushing around filled the air. Yet, Hera's absence didn't go unnoticed.

Grayson moved with purpose, slipping through the kitchen back door to avoid drawing any attention. He strolled to the bin, pulling out the box from his bag. His grip tightened around it as he stood there, his jaw clenched. Weakness, he thought. This damn thing is a weakness.

He dropped the box into the bin, his hand lingering for a moment as though letting go of it was a physical struggle. He turned to head back inside, but a prickling sensation stopped him cold—like the weight of unseen eyes on his back.

Grayson turned sharply, scanning the windows and the yard. Nothing.

His instincts stirred, and he took a cautious step toward the side of the house, where a narrow, overgrown passage snaked around the perimeter. It wasn't a spot he frequented—there was no need when the front and main areas held everything worth visiting. But today, curiosity enticed him.

The path was cramped, vines clinging to the old fence like stubborn ivy, their roots curling into the cracks of the ground. Grayson pushed through, his steps light and deliberate.

At the end of the corridor, his gaze fell on a pile of cartons stacked haphazardly, their edges fraying as though left to weather the elements. He froze. These weren't just random boxes. He recognized some of them—the ones he'd discarded to the bin area.

A frown settled on his face as he crouched, peeling one carton away. Beneath it lay Stray's old puppy bed. The sight hit him like a punch to the gut. The worn fabric carried faint traces of her scent—dried pee stains and a bit of fur clinging stubbornly to the edges.

His chest tightened as he knelt closer, memories flooding his mind. He hadn't seen this in years. He thought Alex gave it away, but here it was, tucked into this hidden corner like a secret no one bothered to share.

Grayson brushed his hand over the bed and spotted a half-eaten sandwich nearby. His frown deepened. This wasn't some abandoned relic. Someone—or something—had been using this spot.

His eyes moved to the fence, where a small opening at the base was barely visible beneath the tangle of roots and vines. It was just wide enough for a dog to squeeze through.

Grayson bent closer, peering into the gap. It led somewhere—maybe to the alley or a neighboring yard. It hit him that this might've been Stray's little escape route, a place she could retreat to when things got too much, her own slice of peace amidst the chaos.

"Grayson!"

The sound of his name jolted him, snapping him back to the present. Julian's voice called again, closer this time.

Grayson sighed, brushing off his hands as he rose to his feet. He glanced once more at the hidden corner before stepping out of the cramped passageway.

He emerged to find Julian seated on the bench with Raymond, both of them looking his way.

"There you are," Raymond said with a grin. "What were you doing back there? Playing hide-and-seek alone?"

Grayson shoved his hands into his pockets, his expression carefully neutral. "No. Are we going yet?"