Broken Hands

91. Bits of truth

They had left the mall in a rush. Julian and Russell were stunned when Hera returned with a pale, mute Grayson. Julian had tried to engage him, tossing out casual jokes and light questions, but Grayson didn't respond. He pressed himself hard against the car door, his shoulders hunched like he was trying to disappear into the seat.

Russell didn't bother trying. He could read the tension radiating from Grayson's rigid body, the far-off glaze in his eyes, and the tremble in his hands he tried to hide. This wasn't just one of Grayson's typical PTSD episodes, where he'd retreat for a few minutes and re-emerge ready to brush it off. No, this felt different. This time, Grayson looked like he'd been dragged through hell and back, and whatever he'd seen or remembered, it wasn't letting go.

When they got home, Grayson didn't say a word. He bolted up the stairs, the sound of his door closing echoing faintly down the hall. Julian made a move to follow, but Russell stopped him, shaking his head.

"Let him be," Russell said softly. "He needs space."

Julian frowned, his worry evident, but he didn't push it.

Hera had taken charge, keeping the boys occupied in the kitchen. She had them chopping, mixing, and sautéing, her calm, commanding presence keeping their minds off Grayson. "Cooking is an art," she told them as she instructed Julian on seasoning a pot of stew. "You have to be intentional about it. Put your passion into every bite."

By the time they were done, the boys had set the table with care. Alex arrived home not long after, looking tired but grateful for the warm meal waiting for him. After freshening up, he joined the family at the table.

"Call Grayson," Alex said, gesturing toward the stairs when he noticed Grayson was missing.

Julian exchanged a look with Russell and then Hera.

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Smith," Hera interjected smoothly. "I'll serve him dinner upstairs."

Alex raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

Hera's gaze didn't waver. "Grayson had a minor episode at the mall today," she said evenly.

Alex shot up, alarmed. "What happened?"

Hera hesitated, her expression unreadable. "I'm not entirely sure. Probably the crowd, or the noise. He seemed overwhelmed."

Alex's concern deepened. "I should check on him."

"He's asleep," Hera replied firmly. "You don't want to wake him, do you? He needs the rest."

Alex paused, clearly conflicted.

"She's right," Damien said, his voice steady. "Let him rest. But make sure he eats something," he added, his eyes landing on Hera. "He's on medication."

Hera gave a small nod. "I'll see to it."

The dinner that followed was tranquil, the air heavy with unspoken worry for Grayson. When Alex later checked on him, he found Grayson curled up in bed, his breathing steady and his face turned toward the wall. The pill bottle on the nightstand didn't escape Alex's notice, but he left without disturbing him.

Meanwhile, Hera retreated to her room. The stillness of the night was unnerving, but she welcomed it. Sitting by the dim glow of her bedside lamp, she meticulously polished her pistol, her mind strolling. Something had happened in that mall. Something that rattled Grayson to his core. Those men—was it them? And what had they done to him?

The clock ticked past 1 a.m. when she finally set her gun aside, slipping it into her drawer. She tied the belt of her robe, sinking on her bed with a sigh. But just as she shut her eyes, a sharp, faint sound broke the silence. The shatter of glass.