Each day, Calla and her fragile heart are that little bit closer to death... but before she goes she'll prove to the world the boy she loves is no murderer.
🖤🖤🖤
With a life steeped in wealth and privilege, Calla Pierce should be protected from t...
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Taggart leads me down an oppressively dark hallway. Every other part of the house is designed for lightness, to mimic some aspirational Insta photo his designer had seen, but this feels like something else. It's like I'm walking through the dark vessels to the bloody heart of the man. The walls are a deep rust red, the carpet a shade darker. There are no windows, no doors to anywhere else. I should be terrified, and I know this man is dangerous. I have heard enough whispers when my dad thought I couldn't hear to know what he's capable of. But I don't think he intends to hurt me now. Though I know it has nothing to do with me and everything to do with somebody else.
He walks casually, humming lightly as I follow behind him. The hallway leads to a large open room decorated in more shades of burgundy and burnt browns, all leather and dark wood. At the back is a grand desk, as long and wide as a person. An ebony wood, immaculately neat with only a small laptop and a couple of photos in a frame, adorns the surface. He walks towards it, sinking into the seat behind with practised ease. The room is airless, and leather and cigarette smoke cling to everything. He watches me as I take in the room, waiting for a reaction. And then I see it. I gasp and understand immediately what he brought me here to see.
I rush to the wall, to row after row of photos, all in matching black frames. Dozens of photos catch my attention, but one draws me to it with a strange mix of fascination and horror. I walk closer, my nose almost pressed against the glass. Perched on the hood of a black car sits a woman. Her back is perfectly straight, her chin raised like she's gracing a throne. And her face is more than familiar - she's an older version of myself. I glance at Taggart and he nods in knowing. His lips twitch at the corners. The woman has my dark hair, but hers has been straightened into a sleek style. It tumbles down her shoulders and back, her eyes are lined with a precision flick, sharp enough to draw blood.
Lillith Pierce – my grandmother.
Two teenage boys perch before her. Her hands on each shoulder, gripping them with a tightness that seems brutal, rather than loving. I take less than a second to recognise who they are. My father and his intense blue stare spark out from the photo. His hair is longer, and his clothes are casual in a way I barely recognise. He's my age in this picture and I realise I've never seen a photo of him as a teenager before. The second boy could be Owen - there's almost no difference between the boy I know and the one in this photo. Taggart's hair is longer, and of course, there's that smirk. The one I've seen plastered across his face since I came into this house. But there's something darker haunting in his eyes. It haunts my dad's eyes, too.
I turn to Taggart and I'd swear if I didn't know any better his eyes were wet. I understand what I'm looking at, but the photo makes little sense. Nothing does anymore. The puzzle pieces are jagged and sharp. They cut across my mind, and I feel nothing but pain and confusion instead of understanding. My dad has been trying to put Davey Taggart away for as long as I can remember. He has dedicated much of his career to it. How did I not know they knew each other? How has Dad never said anything?
