The Genius Doctor's Perfect Fake Death

Night had completely fallen over New York. The bright, chaotic neon lights of Manhattan couldn’t penetrate the dense, ancient woods surrounding the Duncan family’s private estate in upstate New York. The black Maybach tore through the darkness, its tires screeching as it took the final curve of the long driveway. It slammed to a halt in front of the massive stone steps of the main house. Collis threw his door open before the driver could even put the car in park. He stepped out into the freezing night air. He ignored the elderly butler waiting by the door with an umbrella. He marched past him, his heavy footsteps echoing ominously on the marble floors of the grand foyer. He didn’t stop in the living room. He didn’t go to his study. He headed straight for the grand staircase, taking the steps two at a time, heading for the restricted third floor. The entire third floor was a dead zone. The staff were forbidden to clean it. No one was allowed up here. Collis stopped in front of a heavy, solid oak door at the end of the hallway. Next to the brass handle was a digital keypad. He reached out. His finger hovered over the keys. He punched in four numbers. 0-4-1-2. Asha’s birthday. The lock clicked with a sharp, metallic snap. Collis pushed the door open and hit the light switch on the wall. The room was a mausoleum—her first cage, the gilded one. It was on the third floor, with large bay windows overlooking the dark gardens. Before he had moved her to the basement after her first escape attempt, this had been where he kept her. A beautiful prison. Asha’s half-empty bottle of perfume still sat on the vanity—that cheap drugstore blend of vanilla and orange blossom. A paperback novel lay face-down on the nightstand, its pages yellowing. The air in the room was stale, but if he breathed deeply enough, he could still smell the faint, ghostly trace of her scent. Collis walked slowly toward the massive four-poster bed. He reached down and picked up a single, long strand of dark hair resting on the silk pillowcase. His fingers trembled slightly as he rubbed the hair between his thumb and forefinger. His mind violently flashed back to the hospital corridor. To the moment the runaway cart had forced him to grab Dr. Clay. He remembered the exact, terrifying way her waist had felt in his hand. The way her muscles had seized up in pure, unadulterated panic. It was the exact same reaction Asha used to have when he touched her after a fight. Collis let out a frustrated growl. He violently ripped his silk tie from his neck and threw it on the floor. He walked over to the large bay windows overlooking the dark gardens. Lying on the plush carpet, bolted securely to the baseboard beneath the window, was a long, thin chain made of solid gold. Attached to the end of it was a velvet-lined ankle cuff. Collis stared at the chain. His chest heaved. Five years ago, he had locked her in this room. He had fastened that cuff around her ankle. He had told himself it was to protect her. He told himself the world was too dangerous, that people would only hurt her, and that only he could keep her safe. His sick, twisted need for absolute control had suffocated her. It had driven her to run to a war zone just to get away from him. He had killed her. The agonizing weight of his regret mixed with a dark, twisted possessiveness that made his skull throb. Instead of lashing out, Collis slowly sank to his knees on the plush carpet. He reached out with trembling fingers and picked up the heavy gold chain. He gently traced the soft velvet lining of the ankle cuff, his thumb brushing over the spot that used to rest against her delicate skin. The sheer depth of his pain was suffocating. His eyes darkened with a terrifying mix of profound remorse and an insane, undying obsession. He gripped the gold chain so tightly that the metal bit deeply into his palm, splitting the skin. Blood instantly welled up, dripping down his knuckles and staining the pristine carpet. He bowed his head, pressing the velvet cuff against his forehead, his breathing ragged and uneven. A tiny, almost imperceptible sound broke the silence. The soft shuffle of fabric against the floorboards. Collis spun around, his eyes wild and furious, ready to annihilate whichever servant had dared to cross the threshold. The rage in his eyes vanished the second he saw who was standing in the doorway. It was a little boy, about five years old. He was wearing soft blue pajamas. His dark hair was a messy mop on his head. Julian. Five years ago, when Collis had torn through the rubble of the Syrian medical camp looking for Asha’s body, he had found this boy buried under a collapsed beam—a tiny infant, barely a few months old, miraculously alive. Now Julian was five. He had severe PTSD. He suffered from selective mutism. He hadn’t spoken a single word since the day Collis pulled him from the ashes. Julian stood perfectly still in the doorway. His large, striking gray-blue eyes—eyes that were a terrifying mirror of Collis’s own—stared up at the bleeding man. Julian’s small arms were wrapped tightly around his chest. Clutched in his hands was a small, crudely carved wooden bird. Half of the bird’s wing was charred black from fire. It was the only thing Collis had found in the rubble that belonged to Asha. She used to carve them when she was anxious. Collis let out a long, shaky breath. The tension drained out of his shoulders. He walked slowly across the room and dropped to one knee in front of the boy. He ignored the blood dripping from his knuckles. He reached out with his clean hand and gently wiped a smudge of dust from Julian’s cheek. Julian didn’t flinch. He simply uncrossed his arms and held the wooden bird out toward Collis. Collis looked at the bird. He carefully took it from the boy’s small hands. His thumb traced the rough, burned edge of the wood. A wave of profound vulnerability washed over his sharp features. “Did you have a nightmare, Julian?” Collis asked. His voice was incredibly soft, a stark contrast to the monster he had been moments ago. Julian gave a slow, silent nod. Collis slipped the wooden bird into his pocket. He reached out and scooped Julian up into his arms. Julian immediately wrapped his arms around Collis’s neck and rested his head against his broad shoulder. Collis stood up. Holding the only living thing in the world that brought him any sense of peace, he walked out of the mausoleum. As he carried the boy down the dark hallway, his jaw set into a hard, unforgiving line. If Dr. Alivia Clay is hiding something, he thought, the darkness returning to his eyes, I will tear her life apart piece by piece until I find the truth.