House of Clowns (HUNT Trilogy #1)

22. TWENTY TWO

TWENTY TWO

JOKER

B efore me lay the asylum hallway, dim and decaying; the walls chipped, shadowed with years of neglect and torment. The old wheelchair sat in the center, creaking as if moved by an invisible hand. I glanced sideways to see a man banging his head against the wall, the blood of each impact making the wet sound resound in the silence. His head twisted as I passed; his vacant eyes locked onto me with a hollow accusation.

Farther down the street, a woman stood stock-still, her eyes black as ink, staring at me with a heavy darkness that kept my feet in place. Her lips curled upward, into what was unmistakably a smile—or a warning. I started to move down the sidewalk once more, my pulse concussive in my ears with every step, and that is when I saw him.

A man was dressed as a doctor—a mask shaped like a rabbit's head, but the mask was stitched from human skin, the sutures crossing in a rough pattern on it like some kind of gruesome patchwork covering his features. He held an axe for chopping, tilted his head, and watched me, a predator's gaze raising every hair on my body. I whirled and ran in the opposite direction, toward a door that was at the far end of the hall. The sound of drums and a haunting lullaby filled the air, mocking me, while pushing my feet toward speed.

But it would not move. Panic flooded me as I threw my weight against it, hearing footsteps draw closer, heavier. A soft whisper slipped through the door, barely audible but unmistakable.

"Save me." Her voice.

I slammed my foot against the door, feeling it give in with a splintering crack. I plunged inside and slammed it shut just as the doctor reached me, his masked face pressing into the small window, watching me with that grotesque smile beneath his mask.

I turned, and there she was. The room was bleached white, devoid of anything but Chiara, who huddled in her far corner. Kneeling, her hair falling in front of her face, quivering shoulders. Her eyes went wide as she looked up—her lips quivering in a whisper: "Save me… I killed them all."

I knelt beside her, wrapping my jacket around her shoulders. "It's all a dream," I murmured—my voice as level as I could maintain it, hoping that would draw her from whatever nightmare had her in its grip.

And then, in the blink of an eye—as if I'd only blinked—the asylum disappeared.

We lay on soft grass beneath an open sky, warm sunlight spilling over us. Chiara looked over at me, her white dress billowing softly in the breeze, her eyes meeting mine with a calm she hadn't possessed in a long time.

"I don't want to wake up," she whispered, turning closer to me.

I looked down to find I was dressed in white too, the scars on my face and hands gone, somehow miraculously so, as if this world—this place—must be some version of us in which all the brokenness, all the dark of what had been, wasn't.

"But you have to," I said, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "There's a whole world out there for you."

"What's a world without you in it?" she whispered, her hand falling softly against my chest, her fingers resting where my heartbeat steadied. I took her hand in mine, anchoring her here, grounding her.

"I'm never going to leave your side," I vowed, and with every word, I felt the truth of it resonate in that quiet between us.

Tears brimmed over in her eyes, and the sky seemed to join in—raindrops falling, soaking into our white clothes. She held me tightly, her voice a whisper that cut through the downpour. "You're my anchor, Rio… but I never got to be yours." Her tears streaked down her cheeks, mingling with the rain while she looked at me with a raw, painful honesty.

"If I wake up, all of this… it'll just be a dream," she whispered, her voice fragile as barely there. "You'll be just a memory, and I don't want to live in a present without you."

I gently brushed my thumb against her cheek, catching the trail of her tears. "Even if you live a thousand years without me," I whispered, hearing my voice catch, "I'd still be the happiest man alive knowing you were a part of my life."

"I don't want to say goodbye," she whispered, her voice shaking, the words breaking as she burrowed her face against me, sobs muffled but quaking through both of us. A tear slid down my cheek, and I knew this was the moment—the one neither of us wanted, yet both had to face. I pulled her close, talking softly, words I'd thought I would never have to say.

"It will be hard, at first," I said softly, my voice thick with the pain of it.

"You'll weep, and a piece of you will die a little each day whenever you remember me. But then… you'll move on. You'll find someone who can love you even more than I did." I brushed away her tears, though more seemed to fall, both hers and mine. "And one day, you'll tell your kids a story about a clown who will always hold a part of your heart."

"I'll never love anyone again," she said, her arms wrapping around me as if that would keep me here.

"Maybe," I replied, tipping up her chin to look into her eyes. "But maybe you will."

One final, aching kiss and the world seemed to blur around us. Her form was fading until I was left with only the ghostly warmth of her touch hanging in the air, and I stood alone once more. I had promised myself that, somehow someday, I'd find my way back to her—a real goodbye, one she'd remember.