Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Damien

"Insiders report that we are now dealing with an active serial killer, but authorities have not yet verified if the recent homicide is connected to the previous two."

I can barely hear the female voice as I walk through the heavy wooden doors of Serenity House.

This place is the mental health hospital for the rich and famous in the southwest. It's not uncommon to find famous movie stars and musicians, politicians and powerful executives roaming the halls to visit loved ones.

Every inch of Serenity House looks like it's a rehab facility straight off a Hollywood set, done in blond pine and shades of green and blue. It is as serene as its name, and the sound of the ocean waves crashing in the distance offers a constant feeling of tranquility.

At least that's the hope and why we all shell out a five-figure fee each month.

"How is she today?" The check-in desk is an imposing monstrosity, so at odds with the rest of the campus.

The day nurse, Tara, quickly turns the volume on her computer down where the news was playing and greets me with a warm smile. "Good afternoon, Mr. Wolfe. Olivia's having a good day. She had breakfast with some friends and even made it to art class." I hate how they always sound so cheerful when they talk about my sister's condition, like she's actually living her life. We all know she's hand fed pureed food because she can't do it herself. And art class? She just sits there, doing nothing. I know they mean well, and the words are meant to encourage, but all they do is piss me off. Olivia is a bright and beautiful woman, at least she's supposed to be. And she would be. If not for them. "Thanks. Where is she?"

Tara's smile falls just a little, which is no surprise. "In her room."

Exactly. For all the upbeat status reports and signs of encouragement, Olivia is still as withdrawn today as she was almost sixteen years ago when she arrived. She's still in a state of catatonia that makes it impossible to gauge whether any of the treatments are working. She's not responding to any kind of stimuli, not walking and not even fucking smiling.

"Thanks." I know the path to Olivia's room as well as I know my way around my office or any of my homes. She's been living here longer than she's lived anywhere else since before our parents died. This is her home.

I stop outside the door of her private room, neatly decorated in a blend of modern thirty-year-old woman and mentally stunted teenage girl. She sits by the window in her wheelchair, staring out at the green courtyard. Silently. Always so fucking silent.

It's been so many years—fifteen years, nine months, three weeks, and four days to be exact—since I've heard her voice, I'm not sure I'd recognize it. But I'll always remember the very last thing she said to me before she stopped speaking. I'll never forget. My hands bunch into fists, but I force them to relax. Anger isn't what Olivia needs to see.

"Hey, Olivia."

She tenses at the sound of my voice, and that's the only sign that she hears me. Olivia doesn't turn, smile, or acknowledge me in any way.

"Can I come in?"

She says nothing, as usual, and I step inside.

I look around and notice a few new sketches hanging on the wall. One is of Olivia and the other is a charcoal sketch of a man. "Is that me?"

She says nothing, but I swear there's a flash of something in her eyes as if she's trying to answer. She doesn't move, but her closest friend, if that's what you can call Chelsie, is a chronically depressed artist who fills my sister's room with art.

That one small act makes me feel better about everything, so I appreciate Chelsie for that. I know I'm on the right path—not that I ever had any doubt—but those glimpses of the woman Olivia was meant to be push me forward.

"It's really good. But I think I'm more handsome in person. Don't you?"

Her big blue eyes stare at me, assessing me, but she never utters a word.

I often wonder if she can hear me at all or if I'm just talking to myself. It doesn't matter because I'll never stop. I'll never stop visiting her. Avenging her.

"It's really good," I say, pointing to the sketch. "I can almost feel the texture of your hair," I tell her honestly. "Your eyes are sadder here than when I look at you." I wonder if Chelsie sees something in my sister that I can't because this sketch reminds me of the old Olivia.

I wish she could talk. I wish she could tell me what she's thinking, what's happening inside her head. I'd give anything to hear her speak again, to get on my nerves like every other big sister on the planet. To give me shit about my lack of a love life or my long hours at the office.

Soon , I promise myself.

"Want to go for a walk around the grounds? It's warm and sunny, and you could use some color."

She sits in her wheelchair, staring at me with no display of emotion, just waiting—presumably—for me to start our walk.

I push her through the winding paths that weave through the property, passing sculpted bushes, vibrant flowers and tropical plants as we weave through the beautiful campus. I talk while Olivia listens. Or at least I think she's listening.

"I met a woman," I say, then quickly add, "but don't worry. I'll still be your biggest fan. I'll still come see you and make sure you have the best care."

I don't know if she can hear me, but I keep talking. "She's beautiful, with thick, wavy brown hair and big brown eyes. She's strong and tough, a real badass." I smile, thinking about Frankie. "She's not impressed with my money or my good looks."

The ocean comes into view, and I take a long breath, taking in its beauty. I bring the wheelchair to stop at a vista point so my sister can enjoy the view.

"I've got some more good news." I kneel and look into her eyes. "Do you recall the tech firm I launched years back? Well, it's thriving." I slide a stray strand of hair from her face, longing for her reply.

"I've teamed up with a top-tier neuroscientist, the best there is, and together, we've created an advanced brain training program designed specifically for you."

I hold her hand tightly, wishing my words could get through to her. "This is truly state-of-the-art, sis."

I lean in closer. "Olivia, I honestly believe this could solve our problem. Isn't that exciting?"

I started out as a nerdy app developer, but then had massive success when two of my apps created a storm in Silicon Valley and my business and reputation flourished. It marked the beginning of a very lucrative tech career, enabling me to shape a public persona while keeping my private life—and Olivia's—well-protected. Now, I hold the last piece of the puzzle, I hope, resulting from years of dedication.

I long to see the light return to Olivia's eyes, to ask her something and hear her reply. "This strategy uses AI and machine learning to map your neural pathways. It will help us pinpoint what you need for recovery. I'm really excited about this."

Olivia stares at the water, and I cover my frustration with a smile and grab her hand. "It's a lot to understand, but I think we're getting close to perfecting it. I know it's going to help Olivia." Thanks to my meeting with Justin Storm, I'm closer than ever to making my dream a reality. "What's the first thing you'll do?"

Her expression stays blank.

Nothing.

"I'll bet you want to go shopping. Maybe go somewhere nice for dinner?" I laugh again. "Maybe a vacation somewhere exotic?" I grip her hand tighter, willing her to give me something. Anything.

But I get nothing.

It's not her fault, and I don't direct any of my anger toward her. None of it. But I'm angry as fuck. I grip her hand tighter, and she doesn't pull away, doesn't gasp in shock, or cry out in pain.

I release her hand, and I unlock the brakes on her chair, forcing myself to calm down before I start to push her back to her room again. That blank stare that permeates her blue eyes, the same shade as our mom's, is the one thing I can't forgive. She's alive and breathing, but she's not living. Her eyes are devoid of life, stolen from her. Taken without permission.

Nothing will ever make that right.

But I take small measures to make it so I can live a little easier with it. "We'll be ready to start the first test next month. Isn't that exciting?" I stop and lean down in front of Olivia, desperate to see a hint of something in her eyes. "Don't you want to be able to communicate?"

Her gaze meets mine, but it's as blank as ever. In fact, it's so blank that I wonder if the psychological damage she suffered is so deep and so profound that I've been fooling myself about her chances of improving.

"I wish I could tell you more, Olivia." I look away, fix my gaze on the vast ocean as it sparkles under the blazing sun. I could tell her what I've been up to, tell her about all the ways I'm avenging her trauma since it's clear she can't hear me and won't respond.

I can, yet I don't.

That's just for me, even though every strike of my blade, every moment of torture I inflict, is ultimately for her. Just because I enjoy the terror I instill in my victims doesn't mean I don't give it purpose. I do.

Olivia is my purpose.

Even with all of that, all these years of research and development, tens of millions of dollars in equipment, experts, patents and the rest. All of it is to bring my sister, my only family, back to me.

And it might all be for nothing.

"No," I say to myself. It's not for nothing. I'll never stop trying. Not fucking ever. I turn back to Olivia. She's staring at me now, and I know it's my mind seeing a question in her eyes when there is none there.

"Do you want more art supplies for Chelsie? It looks like you're becoming quite the art collector." There's nothing I won't do for her, nothing at all.

Even kill.

My shoulders relax as I think about Tristan Dupont and the pain he felt as life faded from his eyes and the blood drained from his body. That makes me feel a little better.

This new brain-computer interface is going to be a game changer for Olivia and so many like her around the world. It's going to take the tech industry by storm, and when it does, my name, Damien Wolfe, will be the one attached to it.

The world will recognize that I'm the one who invented this innovation. They'll applaud me, laud my achievements, and maybe even shower me with humanitarian awards.

Yet through it all, they'll remain oblivious to my true self and the genuine cost of my success.