I tie my hair back and start toward the house. I recall the documents Calvin sent to me on Grayson’s ancestry. This address was also listed as the house that was raided—the child trafficking home of his uncle. At some point, Becky must’ve lived here with Grayson. I’m not sure which came first—the proposition to sell Grayson to her brother, or her brother’s insistence to take Grayson from her… But it doesn’t matter.
The only truth that matters is that when his mother left, Grayson was left behind.
I walk up to the house and search for a loose board. One finally gives and, when it comes away, there’s a strip of yellow police tape plastered against the door. I think about the horror that must have happened here, about how the authorities found the victims, and understand why the house was closed up, forgotten. Set apart from other residents along the street, it’s a ghost house.
Once I manage to get the door open, using my body weight to push through, I stand in the center of the main room, allowing my senses to direct my path. Another one of my patients murdered women in his own home, right below his wife and family. Basements make ideal kill spots. Keeping the world and even those closest to the offender in the dark.
This home is near the ocean, however. There’s no basement. No garage. I walk through the narrow hallway, peeking into cramped bedrooms, everything feeling too open. Exposed.
Where?
Through one of the cracked bedroom windows, I spot a greenhouse.
I noticed them all over as I drove toward the coast. Just about every house has at least one tented greenhouse in the yard. Some have several rows of the clear-tarp units.
Curious, I make my way out the back and shove open the greenhouse door. Vines and weeds have nearly enclosed the entrance, but once I step inside the unit, I get my answer.
What remains of the rudimentary pendulum contraption is fitted in the back of the greenhouse. Rusted animal traps used to restrain Grayson’s victims were confiscated as evidence, as well as the machete. The rope and sand bags required to hoist the machete are still here, along with the large wooden table that held his captors while the weapon swung down to end their lives.
The years gone by haven’t removed the blood staining the wood and ropes.
I look away, and that’s when I notice it.
In the middle of the ground is a giant hole.
“Oh, my god.”
A makeshift cover with locks has been discarded, leaned up against a row of planters. This was the door, and below…
I stare down into the hole.
From this angle, I can make out the boarded walls. They’ve been padded. Sound proofed. Rusted shackles line every wall.
“Christ.”
How long did Grayson suffer here?
I kneel and pull out my phone, using the flashlight to get a better look. Chains dangle from the ceiling of the dark room. It’s not just a holding space intended to conceal children amid a trade—it’s a torture chamber.
What’s left of the room shows clear signs of sadistic, pedophilic cruelty. The heady earthy scent mingles with something more metallic…blood. The noxious smell makes me gag, and it’s almost too much. I want to turn away, but something in the corner ices my body, freezing me in place.
Next to a bin of dirty old toys is a stack of puzzle boxes.
Completed puzzles line one of the walls, images of blue skies, oceans, cityscapes. And near the far end, carved wooden pieces with a child’s drawings. “Oh, Grayson.”
Even as a child, I can imagine how intelligent Grayson must have been. He’s an autodidact, self-taught, clearly never having the opportunity for a formal education. Still, he was smarter than his oppressors. How many times did he pick those locks? How many t
imes did he try to run away? How many times was he dragged back here to suffer his punishment?
I close my eyes against the memory of his scars. From his scalp to his chest to his arms. They cover him.
I breathe in a searing breath, and release the pain. This room is another dimension into hell. Grayson was kept here, chained and bound, locked away from the world…
Locks.
A fiery ache clogs my throat. You’re the key, Grayson told me. I thought it was a metaphor about freeing him…but that’s not what he’s searching for. He doesn’t want to free something—he wants to lock it away.
And who better to choose for that purpose than a psychologist that has mastered the art of forgetting.