Finding Hope - The truth, Monsters & Rehab
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She was running from Silas. So why the hell did his arms feel like home?
Why the hell did she melt into him like he could hold her up, like he could make everything right? Her feet barely touched the floor as she disappeared into the bathroom. She stood before the mirror, staring herself down—recognizable, but not in the way she used to be. Not the strong, unshakable woman she was just weeks ago. No... this reflection looked more like her teenage self—the girl trapped in a cage, twisted by too many buried secrets.
Her fingers clutched the edge of the counter like it could ground her, like it could stop her from falling into the truth.
“Your parents knew. Your brother sold you and Hope.”
His words echoed, looping louder with every breath, tightening in her chest like a noose. But the worst part? She wasn’t angry at Silas. No, not him.
She was angry because deep down... she already knew.
Somewhere inside her, buried beneath the pretty lies and practiced smiles, she’d always known.
But how could it be true?
They loved her. Didn’t they?
Her gaze locked with her own in the mirror—green eyes turned stormy grey. They only ever did that when she was that sad. That wrecked. When even her eyes couldn’t pretend anymore.
She inhaled a sharp breath, scrubbing at her bloodstained hands—hands that had tried to stop her brother from bleeding out. Guilt clawed at her insides like a feral animal. She’d shot him... thinking it was Silas.
Because after weeks of Silas tormenting her, tearing her apart piece by piece, she still clung to him like a shattered vase trying to hold itself together. Knowing it was wrong. Knowing she shouldn’t.
The blood was gone now, washed away minutes ago. But still she scrubbed. Like maybe if she kept at it long enough, she could scrub away the guilt, the grief, the confusion—like she could make it all make sense.
The bathroom door creaked open.
She didn’t need to look. She knew that tic-tac rhythm of Garcia’s heels.
Penelope stepped in, took one look at her, and whispered, “Oh, sweetie…”
Then she wrapped her in the kind of hug that undid everything Meredith was barely holding together. And she sobbed. Loud, broken, heaving sobs into Penelope’s shoulder.
“I’m a terrible person,” she gasped between sobs.
But sweet, radiant Penelope only held her tighter, whispering that she wasn’t. That she couldn’t be.
Not the things that happened. Not the monsters in the dark. Not the shadows that changed her forever.
Some days, she’s not even sure she’s real. Or if anyone—or anything—around her is.
Her first day back after two months on leave.
Thankfully her brother made it. Thankfully she got cleared. No psych hold, no suspension. Just silence.
No one on the team could reach her—she’d practically vanished for seven straight weeks.
Everyone thought she went off to “find herself.” That’s what she wrote in that half-assed message she sent out. “I’m searching for peace… to mend my heart.” All poetic and shit.
The truth was—the second she walked out of that bathroom, red-eyed and shattered, she didn’t go to some self-help retreat. She went straight to her mother’s house.
And asked the one question that had been burning a hole through her chest:
That sentence hit like a sledgehammer. Her mother collapsed onto the kitchen floor, sobbing, choking on guilt.
Not at first. But eventually.
Through the wails and the tears and the shaking hands, Meredith finally heard the truth—all of it.
Her brother had arranged it. Sold her. For money.
He owed loan sharks after getting deep into gambling debt. And they threatened to kill him. So instead, he threw her to the wolves.
And only after a full damn year of her being missing did he finally spill it all to their parents.
Her mother begged for forgiveness, stammered out something about how sorry they were, how they thought she was dead, how they were scared, and—blah blah bloody blah.
She didn’t stay to hear the rest.
Not after the call came through that her brother made it out of surgery. That he was going to survive.
She walked straight to the nearest street corner and bought more drugs than she could possibly need.
Fled to her apartment and got high out of her damn mind—numbing everything, erasing herself piece by piece.
The next thing she remembered?
Opening her eyes to find Silas—freaking Silas—sitting there, holding her, brushing the hair away from her face like he cared. Like he hadn’t broken her.
And for the next few days, he stayed. Took care of her. Fed her. Watched her shake and sweat through the withdrawals. Then one morning, he loaded her into a van, drove through the night, and dropped her off at some mountain-view rehab facility.
She hasn’t seen him since that day.
And now? Now here she is. Back at work. Looking cleaner. Healthier. Brighter, maybe. Wearing the mask she stitched together in therapy.
She walked to her desk and sat down like nothing happened. It’s early. The bullpen is still quiet. Team members slowly filtering in, side-eyes and soft greetings.
But none of them really know where she’s been.
Not the monsters she met.
Not the pain she buried six feet deep just to function.
As she sat there—listening, nodding, offering faint smiles—she felt like a stranger in a familiar land. Everything looked the same. Sounded the same. Hell, it even smelled the same. But she wasn't the same. The air felt heavier now, like even her lungs had forgotten how to breathe without effort.
The only constant in this job? The cases. The killers. The chaos. New town, new monster, new horror show waiting to unfold—and always the victims. Damn, the victims.
Getting ready to board the jet, the usual buzz of pre-mission chatter echoing around her, Meredith Lang reminded herself: this is who she is. This is what she’s meant to do—hunt the monsters, lock them away, make the world a little less terrifying.
And maybe—just maybe—that’s why she never told anyone her captor’s name.
Because Silas… he wasn’t just a monster.
He was more complicated than that.
His heart, if you could call it that, was stained in darkness—but not hollow. Somewhere in those twisted, blood-soaked edges… there were still slivers of something almost human. And somehow, that made it worse.
Because it’s easier to hate the devil when he doesn’t look like a man.
