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 downârecognizable, 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 selfâthe 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.
âYour parents knew. Your brother sold you and Hope.â
His words echoed, looping louder with every breath, tightening in her chest like a noose. But the worst part? She wasnât 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, sheâd always known.
But how could it be true?
They loved her. Didnât they?
Her gaze locked with her own in the mirrorâgreen eyes turned stormy grey. They only ever did that when she was that sad. That wrecked. When even her eyes couldnât pretend anymore.
She inhaled a sharp breath, scrubbing at her bloodstained handsâhands that had tried to stop her brother from bleeding out. Guilt clawed at her insides like a feral animal. Sheâd 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 shouldnât.
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 confusionâlike she could make it all make sense.
The bathroom door creaked open.
She didnât need to look. She knew that tic-tac rhythm of Garciaâs heels.
Penelope stepped in, took one look at her, and whispered, âOh, sweetieâŠâ
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 Penelopeâs shoulder.
âIâm a terrible person,â she gasped between sobs.
But sweet, radiant Penelope only held her tighter, whispering that she wasnât. That she couldnât be.
Not the things that happened. Not the monsters in the dark. Not the shadows that changed her forever.
Some days, sheâs not even sure sheâs real. Or if anyoneâor anythingâaround 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 herâsheâd practically vanished for seven straight weeks.
Everyone thought she went off to âfind herself.â Thatâs what she wrote in that half-assed message she sent out. âIâm searching for peace⊠to mend my heart.â All poetic and shit.
The truth wasâthe second she walked out of that bathroom, red-eyed and shattered, she didnât go to some self-help retreat. She went straight to her motherâs house.
And asked the one question that had been burning a hole through her chest:
âMom⊠did you know?â
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 truthâall 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, andâblah blah bloody blah.
She didnât 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 mindânumbing everything, erasing herself piece by piece.
The next thing she remembered?
Opening her eyes to find Silasâfreaking Silasâsitting there, holding her, brushing the hair away from her face like he cared. Like he hadnât 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 hasnât 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. Itâs early. The bullpen is still quiet. Team members slowly filtering in, side-eyes and soft greetings.
But none of them really know where sheâs been.
Not the monsters she met.
Not the pain she buried six feet deep just to function.
As she sat thereâlistening, nodding, offering faint smilesâshe 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 unfoldâand 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 sheâs meant to doâhunt the monsters, lock them away, make the world a little less terrifying.
And maybeâjust maybeâthatâs why she never told anyone her captorâs name.
Because Silas⊠he wasnât just a monster.
He was more complicated than that.
His heart, if you could call it that, was stained in darknessâbut not hollow. Somewhere in those twisted, blood-soaked edges⊠there were still slivers of something almost human. And somehow, that made it worse.
Because itâs easier to hate the devil when he doesnât look like a man.
