Three weeks later,
something impossible happened.
The charges against Rhys were dropped.
"Insufficient evidence," his lawyer explained, looking as confused as Rhys felt.
"The DNA under Morrison's fingernails?
Contaminated. The fingerprints in blood? Inconclusive upon reexamination. And a witness came forward claiming to have seen someone else in the building that night
—description matches no one, but it creates reasonable doubt."
Rhys knew who'd arranged it.
Pryce.
"Additionally," the lawyer continued, "your psychiatric evaluation determined you're not a danger to yourself or others, provided you continue therapy. So... you're free to go."
Free. What a word.
Rhys walked out of Bellevue into weak October sunlight, and felt anything but free. Kai was still dead. His family had disowned him completely. His home was still a crime scene. And somewhere, Pryce was waiting.
Come to Ashbourne, the ghost had said. Face the truth.
Rhys had nowhere else to go.
But first, he needed answers that weren't coming from a murderous spirit.
He found Brother Ignatius through a Reddit forum of all places.
R/paranormal. A thread titled "Actual reincarnation cases, not role play."
Someone had mentioned a monk upstate New York who specialized in past-life regression and curse-breaking.
Desperate, Rhys thought. I've become the kind of person who takes advice from Reddit occult forums.
Still, he rented a car and drove six hours north, into the mountains where civilization thinned and cell service died.
Saint Benedict's Monastery sat on a clifftop, gray stone weathered by centuries. A young monk answered the door.
"I need to see Brother Ignatius," Rhys said. "Please. It's urgent."
The young monk studied him for a long moment. "You have the look of someone haunted."
"You have no idea."
"Wait here."
Ten minutes later, Rhys was led through cold stone corridors to a library that smelled of old paper and incense. An elderly man sat by the window, reading a book so ancient the pages looked ready to crumble.
"Brother Ignatius?"
The monk looked up. He was perhaps seventy, with a weathered face and eyes that seemed to see too much.
"Rhys Castor," he said, not as a question. "I wondered when you'd come."
Rhys froze. "How do you know my name?"
"Sit." Ignatius gestured to a chair. "We have much to discuss, and I'm afraid very little time."
"Time for what?"
"To save your soul." Ignatius closed his book. "Before he consumes it entirely."