by Danah Logan
Yup, definitely blames himself, too.
"About a month into it, my roommate forced me to go out with him and our usual group of friends. But someone brought a couple of guys I’d never met before. Somehow the conversation became about who I was: the heir to the Altman Empire. My mom’s death had made national news, given the fact who she was. One of the new guys started making comments about how convenient it was for me that my mother and sister were dead. Another chimed in that it was her dumb fault, and she should've never been behind the wheel—should've used a driver as all the 'rich bitches' do." He makes air quotes around the two words.
Whoa—
"I lost it." Recalling the story, his voice sounded robotic, but this last sentence is spoken in a low growl. The change in his demeanor sends a chill down my spine.
"What did you do?" I whisper. Scenarios run through my head—one worse than the other.
Nate continues in the same detached tone. "I was told that I tackled him and started beating on him—his head, to be precise. Two of my friends had to pull me off. I don't remember any of it. I blacked out."
My eyes bulge as his words sink in. "What…uh, what happened to the guy?"
Did he kill him?
"I put him into a coma."
Ho-ly shit.
One has to evoke some serious strength to do that with bare hands. I should be scared, but oddly enough, I am still not afraid for my safety. We sit, and I focus on the remnants of my breakfast in front of me. I’m no longer hungry. As captivating and disturbing as this story is, I’m getting more and more confused.
"So, uh—what does that have to do with me?" I ask carefully.
Nate’s hazel eyes, which have been vacantly staring at the wall behind me, now glower at me. "I’m getting to that," he barks.
"Okay," is my meek response.
Maybe I’m a little scared.
He wipes his hands over his face. "Fuck, I’m sorry. I haven’t told anyone the whole story in years."
"It’s fine." My voice is still a whisper, definitely no backtalk this time.
"Just, uh… Let me get it all out. You'll understand." His eyes have gentled, and it's evident that his reaction was less geared toward me than caused by the tragedy he is reminded of.
I nod.
"Given who my family is, I had the best defense in court. My attorney was able to negotiate a plea deal that landed me in a medical facility instead of jail. While I was…away, my father took his life."
I press my lips together.
"After my discharge, I returned home—my parents’ home in LA," Nate clarifies. "I wasn’t going back to school. Not only did I have to figure out my mother’s estate, but I also had to sort out my father’s affairs. It took weeks to get a handle on things. And then, I found a stack of letters and pictures in his desk at the house."
My heart starts hammering in my chest. This is leading up to the big question.
"The letters were addressed to my father. The pictures were of a little girl, ranging from baby age to about five years old. I didn’t have to read the letters to see the resemblance."
Nate fixes his eyes on me, and I hold my breath. Rubbing my hands against the cotton of my sweatpants, I fight the urge to tell him to stop.
"The return address was an Emily Sumner."
This. Is. It. Bile starts to rise in my throat, and I swallow hard. My hands are trembling as I reach for my mug, having to do something to not look at Nate.
He waits for me to collect myself. I drink half of my almost cold tea before I dare look in the hazel eyes that were so familiar from the first day, but yet, I would've never made the connection.
"Emily and your father…" I rasp. There is too much saliva in my mouth. I keep swallowing, but it’s not helping.
Nate nods.
"Can I go back to my room?" There is more, his face tells me as much, but the urge to run is too overpowering.
"Do you remember the way?" He’s sending me alone. I’m not sure what this means, but I also don’t care.
"I think so." I stand up and bolt out of the kitchen the way we came. I don’t look back; I don’t look around. The thought of trying to escape doesn’t cross my mind. I need to be alone.
I wake up on top of the comforter in the room Nate has given me—my room, as I’ve started calling it. (Prison cell didn’t seem or feel right no matter what the circumstance.) The sun is high in the sky, and I must’ve fallen asleep for several hours. I replay Nate’s story in my head, and immediately, my pulse is speeding up. This is the third—no, fourth—no, I don’t know what number—revelation in the last three months that has made my life a fucking lie. And on top of that, I start cursing like Denielle.
I was kidnapped as a child. My memory was erased. My parents are not my real parents. My brother is not my brother, but now my boyfriend. My biological parents are also not my parents—well, half of them anyway. And lastly, I do have a brother—half-brother, but nonetheless a brother—who kidnapped me. Twice.
With that last thought, I scramble off the bed and through the door to my left. I make it by a matter of an inch before the remnants of my breakfast make a reappearance. This time, there is no Rhys or Denielle to comfort me, to hold my hair, or to help me clean up. I'm alone in the fancy, black-and-white bathroom attached to my lavender-colored non-prison-cell overlooking a beautiful vineyard I cannot leave. Pulling away from the white porcelain bowl, I lose my last bit of composure, and the tears start flowing. Everything I’ve bottled up since I left Denielle’s house Monday raises to the surface, and the first sob breaks free, followed by full-on body tremors. I wrap my arms around my middle and rock back and forth, crying anything but silently. I miss Rhys, and I no longer care that he kept Katherine's malicious games from me. All I want is to be held in his arms and hear his voice telling me that everything will be okay. But he's not here. No one is here. I’m alone, trapped in God knows where.
I emerge a few hours later from my room. After my breakdown, I took another shower and again rinsed all the emotions away. Being numb is the only way to keep my sanity—at least to an extent.
The sun is about to set, and I haven't seen Nate since I left the kitchen this morning. Unsure what to do, I wait in my room until the hunger wins out. For some reason, I am not surprised that my door is unlocked. Yes, he said there is no way for me to leave the property, but I know that his partial confession this morning has changed everything already. I'm no longer confined to my room.
I start my exploration with the kitchen. I find a leftover muffin wrapped up on the counter and instantly devour it. My initial hunger sated, I glance around, and my gaze lingers on the knife block. A voice in my head tells me to grab at least one knife, a small one that I can hide in the pocket of my sweatpants, but if it were that easy to escape, Nate wouldn't let me roam free—sister or not. Interlacing my hands on top of my head, I close my eyes.
Sister. God, I still am in denial.
I start moving through the kitchen, my fingers grazing the black-and-gray marble countertop as I walk. Besides the stairwell I’ve now taken three times, there is a door next to it. It’s set back, and from the angle of the table, I didn’t notice it earlier.
Should I? Oh, what the hell.
I ease the door open and find another hallway similar to the one upstairs—white walls and espresso-colored floors. This one holds artwork on the side that doesn't contain floor-to-ceiling windows. Slowly inching down the corridor, I take in the paintings. I don't know much about art, but the pictures in combination with the heavy wooden frames make them appear priceless. Knowing that he is an Altman, they probably are.
There are several closed doors between the paintings, but I don’t dare try to open any of them. My curiosity only goes so far. An archway opens up into a massive…um, what is this? A living room? A sitting room? Based on my estimate, its vaulted, coffered ceiling is far above the second story I know this house has—maybe even a third? Brown and beige leather couches and armchairs are arranged in va
rious groupings, creating multiple seating areas. One of the most gigantic fireplaces, reaching all the way to the top of the wall facing the vineyard, is framed by more floor-to-ceiling windows. The small fire burning in it looks minuscule compared to the size of that thing.
I stand in front of the fireplace, still trying to gauge the magnitude of it when Nate steps up beside me.
How the hell does he do that?
"How are you feeling?" He sounds genuine.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him staring at the flames as well.
"I’m not sure." Truth. Similar to the day Rhys told me everything, too many emotions assault me. Three months ago, I focused on the rage and anger to stay in control; now, there is so much to process. A voice in my head tells me I haven’t heard the half of it yet. Taking a shower has helped me calm down, numb myself, but I can’t run to the nearest bathroom whenever I’m getting overwhelmed.
Though I’d probably be clean at all times with how the revelations keep coming.
The silence elongates, and I attempt to take stock in my head. There is rage. My hands automatically ball into fists when I think about my parents—birth parents, adopted parents, whoever they are. They all lied to me about something. Did Henry have any idea I'm not his daughter? Did my biological father, Brooks, not want me? There’s disappointment in Emily, who cheated on her husband—the man I believed to be my father for the last three months. Relief, for having some answers. Fear of not seeing Rhys again. Confusion about Nate because, despite seeming completely sane whenever we talk, he is mentally ill. He kidnapped four other children, for Christ's sake. And for what reason? I still don't know the answer to that.
As if sensing my thoughts, he asks, "Do you feel up to talking some more?"
Do I?
He sounds hesitant. But instead of answering his question, I counter, "How do you always know when to show up? Do you have a tracker on me?" I’m mostly joking, but still, I hold my breath, waiting for his answer.
He huffs out a laugh. "No."
I finally sneak a peek at his profile, and I see him smirk at my suggestion.
How can he seem so…normal?
I shrug. "So? How do you do it?"
Nate turns to face me. After a pause, he points to an upper corner of the room then to another on the opposite wall. "That’s how."
I follow his finger and scan the areas he indicated. Squinting, I notice a small black dot on the white wall. Cameras? If one doesn't search for it, it appears merely like a dirt stain. Then it sinks in, and my jaw drops. With a knot in my stomach, I whirl around to my half-brother. "Are there cameras in my room? In the bathroom?" I'm mortified.
He has the decency to look somewhat guilty. "In your room, yes. In your bathroom, no."
Oh, thank goodness.
"However, your bathroom has a microphone for safety reasons."
"Safety reasons?" I shriek, aghast.
"I would never spy on you like that with a camera, but my computer is analyzing the sounds and alerts me if it identifies anything that could be considered a threat."
Oh, so puking my guts out and crying is not considered dangerous by his computer?
Immediately knowing where my thoughts went, he says, "It did alert me earlier, but after checking the recording, I figured that was not something you would've wanted me to witness."
He is right on that account, which deflates my outrage—a little. However, I can’t refrain from demanding, "I want the camera in my room gone. And the mic." Standing there with my hands on my hips, glaring up at my kidnapper-slash-half-brother, must make for an entertaining sight. The ridiculousness of the situation is not lost on me.
Nate’s shoulders slump slightly. "I can’t do that."
I’m about to protest, but he holds up a hand. "I will switch both to monitoring only."
What does that even mean?
My frown triggers him to elaborate. "The computer will analyze the threat level and send an alert. But I won't be able to view the footage or listen to the recording without your permission."
"How do I know that you’re telling the truth?"
"You don’t. However, my security network is very…proficient. I can put a personal password on every camera on the property. To prove to you that you can trust me, you can put the password for your cameras and mics in yourself. Only you and the system can access them."
I have no idea if he’s pulling all that out of his ass, but what else am I supposed to do?
Chapter Four
I’m standing in NASA’s command center. At least that’s what it looks like.
I had followed Nate from the sitting room, as he called it, through an arch into the connecting foyer. A vast double staircase leads to the floor above. It comes together in a gallery overlooking the entryway, as well as the various seating areas in front of the massive fireplace on the other side. A set of wrought-iron double doors—the exit, if I were able to leave—takes over half of the wall opposite the arch and is dead center between both sets of stairs. Despite the pristine white walls everywhere—except for my room—the dark wooden floors give this place a feel of…home.
God, I need my head examined.
Upstairs, Nate stopped in front of a regular-looking door…until I noticed a large panel set into the wall. I stared wide-eyed as he unlocked the room with his retina scan. His. Freaking. Eye. Oh, and a fingerprint. Don't let me forget the fingerprint. When I thought it couldn't get worse, the panel slid up, and—was that a mic? Yup, it was a mic. He said a random string of words, and something inside the door clicked. I gawked at him incredulously.
When he saw my expression, he deadpanned, "I’m not always alone on the property."
Of course you’re not. How silly of me.
Now, my brain is trying to comprehend what I’m looking at. There are six, at my guess, 50-inch flat-screen TVs mounted on the wall to the right, all of them off. An antique-looking desk that reminds me of the one from the National Treasure movie sits in the middle of the room, in complete contrast to the tech surrounding it. There are more monitors centered on the desk with two keyboards in front of them and two laptops at either end.
I turn in a circle and realize there are no windows. Based on what I’ve seen from the rest of the house, he must’ve had them removed. Pictures cover the wall opposite the screens, arranged in no particular order or pattern as it seems. Without waiting for Nate’s permission, I step closer. My gaze immediately finds several pictures of a young Nate—probably eighteen or so—with a little girl, which I assume to be Audrey. They have the same light hair color and facial features—the same as me. The realization hits me like a punch in the gut, and I can’t stop myself from gasping. It’s as evident as the fact that I look nothing like the McGuires—like Rhys. Don’t think of him right now. My chest constricts, and I start moving along the wall, trying to focus on the photographs instead. I discover about a dozen more of Audrey, ranging from infancy to around five or six years old. In some pictures, she is with a gorgeous woman in her thirties. The woman has flawless, almost ivory skin. Her hair is a shade between red and hazelnut, which, if not natural, would make a person look washed out. On her, however, it has a striking effect. In one of the pictures, she is wearing a red ball gown, which highlights her pale skin, rubicund hair, and slender figure even more. She looks like royalty. This must be Payton Altman.
"My mother."
Despite his voice being low, I jump at his words. I was so absorbed in my half family, he might as well have shouted in my ear. My hand flies over my heart, and I try to get my breathing under control again.
"She was beautiful," I whisper. I can’t bring myself to speak at a regular volume.
"Yes, she was." Nate is in his own head and stares toward a section of pictures in the bottom corner of the wall. I follow his gaze and find the only picture containing four individuals. In the background is a Christmas tree; Audrey is on Payton’s lap in a tight embrace. Nate sits next to his mother and sister with one arm slung aroun
d his mother’s shoulders. All three radiate happiness. On the other side of Payton is a blond man with angular features. He is squatting, face angled toward Audrey, but his expression is blank. There is no emotion, a complete contrast to the rest of the photograph, which shouts holiday joy. His skin is sun-kissed, but not too tan, and his light-blond hair is shaggy and curled at the ends. Is this…?
"Yes."
Did I ask that out loud?
"You look a lot like him," I tell Nate. I’m not sure what else to say. What is the appropriate reaction here?
"So do you." He’s just stating a fact, but the black hole inside of me rips open further.
Who am I? Where do I belong?
"It was our last Christmas together as a family," he murmurs.
I’m about to move away from the picture when something unexpected happens. A sharp pain punctures my brain like an ice pick, and I crumble to the floor, holding my head. Squeezing my eyes shut, I see a multitude of colors as if fireworks were set off behind my eyelids. My stomach rolls, and I curl into myself. I don’t remember if I cried out loud or not, but the next thing I see is Nate hovering over me with wide eyes.
"Are you okay?" Panic laces his question. He sits on his haunches, waiting for me to straighten up. His hand hovers slightly above my shoulder, as if he wants to help me up but is scared to make that connection.
One of my hands is still at my head, and I have to force myself to lower it to my lap.
"I’m fine, just a memory," I say without thinking.
Crap! That’s probably not something I should share with him. The line between kidnapper and brother is blurring, and that puts me on edge. Questions my sanity.
"What do you mean?" Confusion replaces the panic in Nate’s voice.
When I don’t reply, he initiates the first physical contact since the handshake a few weeks ago. Consciously or unconsciously, I don’t know, but what I immediately notice…I don’t flinch away.
This is not good.
