by Sonya Jesus
“I’m simply saying not all metal is hard.”
“Yeah, but all of you is real stupid.” She crosses her arms over her shoulder. “How about trying not to piss me off when I’m trying to help you, Brother?”
Defiant little bitch, isn’t she? Anyone of the guards could walk by here and hear her.
“I’m still not used to that.” Stone shakes his head, easing the tension between the three of us. “You should hear her out though.”
“Fine. I’m tired of you both already, so tell me what you have to say and get the hell out of my line of sight.”
“Agreed.” Kelsie wastes no time. “We’ve been looking for the wrong Lyla Vaughn all this time.”
“What? How is that possible? Franco ran a check before giving Romolo the okay to pick her up.” I run over what Franco told me. He checked on her name and only one matched the birthday. June 11. Later in our game of Truth or Dare, it matched up. The adoption, the birthday, and something else.
Then why had she been singing “Happy Birthday” in December?
“The Lyla Vaughn we were looking into fit everything, more or less, but some things don’t add up.”
Stone gets up and jogs to the office and ruffles through his jacket for the papers we sent with him. He places her file on the bar countertop next to Kelsie and opens it. He retrieves a sheet with the logo of the fertility center we work with and hands it to me.
“The blood work sample we had done on her?” I flip through the stapled pages, complete with vitamin levels, hormone levels, toxicology, diseases, and genetic markers. “Why are there things circled in red?”
He pulls out the file for the dead Lyla, which has circled items also. “You said 327 wasn’t on the pill, that she could have gone right into breeding.”
I nodded. She was a virgin.
“According to this, Lyla Vaughn has low levels of estrogen.”
I blink and look at the only woman in the room for an explanation. “Women on the pill have suppressed levels of estrogen and progesterone. It would take at least three months for those hormone levels to elevate.” Kelsie tilts her head to the pages in my hand.
“So?” I ask, slightly annoyed with all this fanfare. “Maybe she stopped taking the pill a few months ago.”
“I knew you’d say that.” Stone hands me prescriptions for the birth control pills and receipts for the filled prescriptions. “One of these is dated a month ago.”
My jaw clenches. “What else?”
Kelsie gets up and flips the page in my hand to the one with the pristine toxicology reports. “The California Lyla was using drugs. She died from an overdose on the beach near the rocks. Some surfers found her body a couple of days later.”
“None of 327’s blood work showed substance abuse.” Stone points to the circled areas in the toxicology report and shows me the page with the coroner’s toxicology report.
There has to be a reason for this. “Maybe she had been in rehab and that’s why she was here?”
“That doesn’t explain the blood type though.” Kelsie flips to the front page.
“What blood type?” I run my finger down the page to find “O-negative” circled in red.
“The dead Lyla was AB negative. It’s very rare.”
“So, there’s another Lyla in California?” My Lyla, and she is still alive.
“Who went to the same school, was adopted, lived in the same town, and had a chemistry major?” Stone shakes his head and hands me a sheet with Lyla Vaughn on it—forty-five Lyla Vaughns on it, to be exact. All of them spread across the United States and different ages, with Social Security numbers and credit reports. All names had been crossed out.
“You checked all these?” I ask, a bit impressed with their initiative.
Kelsie nods. “We called in a few favors in the middle states, but obviously, we crossed out all women who didn’t fit the age bracket and weight. The credit reports show activity in the ones closer to the age and others were spotted and accounted for.”
Stone points to the dead girl’s picture. “Either this is a coincidence, or 327 knew this Lyla Vaughn, and she had her identification on her.”
“A lady.” Her words echo back to me. She was meeting someone at Danvers.
“We got the wrong girl, and 327 went along with it, thinking it would save her own ass.”
“Who the fuck was she?” The words come out through gritted teeth. The fucking bitch lied to me.
“Definitely not this Lyla Vaughn, or any of those in your hand.”
“Shit!” I swipe the papers off the table in a rant. “She can be anywhere, talking to anyone, and I have no way of tracking her down.”
Kelsie picks up the papers and holds a photo of the real Lyla Vaughn out to me. I shove her out of the way and get up, turning my back to them, as I work through the jumbled-up mess in my chest.
“They looked alike,” she adds unwisely.
I growl as I lower my head and pinch the bridge of my nose. My vein pulses against my thumb and middle finger as she continues to speak, “Same eye color, height, hair color, and curls. She even has the same shaped face.”
“How did Franco miss this?” I growl, not accepting an answer. “Get Franco!” I order, needing both of them far away from me.
“He wasn’t here when we got here.”
My eyes feel like they are about to burst, and I struggle to tame the rage coursing through me. “Guesthouse,” I spit out harshly.
Sounds of movement and sliding doors signal their departure. Alone and with no one to witness my actions, I slam my fist into the wooden door that leads out toward the unused space of the mansion. I beat the wood until it lies in splinters on the ground. Then step on the broken pieces, staking them into the grass with the weight of each step, and continue walking until there is no light, and I’m encompassed by darkness.
Rage seeps out of my pores as I clap my hands in the air, wishing I had someone’s face between them. I beat my palms together repeatedly as I pace back and forth. Each time one of her lies pops into my head, the speed and force gets stronger, as if I can disintegrate the memory with the force of my bare hands. Instead, each whoosh through the air does nothing but remind me that she bested me.
Lying slut.
She probably wasn’t even a virgin. I ram my hands together so hard my palms ache and my shoulders twitch. The thought of someone else between her thighs, in my home, accumulates with the murderous impulse.
My neck tenses as I work through the last few months—the ones where I felt like shit for taking her innocence and ruining the world by showing her what no one wants to think about. Days of guilt tugging at my insides, working its way along my gut, and transforming every thought of her into punishment for me. Those were all for nothing because I didn’t ruin something sweet and pure, or taint the soul of an angel, condemning her to hell so I could have her with me.
Angels don’t lie.
Devils don’t love.
I guess neither of us are who we thought we were.
Light shines through the darkness, causing me to wince. I look out toward the blue focal light coming from the pool area. My teeth grinding against each other, abrade the word “love” creeping its way up my vocal cords.
I don’t love anyone! I shout internally. My heart flickers quickly, heating my throat, until I release a growl so loud it’s feral. An animal wounded and ready to attack. Before the guards come looking for me, I make my way back to the house.
In less than a few minutes, I end up at the edge of the fire pit near the pool area. Stone is in the Jacuzzi, talking on the phone. Kelsie is sitting at the fire pit, burning the papers in case someone comes looking.
Franco stands next to her, blood all over his shirt, but it isn’t from Stupid. That’s Franco’s blood. “What the fuck happened to you?” I ask, still blistering from 327’s betrayal.
Kelsie answers for him, “I should’ve pistol-whipped you in the fucking nose, but…” She uses her whole hand to gesture toward Fr
anco. “Your capo will do.”
It hits me then. The guesthouse.
Franco spits out blood.
“She got him good. He took two to the nose and one to the gonads.” Stone thought Franco’s injury was hilarious, but there’s nothing funny about the way Franco is eyeing my sister.
Kelsie joins in on the humor, snickering as she holds the last page over the fire. Flames rise up and engulf it before she releases it. The red and hints of yellow and orange remind of the false angel, and the urge to burn 327 inch by inch, char all her skin off, and then dip her in the chlorine-filled water travels through my bones, collecting at my knuckles.
Franco threatens Kelsie, and she promises to be less gentle the next time, but all I can hear are the imaginary screams of the woman my brain falsely accuses my heart of loving.
Her agony will make me happy. I crack my knuckles, releasing the tension. “She lied to me!”
“Can you blame her?” Kelsie asks.
I snap my head toward my half-sister and narrow my eyes. “Yes, I can.” And I do. “I want her dead.”
Franco smirks.
“How am I supposed to do that if I don’t know where or who she is? I can’t track her down by her name. All I have is—”
I cut Keslie off with a wave of my hand. I’m not interested in excuses; I’m only concerned with results. “I don’t care how you do it, but find her and bring her to me. I’ll kill her myself.”
5
Yellow
327
True to her word, only a week after promising me a room, I’m standing in the annex, in my new bedroom with lemon yellow walls, getting ready to man the front desk. I run my finger along the shelves of the well-loved books, admiring the lines of the broken spines. My finger stops on the one titled Nothing Changes, and I slip it out from the shelf.
The front cover curls slightly at the end due to the use-lines, which have chipped away at the cover image. I flip it around to find a picture of the author and a short description, then skim through the pages. Like a yearbook, notes are written on the inside, on the front matter, and along the sides of the pages. I read the first message addressed to someone I don’t know and move onto the next one, and the next.
Soon I realize, in different colored inks and different handwritings, hundreds of wishes line the interior of the book. Again, I glance at the back of the book, wondering what the inspirational cancer story has to do with wishes, and flip through to a random page. There, highlighted in yellow, are the words: inspired by a true story.
Below, in Adelaide’s handwriting, are bubbly letters written in black ink:
To my Addison…
Nothing changes my love for you. Your story inspires me.-Mom.
P.S. Be strong.
We all deserve a love like this.
Suddenly feeling guilty for intruding on something private, I shut the book and place it back on the shelf. As I finish getting dressed, I think about Addie’s note to her daughter, and all the other notes written in there. Many of them started with the title and supplied their own end; others added the words ‘I wish.’ Some wrote down a secret, others simply signed their name, participating in their existence before it ceased.
Claiming their identity before someone took it from them.
Standing in front of the mirror in the bedroom, with my ninety-nine-cent black lipstick in hand, I glare at me, post-Breaker Beneventi. My hair is up in a ponytail, and my small skull earrings almost look like studs. They pair nicely with the houndstooth tights, a large black long-sleeve sweater, and black flats. I smooth the material over my stomach, cinching it at the waist and using an elastic hair tie to knot it and add a little shape. It looks better, but I’m tired of the heavy colors. They weigh me down.
Maybe that’s why I love the yellow: it’s something bright and colorful…there’s enough dark on the inside.
I bring the lipstick to my mouth and coat my bright pink lips with darkness before putting in my brown contacts and applying winged eyeliner. I place a set of thrift store black and white glasses with false lenses. When I’m done, I glance back at the book on the shelf. It stands out from all the others, drawing me back to it. I slide it out again and take a seat on the bed, flipping to a random page. Page eleven. That’s where I sign my name—my real name—claiming my existence, even if it is in secret.
The letters look foreign to me, much like my exterior. It’s been a while since my hand has reminded me of the real me—whoever that is now. I’ve pretended to be so many people that I don’t know who I really am anymore.
My reflection shows a healthier and prettier me than before, and I look nothing like Lyla, because my real name was never Lyla Vaughn.
“MERCY!” one of the kids screams from the courtyard.
I slam the book shut, tuck it in its place, and rush toward the door. Someone found me. My heart lurches forward, leaving my chest vacant and my cheeks hollow.
“MERCY! HELP!” he says between giggles of what, I assume, is a tickle fest.
My heart ricochets back into my body with such force that I almost topple over. I wouldn’t put it past Breaker to hurt the kids, just to flush me out.
I swing the door open and step out to find Addie, standing near the back door, holding a mug of coffee and laughing her head off.
The Butcher didn’t find me yet.
“Morning,” I shout to the three of them. The smallest of the two brothers runs toward me and tucks himself behind my legs, holding onto them and preventing me from moving. I shake my head and glance at Addie for help.
“Don’t look at me…. You’re being summoned, doll face. The boys need a tickle ref.”
“Mercy, get him!” the four-year-old squeals excitedly as his older brother runs around us in circles.
Right. Mercy Williams. Three months, and I still haven’t gotten used to my latest stolen identity.
“Let Mercy go now, boys. She has to come help me make breakfast. Go wake up your mama.”
Reluctantly the boys disappear back into the main building, leaving Addie and me alone in the courtyard. “How was your first night in the room?”
“Different,” I answer truthfully. “Thank you for everything… I’m not really used to having nice things.” A distressed sigh comes before a shake of the head, and I quickly change the subject before she pries more information out of me. “I love the walls.”
She nods and opens the back door, which leads to the kitchen, off the main house. “Just a little sunshine, doll face. Was the bed comfortable? I bought the nice comforters you can adjust based on your sleeping habits.”
My sleeping habits are practically nonexistent. “Yes, but you didn’t have to go through all that trouble. Any bed is better than no bed.”
“That’s exactly why I bought them.” She softly taps me on the shoulder and tilts her head to the side. “Come on, the muffins are almost done.”
The aromas of cinnamon swirl and banana nut muffins hit me the second I step foot into the large kitchen. “Those smell amazing!” The industrial stove beeps, signaling they are done. I slip on some oven mitts and pull the four trays out, setting them on one of the two kitchen islands next to the French toast. “How long have you been up?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” She pops a tray full of bacon into the oven.
“Oh, why not?” I ask while cracking the eggs into a bowl. This task isn’t so hard, save for the wretched eggshell pieces that refuse to come out when they fall in.
“I had to go to the hospital to pick up a new girl. It took me forever to get there and forever until the hospital let her go.”
“Oh, why didn’t you wake me? I would’ve gone with you.”
She chuckles and hands me the electric mixer. “I got the call at three in the morning.”
“That’s kind of late.”
“The hospital didn’t know until the boyfriend showed up demanding to see his girlfriend, and the poor thing begged for the nurses to lie to him. So they sent him to a different hospital
and called me.”
“Can they do that?” The electric mixer comes to life in my hands, and I beat the eggs on low.
“Mistakes happen all the time, and my friends there turn a blind eye to protocol with something like this.” She winks before grabbing some extra white dishes and disappearing into the dining room.
I smile softly, admiring the woman who dedicated her life to saving women. She turned her own house into a safe haven, uses her money to sustain it, and asks nothing in return. How she does this, I have no idea, but she’s amazing. She helps set the women up with new jobs, counseling, and even clothes them and their children. I’ve only known her for a few months, but I know, Adelaide Forman is proof good people still exist.
She’s a spitfire who has been through so much. When her husband died, she said she went through a rough time. He left her and their nine-year-old daughter everything, but her husband’s family contested the Will, and she was kicked out of the house. It was tied up for a long time, because not only was the insurance investigating, but also the police. Obviously, she didn’t hurt her husband, but his family never liked her. Once everything was cleared up, and the insurance money came in, she had found a job and a place to stay, so she took the money and invested it for her daughter.
Addison got involved with thea wrong crowd and was murdered eight years ago. She converted her big home into a refuge for women and called it Addison’s Refuge. I have no idea where she gets the money to keep this place running, but she does, and everyone loves her.
She comes back in for the silverware and disappears again. “What time is it?”
“Almost seven,” I reply.
Every day a sit-down breakfast, with porcelain plates and glasses, is served. She makes sure to set everything up while the women sleep in or get their children ready. Until last night, she had twenty women staying here, including myself, and two children. She insists the staff and her guests eat breakfast together, and paper plates are banned from the premises. Dinner is always served at six, but not all of the women are back in time for it. Around lunchtime, the house is pretty quiet, except for the women who are still recuperating or hiding out, like me.
