by Danah Logan
"FUCK IT!" I stand up.
I’ll deal with the consequences later.
I walk across the hall, hesitating one last time. I take a deep breath and knock. No answer. She’s home, so I knock again. When she still doesn’t respond, I ease the door open and slowly walk in.
Lilly sits in the middle of her bed, facing away from the door. Her laptop is open to the right of her, and what looks like hundreds of printouts and notes are scattered on her white duvet. Two of our old family photo albums are in front of her.
My blood runs cold.
FUUUCK!
I’m starting to understand what this is about. Fuck, crap, fuck. I rake my hands through my hair, which prompts Lilly to turn, and I notice her headphones.
Her eyes widen, followed by her expression changing to wariness. I’m sure she wants to know what I’m doing here. Heck, I almost wish I hadn’t come. The first piece falls out of my once nice, solid barrier toward Lilly.
Shit.
After what seems like an eternity of us staring at each other, she softly says, "Hi?"
Chapter Five
Earlier, I decided to search our old family photo albums for the mystery couple. The old albums are all in my parents’ room upstairs, and we rarely go up there unless it’s an emergency. Not that we’re not allowed to; it just happens to be that way since everyone usually congregates on the first floor during the day, and Mom and Dad are only upstairs at night.
The king-size bed is to the right between two large windows. Across from the door, on the opposite wall, is a small sitting area with a short bookshelf. The doors to the massive walk-in closet and bathroom that Mom had completely remodeled upon buying the house are to the left. The entire room is mid-century modern. Chic and classy, but still cozy. Mom has phenomenal talent in arranging a room. Stepping into their closet, there is another wall of shelves that holds old photo albums and important binders and files. It feels like I’m violating their privacy, but I quickly shake the thought—I need answers.
I’m comparing some of my notes again when something moves in my peripheral vision. My heart immediately beats in my throat since I assumed I was alone in the house. But there is Rhys, standing in the middle of my room.
What the—?
I stare at him. He hasn’t been in here in years. I’m confused. "Hi?"
"Hi." Is that reluctance in his voice?
Instead of asking the obvious—what is this mess on my bed?—he points at my phone. "What are you listening to?"
Is he for real?
"Uh, Freedom Call?" My answer sounds more like a question.
"Which album?"
What. The. Heck? "Legend of the Shadowing."
"‘Tears of Babylon’ or ‘A Perfect Day’?"
Why does he care? I used to listen to this album on repeat for months, but I didn’t think he’d remember my two favorite songs. I try to hide my irritation. "‘A Perfect Day.’"
The corner of his mouth tilts up. I haven’t seen that directed at me in forever, and something inside of me flips in a somersault—a sensation that I used to experience all the time until he left me.
"You always made me listen to that one when we were sparring with Spence."
I bite my lip, stopping the grin that wants to spread across my face. "I didn’t think you’d remember."
I don’t like this and try to compose myself. With my change in demeanor, his smile falters. His next words are spoken so softly that I think I must hear him wrong. "I would never forget that. It was a perfect day."
I’m speechless. We have barely spoken in years. He hates me.
Rhys realizes his blunder and schools his features. The mask I’ve seen for years is back in place. He nods toward the chaos on my bed. "So...what’s all this?"
I glance down, as if confirming everything is still here, and back up at him. Enough with this game; I’m too exhausted. "Why are you here?"
"I’m worried about you."
I snort sarcastically. "Yeah, right. You haven’t given two shits about me in years."
The mask slips again, his expression changing to something mirroring...heartbreak?
"It’s more complicated than that."
I cock my head. I feel like I’m in an alternate reality. Who is this guy in front of me?
Rhys slowly lowers himself onto the edge of my bed. "Calla, what’s going on with you?"
Being the emotional mess I am these days, hearing him call me by the nickname he used to have for me causes tears to instantly well up in my eyes. "You haven’t called me that in forever." I don’t want to cry in front of him.
Not him!
"I know. I’m sorry." Rhys’s gaze falls onto my necklace, a small silver calla lily blossom on a delicate silver chain. "You’re still wearing it."
Unconsciously, I reach up and say, "You gave it to me," before I can stop myself.
Four years ago, we visited a botanical garden during a family trip, and I was obsessed with calla lilies after that. I thought they were the most beautiful flowers ever. That year, Rhys took his savings, bought me the necklace for my birthday, and started calling me Calla. It became the nickname only he used, and the first time he called me Lilly again, I knew something between us was broken. I cried for hours that night.
Having Rhys sitting in my room and remembering old times is too much. I don’t want to fall back into old habits. I have barely slept since the migraines started. I’m so tired and confused. I wipe my nose, trying to keep it together.
All of a sudden, Rhys moves closer and reaches out for me, putting his hand on mine. Before I can think logically, all my bottled-up emotions rush to the surface, and I launch into his arms. I can’t hold the tears back any longer and completely fall apart, my fists balled into the front of his t-shirt. Everything—not just the past three weeks, but the past two-plus years—is coming out, and I cry for what feels like hours.
Rhys just keeps his arms wrapped around me, rocking back and forth. When I finally have no tears left, I disentangle myself from his arms but don’t move away. His hands are still resting on my forearms, which are now laying in my lap, and I focus on them as I whisper, "I think I’m going crazy."
Rhys gently lifts my chin up with his index finger, forcing me to look into his eyes. "Talk to me, Calla." His voice is shaky, but his smile tells me this is not a game for him.
I am scared to open up to him; he’s been distant for so long. I missed him so much until I finally accepted that I couldn’t fix the unknown. I moved on; he was no longer a part of my life, and I was no longer part of his. If I invite him back in, he’ll either think I’m crazy, or by Monday, he’ll ignore me again. Neither is a road I want to go down in my current, potentially crazy, mental state.
Still holding on to me, he whispers, "Please tell me. You’re scaring me."
His concern is genuine. I am terrified, but I also have to admit to myself that I can’t do this alone anymore. I take what feels like the longest, deepest breath of my life. "I keep seeing things."
I don’t know if I am holding on to Lilly for her sake or for my own. She keeps seeing things. What the fuck does that mean? I don’t trust my voice, and my next question comes out in a strangled rasp. "What do you mean?"
She doesn’t look directly at me. Her eyes are focused on my shirt, and I can see her internal struggle. Then, she finally focuses on my face. "I have these headaches, like migraines, and—and I see things." She pauses for a moment. "Things I don’t remember but feel real."
I’m gonna throw up; the need to put some distance between us overwhelms me. I move backward until I’m settled against the headboard of her bed and take that moment to collect myself. Her expression mirrors something resembling loss when I move away from her, but I need to stay in control. If I touch her, all bets are off.
"Why don’t you start from the beginning?" My voice doesn’t give away how wound up I am inside.
Lilly settles back in the middle of her bed and plays with her headphones, wrapping them around
her fingers, untangling them again, and starting over.
I nod, signaling her that I’m listening whenever she’s ready.
"We got this assignment for journalism. A research paper." She pauses as if figuring out if she wants to continue. "We could choose whatever topic we wanted, and I went with a criminal case. You know how I feel about economics and politics." She briefly smiles to herself, and I chuckle—because I do.
"I found this article about a girl that went missing here in Virginia and was recently found. She was the fifth victim. I decided to use this case for the assignment, and the more I read, the more I got this feeling—"
Mother f— There’s a fifth victim?
I had no clue. I stay quiet, scared that if I speak, my voice will betray me this time.
"I kept researching; I read every article I could find on all the girls. I felt anxious and scared, but not just because it’s such a horrible incident. Something felt...off. It was like I had to find out more. Then, I read an article about the third victim." She points at her desk. "I looked at our picture—it was like I was drawn to it—and when I focused back on the computer, I got this stabbing pain in my head. I saw myself—my kid self from our picture—staring back, framed in a white mirror."
Her eyes jump back and forth between mine, and she says, with total conviction in her voice, "I never had a white mirror. You know that." The next words are spoken softer. "I was so scared."
I’m not sure how much longer I can keep my composure, but Lilly continues, not noticing that I’m close to hyperventilating.
"Then it happened again."
Jesus Christ.
This time, I have to say something. "What did you see?" I stop myself from using the word remember.
"I was lying on a bed, looking up at a canopy above me."
Don’t throw up! Don’t fucking throw up.
I swallow several times before I can form the words. "How many times has this happened?"
"A few."
A few?
For fuck’s sake. No wonder she’s been such a mess.
Lilly keeps telling me about the other migraines, as she calls them, and I can’t believe what I’m hearing. She finishes with, "Am I going crazy?"
I am barely holding on to a thread. This is insane. After ten years? I have no clue what to do. I promised. Bile starts to rise in my throat.
I do the only thing I can manage at this point. I bolt from her room.
As soon as my door closes, all strength leaves my legs, and I sink to the floor. I don’t bother with a chair or my bed; I have nothing left. I need to get my breathing under control, or I am really going to puke. Putting my head in my hands, I close my eyes and slowly count my breaths. At seventeen, the sour taste in my throat has subsided, and I can swallow again without the feeling of being choked.
I promised Mom and Dad to never tell her. I even pushed her away, my best friend for as long as I can remember, because of that promise. This is different, though. I can’t leave her like this. She thinks she is losing her mind, for fuck’s sake. Even if I talk to Mom and Dad on Sunday, letting her think that something is wrong with her—no matter for how long—is cruel. Not when I can give her the truth.
My wall has officially crumbled, the remnants of it in ruins, and I have to come clean—with everything. Her secret and mine. Even if it means she may never speak to me again.
I stand up with resolve and open the door, coming face to face with Lilly. One look, and I see that she is going to demand answers. She’s smart; she knows I’m hiding something.
"Let’s talk."
Chapter Six
Okay, then. I just poured my heart out to the one person I trust the least, and he runs out of my room?
Wonderful. Just. Wonderful.
Weirdly enough, though, Rhys’s reaction makes me actually feel better. He didn’t laugh or dismiss me. It was written all over his face how much my confession unsettled him.
I turn and look at Rhys’s closed door through my still open one. I see a shadow under it and realize he is sitting right there.
Wracking my brain about what could have him so worked up, I stare for several minutes.
I slam my fists on the comforter. Whatever it is, he’s shit outta luck. I’ve let him determine the rules of our relationship for the past two-plus years. He has never bothered to tell me what I did to make him hate me so much. This time, he is going to talk, even if I have to beat it out of him—in the ring, of course.
He knows something, no question there. Bawling out all my bottled-up emotions has calmed me enough to focus, and I’m even more determined to find out the truth.
I stand up and march toward his door, prepared to force it open with him sitting behind it. But before I can reach for the doorknob, it swings inward, and we lock eyes. He’s resigned.
Whatever he’s going to tell me will change everything.
I follow him without a word down the stairs to the family room. Rhys sits down on the middle piece of the large, U-shaped monstrosity Mom calls our couch, and I slowly lower myself onto the left arm closest to the door. Despite my need for answers, an urge to flee is also present.
Leaning with his forearms on his thighs, Rhys stares at his clasped hands. His chest is heaving like he just ran practice sprints. I watch him closely, and if I didn’t know better, I would say he is scared. No, not scared—terrified. But Rhys is neither of those emotions. Ever.
"You are not crazy." The words are spoken so low that I’m not sure I hear him right at first. Before I can make sure, he continues, "You’re remembering."
I feel like someone has punched me in the gut, and I suck in a breath.
I’m what?
I heard what he said, but my mind has already gone into denial. He’s wrong. He’s playing a cruel joke on me after all. Finally, my brain-to-mouth connection is somewhat reestablished, and I rasp out, "Remembering what?"
"The, uh—incident."
"Huh?" My mind is racing through possible scenarios. I’m trying to make sense of it, but I come up with absolutely nothing.
"I don’t know where to begin. I promised." Rhys looks pale, and I can see him breathing erratically.
"Promised who? What?"
"Mom and Dad...to never tell you."
Cold starts building in my core. Mom and Dad? What the hell is going on here? When I speak, my voice sounds calmer than I feel. "Rhys, what is going on? It can’t be that bad if I’m not going crazy."
Makes sense, right?
He rubs his palms across his face and mumbles, "You have no idea."
I have never seen him like this. I’m more confused than ever. I do want my answers, but for a brief moment, I forget the last few years. I push all the hurt he has caused away and scoot over to his side of the couch. After a moment of hesitation, I pull his hands away from his face and try to hold on to them.
Rhys flinches away from my touch and looks at me with pure anguish. "I can’t lose you again."
I’m on an emotional rollercoaster. He can’t lose me? Again? Anger replaces the coldness. I put some distance between us and stare. Who does he think he is? He left me two years ago. He stopped talking to me and never bothered to tell me why. I try to contain my temper, but I can’t stop raising my voice. "EITHER YOU START TALKING, OR I’M OUT!" A little calmer, I continue, "You turned your back on me, and now you play the victim? I’m the one seeing people while my head threatens to burst open! SCREW YOU!"
My last words make him flinch, but he just keeps staring at his lap. I’ve had enough. After the last three weeks, I have no patience left. I’m exhausted, and his behavior is just too much.
I stand up and take two steps when he whispers, "I love you."
Uh—what?
I stop in my tracks and turn. He doesn’t look at me.
"I love you, too." Because despite everything that has happened between us, I do.
"No, I love you. Like I. Love. You." His voice is barely audible, but he emphasizes every word.
I just stand there, dumbfounded. "Huh?"
I mean, that’s a very valid response, right?
He finally faces me, and our gazes lock. His eyes mirror everything from agony, to embarrassment, to love. "I’m not your brother." After a brief pause, he adds, "But you were never supposed to know."
Uh.
He takes another breath. "I’ve loved you my entire life. For as long as I can remember. But then you became my sister ten years ago, and you were never supposed to find out."
I plop ungracefully back onto the couch. My legs don’t support my weight, and when my lungs start to burn, I realize I’m holding my breath. All I get out is a rasp, "I don’t understand."
I truly don’t.
Rhys drops his eyes again. "You’re remembering. Those migraines you have are memories."
The next pause is endless, and I begin to think he is not going to say anything else.
"You were kidnapped."
KIDNAPPED? A voice in my head screeches. I must have misheard him. There is no freaking way one forgets something like that. I’m pretty sure my eyebrows are somewhere in my hairline.
"They never told me all the details. I was too young. I can tell you what I’ve pieced together over the years."
"Okay." My voice sounds detached, not at all like my own.
"You were taken during a field trip to the San Diego Zoo. You were gone for about a month before you were found at a hospital in Northern California. We had just moved to Virginia a few months before. Mom went back to San Diego a few times to be with your parents. From what I overheard, there were no cops involved at all, no authorities. Even back then, I thought that was fucking weird." Rhys laughs, unamused. "Then, one day, you pop up at an ER in Northern California. You were sick, and scared, and the hospital couldn’t figure out who you were until you told them days later."
My vision gets blurry. This can’t be true.
