by Noelle Marie
“Scold me all you want, Marianne. You know you agree with me. I dare you to picture the two of them together and tell me it doesn’t inspire in you the urge to vomit.”
“I will do no such thing,” she said with an amused shake of her head. “Speaking of pictures, though, that reminds me…” she trailed off.
I frowned. “What?”
“Wait here,” she ordered, already bustling out of the room. “I have something for you.”
I struggled to think of anything Marianne could possibly have for me, but came up empty. Luckily, I didn’t have to stew in my curiosity for long because a moment later, she was hurrying back into the room, a thick, leather-bound book of some sort in her hands. “Here you go,” she said, handing it over to me.
“What’s this?” I asked, cracking it open.
But by opening what I had at first thought was a book, I had answered my own question. A dozen or so photographs stared up at me.
It was a photo album.
Of me.
If I were to hazard a guess, I would say I was seven or eight years old in most of the pictures. In many of them, I was standing next to the same woman featured in the picture frame on my nightstand. Vanessa. My mother.
“It’s a photo album,” Marianne said, “of you and your mother mostly. I found it while I was sorting through some old junk in the basement. I thought you might enjoy looking through it.”
My throat felt suddenly swollen and gratefulness burned in my chest. “This is great, Marianne.”
I meant it, too. Not just because of the sentimental value either. With Felix trailing my every move, I was no closer to finding out why I’d jumped off a cliff to get away from this life than I had been a week ago. Maybe, though, something in this photo album would finally shake something loose in my defective brain.
“Thank you,” I said, surprising Marianne (and myself) by pulling her into an impromptu hug. Marianne stiffened, but after a few seconds, she hesitantly squeezed me back.
I released her a moment later. “If you don’t mind, I think I’m going to look through it right now.”
Marianne nodded her head in understanding. “Go on then,” she said, shooing me away. “I’ll tell Felix you retired early if he asks.”
“Thanks, Marianne,” I said, making sure to insert as much gratefulness into my voice as possible before hustling up the stairs. (I didn’t want Felix to return and find some excuse to stop me.)
After reaching my bedroom and closing the door behind myself, I hopped onto the bed. Then, taking a moment to pull Derek’s plaid shirt out from where I kept it sandwiched between the mattress and box spring, I brought it to my nose and inhaled before smoothing it out over my lap and laying the photo album on top of it.
I flipped it open.
The album was thick and overflowing with pictures. The first couple pages contained what I suspected were the most recent photographs taken of me – probably only a few months before my mom had died. According to Marianne, that would make me sixteen in the pictures.
I got progressively younger the further into the album I delved. Most of the photos were taken in the house, some in the yard, and a scant few at the same beach featured in the picture on my nightstand. No one was ever wandering around in the background of the sandy shore, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the beach was as secluded as the house, which was why we went there.
There were birthday pictures of me sitting in front of various cakes. I could tell by the number of candles how old I was turning in each of them.
Flicking through the pages of photographs was fascinating. I learned that I’d had braces as a teen and that I’d gone through an awkward stage where I wore my bangs regrettably short. One of my favorite pictures was one of me as a toddler with chocolate smeared all over my cherubic cheeks.
The album went all the way back until before I could walk. I was probably only six or seven months old in the last picture where I sat fussing on my mother’s lap. It was a rare photo that included Cornelius.
There were no newborn pictures.
I went through the album a second time to make sure I hadn’t somehow missed them. I found it strange considering how well documented the rest of my life seemed to have been – before my mother had passed, anyway. I wondered if there was another album hidden somewhere in the basement, or if the last few pages had been lost or destroyed somehow.
Knock. Knock.
I nearly jumped out of my skin at the sound of sudden, sharp rapping on my bedroom door.
Feeling remarkably like a child who’d gotten caught sneaking a cookie before supper, I snapped the photobook shut. “Yes?” I called, wincing at my strangled tone as I hurried to stuff the album under a pillow.
I knew I was being ridiculous. It wasn’t like I was doing anything wrong, but I couldn’t help but think my father would disapprove for some reason.
I heard the door creak open and quickly balled Derek’s shirt up behind my back, standing to face whomever had interrupted me.
Unsurprisingly, it was Felix.
I ran my free hand through my hair, trying to calm my racing heart. “Can I help you?” I asked.
Felix stepped into the room, glancing around like he was looking for something – like he knew I’d been up to mischief. (Which I hadn’t been. Not really.) “I just wanted to make sure you were feeling well,” he said after a moment. “Marianne told me you chose to retire early tonight.”
Knowing full well by then that any concern of the man’s was entirely self-serving, I fought the urge to snort. “Well, as you can see, I’m perfectly fine,” I said instead.
My fingers tightened unconsciously around Derek’s shirt when he took another step forward and tried to peer around behind me. I attempted to shuffle backwards, but the back of my knees quickly collided with the mattress.
“What do you have there?” he asked.
I bit my lip. “What do I have where?” I asked, being purposely obtuse.
Felix raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Behind your back,” he clarified.
Not knowing what else to do, I shrugged my shoulder and flat-out lied. “Nothing.”
Felix’s expression didn’t change, but he held out his hand as if he actually expected me to hand Derek’s shirt over. (Like that was going to happen.)
What I didn’t realize was that Felix holding his hand out was just a diversion. Because a moment later, he was reaching behind me with his other hand and, fast as lightning, he was snatching the shirt away from me.
In my surprise, I didn’t even put up a fight. I blinked in shock, but quickly recovered. “Hey!” I protested. “Give that back, you contemptuous prick-!”
The insult hadn’t even made it all the way out of my mouth before Felix had a hold of my face, his palm hot against my lips and his fingers digging so hard into my cheeks that I was sure they would bruise. “I hope you don’t plan on speaking to your future husband like that with your dirty, little mouth,” he hissed between clenched teeth. He relaxed his grip slightly. “You know, I may be amused by your feistiness, but I assure you, sweet Sloane, Mr. Vanderbilt will not be.” Then, giving my cheeks one last squeeze, he finally released me.
I scowled, my hands immediately coming up to rub where his fingers had been burrowing into my skin, attempting to massage the soreness away.
Felix didn’t acknowledge my glare, focusing instead on inspecting Derek’s plaid button-up. He frowned. “Is this the shirt you were wearing when your father picked you up?” he asked.
Figuring that lying would be pointless, I nodded. “So?” I added, feeling particularly petulant.
I tensed when he brought the fabric to his nose, taking in a long drag through his nostrils. His mouth twisted in revulsion, and if I didn’t know better, I could have sworn his eyes flashed yellow. “It reeks,” he snarled.
Riiip.
“What are you doing?” I squawked, making a frantic grab for the shirt when Felix began tearing it.
He caught one of my wrists
with his free hand and held me at arm’s length.
“What do you think I’m doing? It’s garbage.”
“It’s not!”
I wrenched my wrist free and made another desperate grab for the garment, but Felix just held the shirt above his head, taking advantage of my small stature. He narrowed his eyes as he looked down at me, inspecting me like I was some bug under a microscope. “Surely you’re not attached to this old thing?” he demanded.
“It’s not that,” I lied. “It’s just…” but I didn’t know what I could possibly say that would make him give it back to me.
He raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps it’s not the shirt you’re attached to, but whom it belongs to,” he suggested softly – dangerously. “Though, that would be rather… unbecoming.”
Bile churned in my stomach.
I couldn’t let Felix know about Derek. I didn’t know why I felt so strongly about it, but some innate feeling told me that Felix finding out about him would have disastrous consequences.
“Well?” he pressed when I didn’t immediately answer.
I licked my dry lips. “That’s not it,” I denied.
“Well, then surely you won’t mind if I throw it out for you.” He paused. “Will you, Sloane?”
My chest hurt. “No,” I managed to choke out despite the voice screaming in my head.
Felix grinned at my compliance before patting my cheek, the action reeking of condescension. “That’s a good girl.”
He turned on his heel, Derek’s shirt in hand. “Pleasant dreams, Sloane,” he called tauntingly over his shoulder before closing the door behind him with a quiet click.
It didn’t take long for the grief at losing Derek’s shirt to turn into outright anger.
Furious tears welled in my eyes, and I pressed my palms into their sockets in a desperate attempt to hold them back. More than cry, I wanted to scream into my pillows, but I was unreasonably paranoid Felix would somehow hear it and know that he’d gotten to me.
I hated him – Felix.
Almost as much as I hated it here.
It was ironic. I was surrounded by extravagant furniture and being served fancy food by a maid in a faux-mansion, but all my soul longed for was a rustic, little cabin in the woods and the smell of evergreen trees.
Leaving, though, wasn’t an option. Not only because it was impossible with Felix watching my every move – I was fairly certain he would stop me if I tried to run – but because even if I did get away, I had nowhere to go.
No one wanted me. No one, apparently, but the ever-mysterious Graham Vanderbilt.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“I need your help.”
* * *
“I want her back,” I rushed to tack on before Abram could respond. “Wisp. You were right, and I… I want” – I need – “her back.”
My declaration was met with nothing but silence, and I nearly growled at the blank look in his eyes. “Wisp,” I clarified, like it was actually needed. “That girl who you hiked all the way to my cabin to complain about, who left you fucking muffins in the forest, who-”
“I know who you’re talking about,” Abram interrupted, voice brisk. Unless one counted the wrinkling of his forehead, however, his expression had hardly changed. He turned and walked away – walked inside. He left the door wide open, though, so I took it as an invitation to follow.
“Stay here,” I muttered to Thane, who sat and reluctantly obeyed, as I did just that.
I hadn’t been in Abram’s house in seventeen years. It didn’t look like he had been there much either.
What had once been a charming cottage was hardly habitable. There was a dank smell in the air – a sure sign of faulty plumbing – and dust particles floating everywhere – visible to the naked eye wherever rays of sunlight managed to sneak in through the closed curtains. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling.
It was depressing to see it reduced to this. But then I recalled how my parents’ house had looked after the fire – the charred remains smoking on the ground – and the crumbling cottage didn’t seem so bad in comparison.
I followed Abram to the living room, where he sat unceremoniously in an armchair, gesturing for me to follow suit on the couch.
Ignoring the thick layer of dust on the cushions, I did, sitting in silence as I waited for him to speak – to acknowledge my plea for help.
“So,” he said after what seemed like forever, “you’ve finally come to your senses and have realized that she’s a bearer.”
That was what he took away from what I’d said? Of fucking course.
“Look, I don’t know if Wisp is a bearer or not,” I bit out, “and frankly, I don’t give a shit. I just want her.” I paused. “I never should have let her go,” I admitted, voice indefinitely softer as I acknowledged my mistake. “I know that it’s selfish and I’ll probably end up hurting her, but if there’s even a miniscule chance she still wants me, I don’t care. I’ll gladly go to hell if it means getting her back.”
It was silent for a moment. Then Abram snorted, the fucking bastard. “That’s sweet,” he mocked. “But it hardly explains how you think I can help you.”
I gnashed my teeth together, begging the Lord – if there even was one – for patience I didn’t have. “You were a police officer before…” I trailed off, not daring to say the word “fire” or “hunters” in Abram’s presence. “Well, before,” I said simply. “I need you to use whatever connections you have left to find Wisp’s address for me. Just figure out where she lives and I’ll-”
“And you’ll what?” Abram interrupted, voice drenched in sarcasm. “You didn’t exactly make your break-up sound amicable. You going to beg her to take you back? Kidnap her if she says ‘no’?”
“What do you care what I do?” I snapped. “Just find her address and I’ll do the rest. You can forget all about it afterwards.” I paused. “You’re good at that,” I added under my breath, knowing full well he would hear.
Abram’s shoulders stiffened at the comment, but he managed to roll the tension away so quickly that I would have missed it if I hadn’t been looking. “I hear there’s something called Google nowadays. I suggest you use it,” he proposed flatly.
“Don’t you think I’ve tried?” I demanded. “Wisp’s father… he’s some millionaire senator. Their home address isn’t public knowledge.”
Abram shook his head. “Being a government official doesn’t make you immune to-”
“I said I’ve looked,” I snapped. “There’s nothing. For Christ’s sake, Wisp doesn’t even have a Facebook account. Do you really think I would’ve come to you if there was any other option?”
Something about that must have resonated with him, because he actually snapped his mouth shut and stared at me – not through me, at me.
A minute later, he huffed and stood, marching to the attached kitchen where he began rummaging around through the cupboards for something.
“What are you doing?”
“Well, I can’t just magically pull information out of my asshole,” he snarked over his shoulder, returning to the living room a moment later with a tattered notebook and pen in his hands. Hope blossomed in my chest at the sight of them. “Tell me everything you know about her,” he instructed, sitting back down in his chair. There was no need to clarify who he meant by “her”.
I nodded. “Her name’s Sloane-”
Abram glanced up from the notebook, a confused frown pulling at his mouth. “I thought you said her name was Wisp,” he pointed out.
I shrugged, my eyes darting away from his. “It’s a long story,” I muttered, “but her real name is Sloane. Sloane Radcliff.”
I felt some of the weight lift off my shoulders when he put pen to paper. “She’s eighteen,” I added when he was finished scribbling down her name. “And like I said, her father’s a senator. His name’s Cornelius Radcliff.”
“And her mother’s name?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know, but she’s deceased, I assume.”
I blinked, struggling to come up with solid facts I knew about Wisp – or rather, Sloane. “Well, uh,” I stumbled over my words, “she has freckles and brown hair – kind of looks red in the sun though – and pink lips that…” I trailed off, noticing Abram’s amused expression. “What?” I demanded, voice sharp.
Abram shook his head, a grin pulling at his mouth. “Nothing. It’s just, you do realize I know what she looks like, right? Is there anything more that’s actually useful you can tell me about her?”
I clenched my jaw. Did I want to say it?
“Well?” Abram pressed, like he could sense my indecision.
I sighed. “She’s engaged,” I admitted in a low voice.
To Abram’s credit, he didn’t react other than raising his eyebrows, dutifully writing the information down in his notebook. “You certainly know how to pick them, don’t you?” he mumbled, before asking, more loudly, “What’s her fiancé’s name?”
“Vanderbilt,” I said, lips curling distastefully around the “v”.
Crack!
I started at the sudden noise, staring in surprise at Abram’s pen, still in his hand, but broken in two. “Vanderbilt?” he repeated faintly.
I frowned. “That’s what I said.”
Abram swallowed. “And his first name?” he asked.
“Graham,” I answered succinctly. “He’s the heir to some real estate fortune. His father’s name is-”
“Henry,” Abram finished for me, voice hoarse. “Henry Vanderbilt.”
My eyebrows drew together. “How did you know that?” I demanded.
But Abram looked a thousand miles away, face slack, eyes staring into nothing.
“Abram!” I barked. “Snap out of it, man!”
His whole body jerked at the exclamation, but my shouting did its job and his eyes focused back on me. His expression, though, remained eerily blank.
What the hell was that about?
“Go home, Derek,” he commanded before I could even ask. “Forget what I said about being alone; it’s not so bad. Do yourself a favor and wipe the memory of Wisp, Sloane – whatever her name is – from your mind.”
