by Shandi Boyes
After I confessed about where I learned my new words from did Uncle Tobias unearth my masterpiece. Ever since the day he discovered my family portrait of him, Dedushka, and me, the table was no longer adorned with a tablecloth. My uncle didn’t want my artwork hidden by an ugly tablecloth. That day was over fourteen years ago, but it still holds a special place in my heart.
I motion my head to the hallway. “You can put your bag in the spare room. It’s the third door on the right.”
Hugo’s lips curl into a grin before he enters the hall with his overnight bag. He packed as lightly as I did.
Even after an exhausting day full of tears, fear, and heartbreak, I head straight for my uncle’s office in the garage in the backyard, not wanting to waste any time. The flight to this side of the country was horrific, but thankfully uneventful. Although I’m confident Hugo’s hands will forever have my nails embedded in them.
Dust filters through my nose when I crack open the glass sliding door of my uncle’s office. This was my favorite room in the entire Brahn residence, not just because it has beautiful views of Tiburon esplanade down below, but because anytime my uncle was home from an assignment, we spent the majority of our time in here. He’d assign me my own case files that I had to work on during school holidays. I was his personal assistant/partner. Here is where my love for law enforcement was ingrained into my blood, and my fondness for investigating flourished.
That’s why I blurted out those cruel words to Isaac yesterday. I wanted to be an FBI agent from when I was ten years old, but Uncle Tobias would never allow it. He said it ran too much risk of my real identity being discovered. The repercussions for people finding out my identity wasn’t a risk he was willing to take. That was the sole reason I didn’t join the FBI until after he passed. And even though I'll always choose Isaac over my career, part of the dreams I had from when I was a little girl vanished when I agreed to become his wife, but he's worth the sacrifice. He will always be worth the sacrifice.
Snubbing the tears welling in my eyes, I head for the locked side room where Tobias stored all his case files. It doesn’t take long for me to work out the four-digit lock code that secures the door from prying eyes. It is the date he officially bought me.
“Holy cupcakes,” I murmur when the overhead tube lighting flicks on in the stuffed room.
Walls upon walls of document boxes stretch as far as the eye can see. Every surface of the single garage is covered with moldy, wet boxes. The glimmer of an orange hue on one of the boxes gives away the reason why the room has a moldy smell. A tile in the roof is cracked, exposing the room to the elements.
After shrugging off my jacket, I throw it over an office chair before moving the drenched boxes out from beneath the hole in the roof. The cartons crumble under my touch, ruined after being subjected to elements the past three years.
By the time I hear Hugo calling my name, I’ve saved half the documents in the first two drenched boxes. The other half is completely destroyed. They’re nothing but soggy papers with smears of black ink swirled on them.
Hugo walks into the room with a grin etched on his face. “I was getting worried you were trying to get me fired again.”
When I stick out my tongue, his grin enlarges. The curve in his lips bends downward when he spots the soaked boxes. “What’s this room?”
“Years of hard work wasted.” I drag a box of ruined documents out of the room to be dumped onto the curb for waste collection. “Uncle Tobias never relied on computers. He said they were too risky. I guess he never met a cracked tile before.”
Hugo chuckles before he helps me lift another saturated box onto the office desk to rummage through.
Three hours later, our hands are covered with black ink from salvaging the documents we could, and Hugo’s tummy is grumbling.
“I’ll climb up onto the roof tomorrow morning to patch the hole the best I can, but you might want to get a professional out to look at it.”
A smile tugs my lips high. “Thanks. I guess I should feed you then, to make sure you don’t fade away before tomorrow morning.”
He chuckles a hearty laugh. “I don’t think there’s much chance of me fading away.”
No, there isn’t. Hugo is so well-built, his physique can’t even be hidden in a long-sleeve shirt, jacket, and loosely hanging jeans.
“Give me a second to get the box I originally came in here for, then I’ll order us some pizza from Maria’s.”
As I pace toward the aisle of boxes, my heart beats faster with every step I take. I glide down the wall of documents seeking the right number. My uncle coded his files according to the names of his targets and the dates he associated with them. So my file from when I was sold would be I09P01 because my name was Isabelle Popov and he purchased me in September 2001.
My heart stops beating when I come face to face with the box I'm searching for. Through shaking hands, I carefully remove the box marked O01P14 and pace back to Hugo. His eyes flick down to the box for several heart-thrashing seconds before they shift back to me. A cloud of suspicion taints his gaze, but he remains quiet as he removes the box from my grasp and walks back to the main residence.
After calling in an order for two large pizzas to be delivered, I grab a quick shower to freshen up before sauntering back to the eat-in kitchen. My breath snags when I discover Hugo rummaging through my uncle’s files. He has several FBI folders marked with a red ‘Confidential’ stamp opened and spread across the wooden dining table. His brows are pulled together so tightly, a deep crease has embedded in his forehead, and his hand that isn’t grasping a document is fisted into a tight ball.
“What are you doing? You can’t go through that. Those files are highly confidential.” I rush toward him and snatch the documents out of his hand.
“Confidential?” His brow cocks high into the air. “You’re invading his privacy, and you're worried about confidentiality. Is this why you came here? Searching for answers to questions he can’t answer yet?”
I don’t reply to Hugo’s interrogation. I just gather the documents and photos spread across the table while ignoring the brutal ache stabbing my chest so painfully, I can’t breathe.
“If you want answers, you should keep asking them, not go behind his back and investigate him.”
“I’m not investigating him—”
“Then what do you call it, Izzy? You’re looking into his past, digging through his personal life.”
“I’m not prying into his personal life.”
I jump, startled when Hugo slaps down a surveillance photo of Isaac taken seven years ago onto the wooden tabletop, followed by another, and another, and another.
“You’re not prying into his personal life, hey, then what the fuck is this?” His voice is drenched with anger. “He isn’t a criminal, but you’re treating him as if he is, not the man you’ve agreed to marry.”
The pain in my chest amplifies when his eyes dart to the engagement ring on my hand. I inhale a big breath while slipping my hand into the back pocket of my jeans to remove the photo Brandon gave me yesterday. The pulse in my neck thrums as I carefully unfold the picture. Hugo remains quiet, but I hear his jaw ticking in the uncomfortable silence.
When I hand him the photo, my hand rattles. His brows scrunch as he absorbs the picture, certain what he is seeing can’t be true. His breathing quickens as his eyes shift between the crinkled photo in his hand to the photos on the tabletop.
Once he thinks he has his facts straight, he returns his disbelieving eyes to me. “This can’t be true.”
“It is.” My lips quiver as I battle to hold in my tears. “This file proves it is. Ophelia is alive, and she’s been living in Tiburon the entire time.”
Ignoring the firm clutch on my heart, I place the photo Brandon supplied me with next to the photo of Isaac and Ophelia on a date at a café the night of her ‘accident.’ Even though Ophelia is older in the new photo, the similarities are identifiable—the turned-up nose, the light brown translucent eyes
, and the same shaped face, but the small heart-shaped mole in the crook of her neck is by far the most damning evidence.
I point to the white church in the photo. “I gathered she was here because that’s Old St. Hilary’s Church on Esperanza Street in the background. It’s a well-loved landmark of Tiburon.”
“Jesus Christ,” Hugo mumbles under his breath, his eyes lifting from the photo to me. “Does Isaac know about any of this?”
I shake my head. “No, I wanted to come and see for myself. I couldn’t risk hurting him if it weren’t true. If it weren’t really her.”
His nose screws up. “If it’s her, are you planning to tell him?”
I lift the latest photo of Ophelia off the dining table before nodding. The strain hampering Hugo’s face lessens from my agreeing gesture. “I just need to investigate everything first. To make sure I'm giving Isaac facts, not speculations. This photo is over four years old. When my uncle died, all updates on her also ceased. I can’t even guarantee she's still in Tiburon, let alone if she's still alive.”
My voice wavers on the last part of my statement. I know Ophelia is alive. I can feel it in the gnawing pit twisting my gut. You know that feeling you get when you've lost something, and you know you’ll never find it again. That’s what I’m experiencing right now. The more I investigate this, the more I risk losing Isaac, and I may never get him back.
Hugo takes in the mountain load of papers stored in Ophelia’s case file. “What do you need me to do, Izzy? What can I do to help?” His eyes lift to me, briefly stopping at my engagement ring on the way by. “What can I do to make this easier for you?”
“Just remind me that he loves me,” I murmur as the first lot of tears splash down my face. “And that I’m doing this to ease his pain.”
I love Isaac so much, even knowing I could lose him won’t stop me from thoroughly investigating this. He deserves to stop living with the guilt of Ophelia’s death. He deserves to know the truth, and I plan to unearth exactly that, even if my heart gets shredded in the process.
Chapter 28
Isabelle
“Are you sure this is the correct business?”
Hugo huffs. “Yes.”
We’ve been sitting at the front of a family-owned pharmacy on the outskirts of Tiburon for the past hour and a half. This address was the only piece of correspondence we found in Ophelia’s case file. Hugo and I spent the majority of the night rummaging through the documents relating to her case, seeking any evidence on Ophelia’s current whereabouts. Since she was twenty when she was saved from her father’s clutches, she didn’t need to live with a family. From her file, we deciphered that my uncle set her up in her own residence. She had a rookie undercover agent assigned to her case in the weeks following her ‘death.’
All dates, times, and addresses have been redacted from the extensively-noted documentation, except for one small handwritten envelope. Inside the white envelope was a Christmas card. It didn’t have anything distinctive like names or addresses mentioned. It simply had two words written on the inside—Thank you. Although it could have been placed in the folder by accident, my intuition tells me the card was from Ophelia. After seeking assistance from Hunter, we determined the card was mailed from a postal box located on the sidewalk of this pharmacy, so we’ve been sitting in a rental car for the past hour and a half praying for a miracle.
Hugo’s apprehensive gaze shifts to me “That card was sent over four years ago, Izzy. She may not even live in this area anymore.”
“I guess there's only one way to find out.”
I unlatch my seatbelt and throw open the car door. I’m halfway down the concrete sidewalk before Hugo catches up with me. He doesn’t say anything, but I can see the apprehension on his face. The blood rushing through my veins overheats my body, coating me in sweat, so the heating in the pharmacy is ghastly upon entering.
A lady in her mid-fifties greets us with a smile when she hears the bell above the door chime. “What can I get you folks today?”
“I’m not here to purchase anything. I’m here searching for a friend.”
The suspicion in her eyes grows, but she remains quiet. I remove the most recent photo of Ophelia I have from my pocket and hand it to her. “I met her at a mutual friend’s wedding at Old St. Hilary’s Church four years ago.” I use my knowledge of the local landmarks in Tiburon to my advantage. “It was a beautiful wedding with the views of Tiburon, Belvedere, and San Francisco in the backdrop. I snapped that photo before we went to the wedding reception at the Arts and Garden Center. The restored cottage there is to die for.”
Hugo smiles at my posh voice, but it’s working as the suspicion in the pharmacist’s eyes dampens more with every word I speak.
“We exchanged contact details, but before I knew it, I was married myself.” I lace my fingers with Hugo’s, shocking him. “And four years just flew by.”
“Oh golly gosh, time does fly when everyone starts having babies and getting married. I remember when I was—”
“Yes, so as you can imagine, I’m dying to see her again,” I interrupt when she gets that gleam in her eyes that says she’s ready to give us her entire life story. “So, if you could help us reconnect, I'd be eternally grateful.”
She smiles. “Of course.”
When she gestures us to follow her to the counter, I squeeze Hugo’s hand before shadowing her. “Thank you so much.” My voice is laced with both excitement and graciousness. “I can’t wait to reconnect with Ophelia again.”
Her hasty movements halt before she pivots around to face me. My breathing lowers when I notice her eyes are once again tainted with suspicion. After crossing her arms in front of her chest, she glares at me. Her stare is so white-hot, a sweat mustache forms on my top lip.
“Ophelia?” she questions, her brow raised.
I try not to balk when Hugo bands his arm around my waist and pulls me into his side, but the slightest bit of hesitation crosses my face. “Her name wasn’t Ophelia, sweetheart.” He presses a kiss to my hairline, muttering for me to follow along. “Sorry, you must forgive her, she's pregnant, and even though she's only three months, the baby brain is already kicking in.”
I slap Hugo on his chest, feigning daftness. My act must be convincing as she appears to be accepting Hugo’s bogus claims.
“Congratulations.” She sighs as the glint I referenced earlier returns stronger than ever. “When I was pregnant with my first child, I had baby brain horrendously. For months and months, I couldn’t even remember my own name, let alone a friend I met years before.”
I force a fake smile on my face when her story drags for another ten plus minutes. Once she finalizes her brain-sucking story, she cranks her neck, then shouts, “Olivia, there's a lady here requesting to see you.”
Hugo tightens his grip on my waist to stop me from tumbling to the ground in a heap when Ophelia emerges from behind the pharmacy counter. She's wearing a white pharmacist coat with Olivia stitched on the top right-hand side in black thread, but I know it is her.
That feeling of loss I was experiencing earlier overpowers me when my eyes scan her face. She's even more beautiful in real life than her photos showed. Her smile is bright and heartfelt. Her eyes are unique and dazzling, and her skin is even clearer since she's no longer in her teen years as she was in the photos I regularly scanned of her.
Her eyes flick between Hugo and me, seemingly confused. “Hello.”
I can’t breathe, much less formulate a response to her greeting. I’m standing across from a woman who has more influence on the man I love than I do. This can’t get any worse.
The longer we remain quiet, the more Ophelia’s brows join. Thankfully, the awkwardness inflicting our gathering weakens when a little boy with dark hair charges across the room. “Mom, you should see the size of the fish we caught! The water was so freezing, the fish was frozen with its mouth open.” He stops talking to pull the face of a fish out of water. “Pa tried to make me kiss it, but fish are disgus
ting. It smelled so bad, I wasn’t going to kiss it.” He talks so fast, his words come out in a mumbled slur.
My chest weighs down with heaviness when it dawns on me that he's calling Ophelia his mother.
“You shouldn’t kiss fish.” Ophelia scrunches up her pointed nose while running her fingers through the boy’s messy hair. When she glances behind my shoulder, her eyes narrow into slits. When I follow her gaze, I spot a gentleman in his mid-fifties pacing toward us. “Pa shouldn’t be encouraging you to kiss fish.”
The gentleman laughs a hearty chuckle before he places a kiss on the pharmacy tech’s head. “I was just ensuring he got his daily dose of fish oil.”
Ophelia giggles, making the stranglehold on my heart intensify. “We have vitamins for that.”
I remain quiet with my eyes flicking between the little boy, who I'd guess is around the age of six, and Ophelia. The swirling of my stomach kicks up a gear when I recall Isaac sharing information about the night he fought Ophelia’s brother, CJ. About her being overdue for her period and having a stomach bug the two weeks before the fight.
I suck in shallow breaths, weakening the dizziness making my footing unsteady before shooting my eyes back to the little boy. When he glances up at me with a smirk etched on his plump lips, I can longer hold in the contents of my swishy stomach.
After excusing myself, I dart out of the single glass pharmacy door.
“Oh, poor dear, she must still be suffering from morning sickness. When I was pregnant…” is the last thing I hear before I lose my frosted flakes breakfast in the waste receptacle on the sidewalk outside of the pharmacy.
I use the sleeve of my shirt to wipe away the remnants of vomit off my chin when Hugo gathers me in his arms. His woodsy smell helps to settle the flips and turns my stomach is doing, but nothing eases my despair.
