The light caresses metal as he lifts the clamps from the bed. An animalistic wail rises in my throat. Liam smiles—the devil smiles—and rubber encased steel teases my clitoris.
“No, sir. Please. Oh God.”
“Do you serve?” he growls, hips beginning to piston into me. I’m unraveling, my Self fracturing.
“Yes!”
The clamp finds purchase. I shriek, bucking against the pain, against the hands that hold me still. My voice fills the room, pleas and cries torn from me. I have no awareness of what I’m saying, what I’m begging for.
Until he removes the clamp.
I’m gone.
Nothing but pleasure.
Nothing.
Liam thrusts a final time, emptying himself into me with a sigh.
“Easy, dove, easy,” he whispers as he slowly pulls out. I keep sobbing, the emotional release just as powerful as the physical one.
Releasing the knots, he gathers me in his arms. He strokes my hair and whispers how much I please him, how proud he is of his little dove.
That no matter how far I fly, he knows I’ll always come home to him. For tonight, for the last time, we pretend.
36
I think at some point, every person wonders what thoughts they’ll have before death. Perhaps they’ll regret not living the way they wanted. Being too afraid to go after their dreams.
I don’t have that particular regret, though I have others. Many, many others. But not that one. I’m Dr. Eden Sumner, pediatric resident at a well-respected Seattle hospital. There’s a motherfucking M.D. after my name.
At least I was—there was. My current accomplishments are probably limited to a missing persons list and weekly prayer vigils in my hometown. Or maybe it’s been long enough that I’m presumed dead.
I’ve never been afraid of death. Not really, and definitely not in the last few years. I thank the many cadavers I sliced and stitched in school. The gunshot and stab wounds I treated during my ER rotation. The ruptured spleens and traumatic amputations. Heart attacks. Anaphylaxis. Drug overdoses.
Bring enough people back from the brink, and the border between life and death blurs a bit. I don’t want to die—obviously—but I’m not afraid of it.
Some things are worth dying for.
37
“Hello? Mom?”
“In here, honey!”
I follow her voice to the kitchen, where I find her chopping lettuce. She abandons her task and rushes around the island to hug me. The scent of her perfume swirls around me like a second embrace, thick with memories of a different, simpler me.
A crack spreads in my chest, but I hold it closed until the urge to cry passes.
“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so glad you’re here.” She releases me, leaning back. Teary eyes scan my face and hair. “You look beautiful. But so thin! Are you hungry? Dinner’s on the stove.”
“Sure, I’m hungry.” My words and smile are both lies. “I’ll take my bag upstairs and freshen up. Where’s Dad?”
“Garage,” she says with a chuckle.
“Shocker.” I give her a quick kiss, then head back into the hallway for my bag.
Upstairs, my room is exactly as I left it four and a half years ago. A time capsule of a girl who no longer exists.
The twin bed creaks as I sit. I pull my phone from my pocket and stare at it. The case is the same, but the device is new. Not functional yet, as it lacks a service provider. No contacts, no locator apps. No backlog of text messages.
Liam has my old phone. I’d watched him delete all traces of himself from my social media accounts, email, and photos. The only numbers he’d allowed me to write down were Karina and Raul’s.
I’d watched him erase us and done nothing to stop him. I don’t even know my new phone number.
And neither does he.
All I have left of him is soreness. Light bruising that will fade too fast. An ache when I sit. And an order to close my checking account and open another when I get to Seattle. Since I’m not hiding, I get to keep my name. My parents. Med school and my future.
But I’m allowed no ties to Los Angeles.
To Maddoc Donnelly or my sister.
To him.
Curling into my old, faded quilt, I close my eyes and fall into oblivion.
When I wake, the house is dark. Through my partially closed bedroom door, I hear the television downstairs and my parents murmured voices.
My eyes are heavy and swollen, my face and pillow wet. I don’t remember what I was dreaming about, but it must have been him.
“Liam,” I whisper.
His name on my tongue, I fall asleep again.
I sleep the night through, waking up again to sunlight coming through the window above my head. Dawn, or just after.
Dragging myself from bed is a challenge I’m not prepared for. Neither is being awake. There’s an ocean of pain inside me that I don’t know how to begin dealing with.
The smell of bacon wafts upstairs. It’s not hunger that finally gets me on my feet, but the knowledge that my parents are doubtlessly worried. They’ve been beyond understanding—accepting my bullshit about postponing med school, then welcoming me home with open arms when I called on my way to the airport.
I owe them an explanation, even if it’s mostly fabricated. At least part of it will be true—my heart is without a doubt broken.
I change my clothes. Brush my teeth. Throw my hair into a ponytail and pinch my cheeks so I don’t look like a dead person. Liam was careful—there are no visible marks on my neck or arms.
I wish there were.
Downstairs, I find them both in the kitchen. Mom’s standing at the sink and dad’s in his usual spot at the table. He sees me first. He doesn’t smile, but his eyes are soft with concern as he stands up and takes me in his arms. It’s like being hugged by a bear.
“I’m okay, Dad,” I say into his Old Spice-scented flannel.
He draws back, hands cupping my shoulders. “I know you are.”
I give him a weak smile—it’s more of a grimace.
“Hungry for bacon and eggs?” asks my mother.
I shake my head. “Is there any coffee left?”
She smiles. “I just made a fresh pot. Sit. Still drinking it with cream and no sugar?”
“Yes, thanks.”
Dad sits back down, and I drop into the adjacent chair. By the time I’m finished with my first cup of coffee, the tension in the room is palpable.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch my dad finish his last piece of bacon and push his plate away. Mom takes it to the sink, then pulls out the chair opposite mine.
Here it comes.
They trade a glance. My mom clears her throat. “Eden, sweetheart, we’re so glad you’re home.”
“Very glad,” echoes my dad.
He reaches for her hand; their fingers clasp together tightly. As they stare at me, I start to get a bad feeling. Like I’m on the Titanic but don’t know it.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Another shared look, this one full of resolve. My mom is the one who speaks, her voice shaking a little.
“Sweetheart, we need to talk to you about your adoption.”
Not the iceberg I’d been expecting.
Not even close.
38
Eden,
I don't have much time, so forgive me if I don't waste it. If you're reading this, it's because he found you. Your father, Maddoc Donnelley. It also means you're ready to hear what I need to tell you. I took you—not Alexis—for a reason.
You were born second. Too small, ill. The doctors didn't think you were going to make it. But I knew you would. From the moment I first held you and looked into your eyes, I knew you were a fighter. And you fought. You thrived.
I took you because I knew you'd be strong enough to do what needs to be done. To free your sister as I could not. To save her from a life of guilt, depravity, and blood. I wish I could be there to help you. Know that wherever I am—dead or alive
—I have spent each moment of my life loving you.
I've left further instructions with Margaret and Ben.
Yours,
EGS
When I look up from the letter, my parents are still holding hands tightly. Still watching me with identical expressions of apology and fear.
I say the first thing that comes to mind.
“What the fuck?”
“Eden Elizabeth Sumner,” growls my dad.
“It’s okay,” murmurs my mom. She turns teary eyes on me. “I can only imagine what you must be feeling right now.”
I toss the letter down. My heart thrums hard with their betrayal. Almost, it hurts worse than losing Liam. He kept the truth from me for a few months.
They kept the truth hidden for decades.
“You knew,” I say hoarsely. “All this time, you knew I had a twin sister and that my biological father was a psychopath crime lord? Were you ever going to tell me, if I didn’t find out myself?”
My dad winces. “Your moth—Elizabeth… she wanted us to protect you as long as we could. We agreed to wait until you were twenty-five, but that night at your birthday party, that fellow…”
“Liam,” I snap.
“Yes,” says my mom. “Liam. He pulled us aside. He… he asked us if we knew who your real parents were. It was so unexpected. We didn’t know what to say. He must have known we did from our expressions. Then he told us you were close to the truth, but that he was doing his best to keep you safe.”
“He also said we should have never let you move to Los Angeles,” grumbles my dad.
“Hold up!” I throw up my hands to stall them. “This is… it’s too much. Just let me think.”
I stare at the letter, at Elizabeth’s hasty scrawl. Nothing makes sense. And it makes too much sense—she took me, saved me, so her other child would have a chance to be saved in turn.
“This woman, my mother, is insane if she thinks I can get Alexis away from Maddoc.” I shake my head, looking up at my parents. “Were you supposed to enroll me in freaking karate or something? Get me combat training? I’m not Sarah-fucking-Connor with shotguns strapped to my back and a death wish. I’m a fucking student!”
My dad goes a little pale beneath his beard. “If we could protect you from this, we would. Many times over the years, we even considered not telling you.” He glances at my mom. “But that didn’t sit right with our consciences.”
“You can walk away,” says my mom suddenly. “That’s why you came back, isn’t it? Liam sent you away from it? Sweetheart, you don’t have to do anything with the information in that letter. Elizabeth… well, she was frantic when she found us. Paranoid. She truly believed that someone was going to kill her. What if your sister—Alexis—is happy with her life? We don’t know that she isn’t.”
“She’s right, Eden. You can put this all behind you.”
They believe what they’re saying. They really do. They think I can click my heels and forget it all. Forget them.
Liam’s words filter through my mind: She doesn’t have a choice. Neither of us do.
And isn’t that what freedom is?
Choice?
I pick up the letter, my fingers grazing the words. I’m lost. Alone. No sunlight or gravity. The ground is too far—the fall will kill me.
I make the choice anyway.
“What else did Elizabeth give you?”
My mom’s shoulders sag, her face crumpling. My dad frowns, sitting back in his chair with a sigh. He doesn’t look surprised.
“You knew what I’d say,” I tell him.
He shrugs. “Nothing has ever stopped you from going after what you want. That much, Elizabeth was right about. You’re a fighter. So strong.”
My eyes well with tears. “I don’t feel like I am.”
He smiles sadly. “The strong rarely do.”
39
I’ve always loved Portland. When I was a teenager, my friends and I would drive up often on the weekends. We’d spend a day—sometimes two if we found a place to crash—walking around downtown browsing Powell’s Books and thrift shops, stuffing our faces with food-truck wares, and relaxing in coffee shops and cafés.
The mid-June weather is beautiful, sunny and warm, and everywhere I look I see the marriage of nature and man. The streets are clean, the sky above a serene, cloudless blue. Sidewalks make space for trees and parks. Even the architecture of the high-rises around me seems purposeful, like each building is art in disguise.
Standing across the street from a massive bank, I double-check the information in my phone. The name of the bank has changed in the nearly twenty-three years since my mother was first here, but the address is the same.
Don’t, whispers Liam’s voice in my mind.
“Suck a dick,” I tell him, and jog across the street during a break in traffic.
The lobby doors are opened by a security officer. I thank him with a smile, then pause to look around. The space is expansive and hushed. White-veined marble floors, glistening dark wood and chrome accents. The building itself is old; there are echoes of the past in heavy marble columns and scrollwork engraved beneath high windows.
“Can I help you?”
I turn to face a woman, mid-fifties, with a sweet smile and intelligent eyes. My pulse jumps in my throat.
“Yes. I, uh, need to access a safety deposit box.” I hold up the little key.
Her eyes widen. “Wow, I haven’t seen one of those in years.”
I offer her the slight, sad smile I’ve been practicing for days. “It was left to me by my grandmother. She died recently.”
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry,” she says, giving my shoulder a gentle pat. “It’s not a problem. Right this way, please. My name is Loretta. You have the box number, I’m assuming?”
“Yes.”
“Great.”
She guides me through a hallway and into another, smaller lobby. At a reinforced steel door, she enters a code for clearance. There’s a beep and a thunk, and the door slides open.
“This way.” As she leads me further into the room, she glances back with a worried expression. “Now, I hope your grandmother added you as an authorized key-holder.”
I nod. “She did. And I have ID.”
Loretta smiles. “Excellent.”
At a small podium holding a computer, she takes my ID and checks it against the box number I give her. Every second that passes adds another notch to my anxiety. My armpits prickle with nervous sweat.
When she looks up with a smile, I release a breath of unadulterated relief.
“Here we go. Eden Elizabeth Sumner, registered as a key-holder by the box’s owner, Elizabeth Grace Sharpe.” She smiles again. “It’s lovely that you have her name.”
I nod, my throat tight. “I miss her terribly,” I lie.
With a cluck of sympathy, Loretta motions me once more to follow. Within ten feet or so, she begins to slow, scanning the metal slots just below eye level.
“Here. 8056.” She inserts her own key in the top keyhole and gestures to the one below it.
Open, please.
My key turns easily. The panel opens.
Loretta removes the long, steel case from inside and walks to a nearby table. Then she points back the way we came. “I’ll be just over there. Come and get me when you’re done. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
I nod and she leaves. My hands tremble, sweaty fingertips leaving marks on the metal as I lift the lid.
“Holy shit.”
Even being somewhat prepared by my parents, nothing on this earth could have softened the shock of seeing what’s before me with my own eyes.
Money.
A whole fucking lot of it. Bundles and bundles of mixed denominations: twenties, fifties, and hundreds. Sitting on top of the stacks is a small velvet pouch and an envelope with my name on it. Ignoring the letter for the moment, I pick up the pouch.
I loosen the ties and peek inside.
My breath leaves in a whoosh as I see what Elizab
eth stole. What Maddoc wants back. And I know with absolute conviction that regardless of his deal with Liam, I’m not safe.
As long as Maddoc thinks I might know where Elizabeth is—where this is—I’ll never be safe.
As I leave the bank, my oversized purse crammed full of money, every person I see is a potential threat. I’m sweating in earnest by the time I reach my dad’s borrowed truck.
Once inside with the doors locked, I start the car and get out of the city. It takes twenty miles for me to be convinced I’m not being followed. The back of my neck continues to crawl with the fear that someone saw me. Someone who belongs to Maddoc.
This is how my mother must have felt—still feels, if she’s alive—every moment of every day since leaving Los Angeles. On edge. Paranoid. Frantic. It makes me feel a twisted kinship with the woman.
“Mother-daughter bonding through fear for our lives,” I mutter, then shake my head roughly. “Talking to yourself. You’re talking to yourself. In the third person, no less. Get a fucking grip.”
I manage to curb the crazy and take an exit about ten miles from home. I find a busy parking lot in a little shopping center with food, gas, and a coffee shop. I park in the last row between two cars under the shade of a massive tree.
Then I open the envelope.
40
April 17, 2002
Dear Eden,
I know you have questions. I’ll do my best to anticipate and answer them. The first is probably how I got away from Maddoc in the first place. And the answer is a combination of preparation and luck. I told no one about my plans because I trusted no one. Neither should you. There’s no such thing as loyalty through affection in your father’s world. Loyalty comes at great cost, usually paid for in blood.
Luck must be responsible for the fact we weren’t found in the first few days. I was certain we would be. But we made it out. In the following weeks, I switched cars multiple times, colored my hair, and used fake IDs. I paid for everything with cash. If we ever had a tail, we lost it.
Double Vision Page 11
