by Isabel Wroth
“I love you too, Jo. Go to sleep.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“This is where you grew up?”
I looked over at my lover while he took in the beautiful Georgian mansion, where I'd spent my childhood.
Nestled among towering trees currently sporting fabulous fall colors, the house was surrounded by perfectly manicured emerald green lawns.
Callum's brows were up in his hair as he leaned on the car door with both his duffle and my bag slung over his shoulder.
The three-story red-brick mansion, with its white framed windows and slate blue metal roof, looked like something out of a fairytale.
Or a murder mystery.
The cobblestone drive circled a huge fountain with a prancing unicorn perched atop the third tier of stone basins, the sound of trickling water was meant to be serene and beautiful.
I would never look at that stone edifice and feel anything except sadness and anger.
My little brother had drowned in the shallow water and been discovered by my mother.
I hated fountains and unicorns—unicorn bagels notwithstanding—simply because they reminded me of Elliot, and standing there staring at the water feature in front of me, I wondered why I hadn't destroyed it.
Maybe I held out hope that somehow, after all this time, the stupid unicorn could tell me who'd killed my brother.
“Yeah.” I sighed. Not even out of the car, and already the painful memories bubbled up like toxic waste.
“Would you have picked this place to buy as a place to raise a family?”
I snorted derisively and slammed my door shut, palming the keys as I approached my home with all the excitement of a woman on death row.
“Hell, no!”
God, I can't wait to sell this place. I thought darkly as I marched up the stoop to the crimson door, but I knew I wouldn't, not until Elliot's murder was solved.
The key slid into the lock without any resistance, but I hesitated to turn it long enough for Callum to come up behind me and set his palm on my waist.
Chiding myself for being foolish, I took a deep breath and opened the door, then stepped through into the grand foyer.
The freshly scrubbed white and gray marble floors gleamed; the scent of citrus solvent hung in the air, along with whatever polish had been used to oil the banisters of the eight-foot-wide staircase that led up to the second and third floor.
To the left, was the formal living room and den beyond that, along with my parent's offices and a library ballroom combination at the back of the house.
To the right, the formal dining room, enormous kitchen, and huge mudroom-slash-laundry room. The second floor was comprised of six master-sized bedrooms, four sitting rooms, five bathrooms, and a media room.
The third floor held another six bedrooms—two of which had been modified into my bedroom and art studio—Elliot's nursery and playroom was down the hall, four bathrooms, and a smaller, cozier library.
Callum's low whistle as we climbed the stairs made me smirk. The house was ridiculously ostentatious, and every inch of it made me think of Elliot.
I stopped with my hand on the glass knob of my bedroom door, squeezing so hard my bones hurt. It took a second before I could twist the knob and walk inside.
Everything was exactly as I remembered it, from the frilly white comforter on my queen-size bed, to the collection of art supplies neatly organized.
There was even a half-finished painting still set on the easel, clean of dust and looking like it was simply waiting for me to come back and pick up where I left off.
It was a little girl's room, and I hadn't been the little girl who'd lived in this room and slept in that bed for a very long time. On the verge of throwing up, I shook my head a little wildly and backed out into the hallway.
“I can't sleep in here.”
“Me either, baby. The bed is way too small for both of us.” Callum's practical response to my mild hysteria was enough to make me laugh.
It was a broken, weak ass laugh, but I managed. I shut the door on my past and didn't go for any of the other bedrooms on the third floor.
I couldn't. Not today.
I wouldn't stay in my parent's bedroom; Helena could have that one. I picked the room at the opposite end of the house: The Green Room, on the west side where the sunset was the most beautiful.
Everything in the room, aside from the hardwood floors and the matching wooden furniture, was green. Mother spared no expense in decorating the house like an old English manor.
I avoided my feelings about being back in this house by unpacking my toiletries and hanging my clothes up in the closet, then doing the same with Callum's things.
He sat on the end of the bed, watching with a patient and compassionate look on his face. No judgment.
When the toiletries were organized, our clothes put away, our bags stowed, and no reason for me to keep stalling, I walked to him.
He spread his legs so I could step between them, and turned me around so my back was to his chest.
He folded his arms around me and touched a kiss to my sluggishly pounding pulse. “The circus won't be here until tomorrow morning. It's just us tonight, and it's your birthday. Feel like opening your presents?”
I blinked a few times, frowning in confusion. “It's not my birthday.”
Callum chuckled, rocking me gently from side to side. “It's September 15th, all day.”
A surreptitious glance at the face of my watch confirmed the date, and it was, in fact, my birthday.
It wasn't a shock that I'd forgotten what day it was, it happened regularly, but I was surprised that I'd forgotten my birthday.
I’m thirty years old today. Hell.
“Nigel helped me arrange dinner and a little surprise. You up for it?”
The painful ache of deep, unhealed wounds faded to a shallow throb as my absolute adoration for both Nigel and Callum welled up to help soothe the hurt. I let my head fall back on Callum's shoulder, turning my lips to his scruffy cheek.
“I'm up for it.”
“Good. C'mon”
AS CALLUM DID AT MY loft, he lifted me up to sit on the countertop while he worked to put our dinner together. Salad, steak, potatoes, a nice bottle of red wine from somewhere in California, and a box of cupcakes from a local bakery we hadn't stopped at on the way in.
Nigel must have called ahead and arranged for them to be delivered.
Bless you, my fairy godfather! I thought, sending thoughts of love Nigel's way.
“While the steak is heating up, feel like opening your presents?” With a glass of wine in hand, I smiled at my man and nodded, tasting spice and wine on his lips when he leaned in for a kiss.
“Stay right here.”
I turned to watch his spectacular ass flex as he left me there, alone in the kitchen.
He didn't give me long to imagine my brother over there in the corner in his playpen or think on how Elliot could have escaped out the side door without the housekeeper noticing.
I could barely remember what she looked like and wondered if the lack of visual clarity had anything to do with the side effects of my ECT treatments.
Rebecca and I talked about it again as I was packing yesterday, and she suggested sometime soon, I try some sort of hypnotherapy to help bring some of those memories into focus.
“Jo, you okay?” Callum asked, coming back to me with two boxes wrapped in pretty black and silver paper.
I finished off my wine and set the glass aside, spreading my knees to welcome him into my embrace, locking my ankles together just beneath his fine, fine backside, and forgetting all about blurry memories and hypnotherapy.
I slid my hands around his shoulders, playing with the soft hairs at his nape, and loving how he shivered and made a soft sound of pleasure.
“I'm okay. Thank you for doing this, Callum.”
The skin around his eyes crinkled as he smiled and set down two packages next to me on the counter.
“Baby, it's your birthd
ay,” he told me, as though any other response or explanation was unnecessary.
He handed me the first box and stepped aside to give me room to open it.
My laughter filled the kitchen to find a stun gun nestled among the black tissue paper. The kind that policemen carried as their first line of defense against a bad guy. It shot pronged leads from the cartridge and would take down a man Callum's size under five seconds.
“You remembered,” I praised happily, cradling the black and yellow weapon to my chest as though it was a fluffy stuffed animal.
He'd promised me one for my birthday the day I'd gone into the 81st Precinct to speak with the man who had killed Callum's sister.
“I did.” I squealed delightfully and leaned in to murmur a litany of thank yous across his lips. “It goes without saying, Jo, that's not a toy. You use it in defense of your life.”
It did go without saying, but I promised Callum I wouldn't mess around with the stun gun unless I was in danger.
He handed me the second box, and when I opened it, my insides turned to absolute mush. Nestled on a pillow of black velvet, sat a silver bracelet.
It was simple in design, a flat band with a heart the size of my thumbnail acting as the catch. In the center of the heart was a keyhole.
At my astonished look, Callum produced the key from his pocket and smiled as he slipped it into the lock and opened the clasp with a little snick.
The two halves of the bracelet lay open in my palm, and engraved in beautiful script on the inside of the band was a message that brought tears to my eyes.
Wherever you go, come back to me.
"I got it after you came back from Paris," Callum admitted softly, taking the bracelet to clasp around the wrist I offered, fitting the two halves of the heart together to lock it in place. Hidden against my flesh, the message couldn't be read.
A secret just for us.
As soon as it settled and the cool metal warmed, I felt like Callum's fingers had closed around my arm. It was like he was holding onto me even though his hands weren't touching me.
“I love it. Thank you, Callum.”
The little silver key disappeared into his pocket with a flourish almost too quickly for me to see. He kissed my cheek and whispered in my ear,
“You’re welcome. Now, let's eat up. I plan to make your birthday one for the history books.”
“Oh, yeah?” I chortled, an eruption of butterflies taking flight in my belly, further distracting me from the sorrow lingering in this house and in my heart.
“Oh, yeah,” my man drawled. “You're no longer in your twenties, baby. It's the big Three-Oh. You're in your dirty thirties.”
I gave him a mock scowl for reminding me I was no longer a twenty-something year old.
“Rude. There better be some big three-O's later.”
Callum gave a suggestive waggle of his brows, winking at me lasciviously. “There will be. Really big.”
Thank God we’re in the house alone.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Do you remember where you were the day your brother died?”
Helena sat across from me in the formal living room. Her wide-leg, high-waist trousers a demure navy today and paired with a simple pale pink blouse and tasteful jewelry.
Under the bright lights set up in the formal living room, her hair looked as orange as Tang, but somehow, she still looked like a woman about to give a serious interview.
I struggled to focus on interviewer’s face and not the camera in front of me or the camera behind me focused on Helena.
I found it almost funny how familiar this felt. Mother had hosted so many interviews right where we were sitting, and even years later, I still felt shy and uncomfortable.
The major difference between then and now was that I got to answer for myself without interruption from my mother.
She’d always coached me before the interview on what to say, yet half the time interrupted to answer questions directed at me.
This time though, I was surrounded by people I loved. Callum, John, Marcy, and Nigel all stood behind Helena, within my view to show their support and to be here for me, but in the glare of the lights arranged around Helena and I, I could barely make them out.
We'd already talked about my childhood in this house, focusing on the good and happy memories I had and elaborating on what my life had been like before the age of ten.
But now, the questions turned down a dark, familiar road.
“I do remember. I was in the room assigned to me at a treatment facility for troubled youth when the doctor in charge of my care came in to tell me my brother had died.”
Helena made an appropriately conciliatory sound. “You were ten years old, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Why in the world were you at a treatment facility for troubled youth? It sounded as though your childhood up until that point was nothing short of divine.”
Divine is a bit of a stretch. Ignorantly blissful would be a better description.
“I believed my brother’s life was in danger, and when I expressed my feelings, my parents assumed I was suffering some kind of mental break down and took me to see a psychiatrist. Dr. Banes—”
“You're speaking of Dr. Franklin Banes, correct?” Helena interrupted, holding her hand up to gesture a pause in my tale. “The same man who was charged with malpractice for gross mistreatment of his patients, and subsequently, stripped of his medical licenses and found guilty of over fifty counts of aggravated assault and endangerment of the children in his care?”
“Correct.”
Helena had coached me to be as sincere in my feelings as possible, but to keep my answers as factual and to the point as I could manage. She invited me to continue, and on we went.
“I attempted to explain to Dr. Banes why and how I was so sure my brother was going to die, but it was like trying to explain how I could do long division in my head, yet be unable to lay out, step by step, the answer to the problem on paper.
“After an hour or two of questions, Dr. Banes invited my parents into the room, and I suddenly became invisible as he informed them I was suffering from visual hallucinations and a severe case of sibling displacement syndrome.”
Helena acted as though she'd never heard a thing about my stay in the asylum, frowning hard, her voice colored with extreme suspicion.
“And Dr. Banes advised your parents it was in your best interest to be put in his care after this diagnosis?”
“Yes.”
“Do you look back and recall any negative feelings for your brother?”
“None,” I answered firmly, struggling not to clench my hands in my lap or give any outward signs of the emotions bubbling inside me. “From the moment my parents brought him home from the hospital, I adored Elliot. I loved being his big sister.”
Helena nodded, lifting her hand to flick her fingers against the frame of her glasses, settling them higher up her nose even as she frowned at me with intense curiosity.
“What sort of treatments did you receive in Dr. Banes care?”
Treatments? Torture is more like it. Ice baths, ECT, Victorian-era methods meant to treat fucking hysteria.
I wanted to sneer and snarl, but I was attempting to combat rumors my parents started about me being insane.
Shaking my fist and going into detail of my mistreatment at Dr. Banes’s hands wouldn't do anything but validate the rumors.
“At first, daily medication and talk therapy with Dr. Banes and several other doctors. I continued to insist I wasn't hallucinating or lying about my feelings of love for my brother, so they put me on sedatives, gave me ice baths, and eventually, electroshock therapy.”
The expression of shock and horror on Helena's face seemed completely natural.
Dear Mom and Dad hadn't mentioned the torture I suffered at the institute during any of their interviews.
“ECT at ten years old? Your parents allowed this to happen to you?”
I spread my hands and shrugged. “Bef
ore they left, Dr. Banes made them sign several different release forms giving him permission to pursue whatever treatment was necessary to 'cure' me of my delusions.”
“And these delusions they believed you to have, they revolved around a painting you did of your brother?”
“Yes. I painted him dead.”
“I don't have children, but I understand how disturbing it might be to a parent to see one sibling paint the death of another. Why did you paint Elliot dead?”
This was the crucial moment where I had to be very careful about what I said. Callum and I talked about it extensively on the drive up to the mansion, and he agreed that going public with my abilities was the fastest way possible to confirm the delusions my parents accused me of having.
“Have you ever had a dream so terrible, you've woken up certain the nightmare was a premonition of things to come?” I asked Helena, who agreed she'd had her fair share of bad dreams that seemed all too real.
“It was like that. A shadowy dream that turned into certainty, which I painted to try and impress upon my family that Elliot needed to be protected.
“And yes, I agree it was incredibly disturbing, but I needed it to be, so they would take me seriously. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough. Elliot drowned in the fountain in front of this house.”
Helena gave a thoughtful hum, leaning forward to gather the papers I'd given her before we'd started rolling.
“Elliot's tragic death was ruled an accident, but you believe otherwise, is that correct?”
“It is.”
“This report here from the county sheriff's department was obtained by a private investigator on your behalf, yes?”
"Yes."
Helena made a show of skimming the papers before asking her next question, “It says here that the housekeeper had taken Elliot into the kitchen and put him into his playpen while she cleared the dinner table and began to wash the dishes because the nanny had the night off. Was it normal for Elliot's caregiver to have nights off?”
“Not to my knowledge, no.”
“In the statement given by Mrs. Decker, she claims to have left the back door open because she'd burned some food earlier in the evening and your mother complained of the smell.
