Exodus

by Stewart , Kate

  But that day, sitting on top of that garage, fatigued and sick with worry, I pushed the mystery aside, eaten alive with grief and indecision all the while fighting the urge to drive back to North Carolina.

  Time was cruel, and I spent it absently watching the gridlock on I-285 move at a snail’s pace. People were leaving their jobs and going home to eat dinner and watch TV. Normal people doing normal everyday things, and I couldn’t imagine going back to any semblance of normal with the taste of my ex-lover’s blood still lingering on my tongue.

  When my phone finally rang, and I saw a familiar area code from a number I didn’t recognize, I couldn’t answer fast enough.

  “Hello.”

  I listened intently for several seconds as they passed, my chest filling with unimaginable dread at what news waited on the other end of the line.

  “Hello, please, hello?”

  Several seconds later, I heard the distinct open and close of a Zippo. That sound had a sob bursting from my lips. Sean.

  It was the sound of ice rattling in a tumbler, one, two, three times, that had me sobbing hysterically behind the wheel. Two distinct sounds they knew I would easily recognize.

  They’re okay.

  They’re okay.

  “Please. Please…talk to me.” When silence rang clear on the other end of the line, somehow, I just knew the damning quiet was because of Tobias. And words would never come.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Please, somebody, talk to me. I’m sorry.” The silence lingered as I tried to search for words until a familiar voice finally spoke.

  “Hey, Cecelia, sorry about that.”

  “Layla, I, I, I,” I sobbed so hard I gagged, rolling down my window and inhaling deeply to try and calm myself.

  “Oh, babe,” she sighed, “It’s just a move. You’ll be fine. We’re all fine here.”

  We all were anything but.

  “All of you?” I asked breathlessly.

  “Yes, I swear to you, we’re good. And you will be too.” She continued a clearly rehearsed speech. “And we’re all going to miss you, but we’re glad you’re moving on. It’s a shame we’ll be so far away.”

  “Layla—”

  “Don’t get upset, honey. I’m sure you’ll make new friends wherever you land. You’re a tough girl. You’ll be on your feet in no time.”

  “I can’t do this,” I cried into the line. “I c-c-can’t.”

  “No choice, sweetie, you’re growing up, and you have school to finish and this great big life to live. We’ll all be on the sidelines, cheering you on. I’m so glad you left this shit town and are never coming back.”

  “I can visit.” The question lingered as harsh whispers were exchanged in the background, but I couldn’t decipher them.

  “No reason to, baby… My boys are leaving me today, and I don’t know how long they’ll be gone.”

  They’re leaving, and they’ll be untraceable wherever they land. A thousand-pound weight sinks in my stomach.

  “And I hope you know, you’re better off there,” it was a warning, and she’d delivered it with the gentleness of a mother’s love. “There’s nothing good going to come out of you coming back here. You don’t want to end up a dried-up old lady working at the plant, anyway. And we only want the best for you.”

  “Layla—”

  “I gotta run, but I just wanted you to know that I’ll miss you.”

  When the line disconnected, I screamed at the loss. Neither Sean nor Tobias wanted to speak to me.

  It was all over.

  My future had been decided, my ties cut, they didn’t want me to come back. I had no choice in the matter, no say. And I’d lived that reality before.

  Thoroughly unhinged, I shattered over and over again at the finality of it all. It was never going to end well, but that parting had ripped some of my humanity away from me.

  I moved to Triple Falls a teenager, wanting nothing more than to challenge myself, to give in to my wild side, and create some stories to tell.

  By the time I stood in my new apartment in Athens that night, I was a woman who’d been unearthed by deception, lies, lust, and love, whose essence was shrouded by life-changing secrets, full of stories I could never share and never, ever tell. In keeping me safe, in architecting my future, they’d left me to wither and rot with those secrets.

  Between the painstaking lengths my boys went to and the first-class ticket my father bought out of hell, all I wanted to do is go back and let the flames consume me. But in protecting me, in all the trouble my presence caused, all they asked in return is for my absence and to keep their secrets.

  And I did.

  Baptized by fire, I wore my mask until I grew into it, I kept our secrets, following their orders to the letter while trying to resume some semblance of a life.

  And eventually, I did that too.

  I far exceeded my own expectations, but time has been nothing but a noose, giving me the rope an inch at a time. And now that I’m here, I refuse to continue the charade. It’s far too much to ask. And so, I’ll demand answers and seek them in full from the man who owes me the explanation.

  And I’m not leaving without one.

  It’s my last promise to myself as I drive down the lone road leading to the forgotten house.

  An eerie feeling washes over me, and I expect nothing less as I gaze on at the grand estate from the gate as freezing rain begins to pelt the hood and windshield of my Audi. The house is far more intimidating underneath the grey sky. But I know a majority of my contempt is due to the history that lives within the walls.

  Pulling up, I swallow hard and step out. Leaving my bag in my car, I grab the envelope from my purse that the management company sent me years ago along with the new key, security instructions and a schedule for those in charge of maintaining the late Roman Horner’s estate. I palm the heavy key in my hand as I walk up the steps and turn back toward the driveway. Though the wind whips heavily around me while the stinging rain infuses the cold into my bones, I’m graced with a glimpse of my past, an image of a golden man waiting at the hood of his Nova, boots and arms crossed, a smile playing on his lips. The gilded tips of his spiked halo, lit by the sun as his eyes dance with promise and mischief. And just as soon as the ray appears, it’s gone.

  Taking a calming breath, I turn and unlock the door, pushing it open and stand frozen at the threshold baffled by the sight that greets me.

  The interior is no different than it was the day before I left, though I can only imagine the damage done that morning. I’m fairly certain the walls house shells of bullets in between sheetrock and touched up paint. But all traces of that horrible night are gone, as if I imagined it.

  If only that were true.

  “No one leaves breathing.” I shudder as I think of the look on Tobias’s face when he gave that order. Tyler said Miami had pulled up ten cars deep.

  If the ravens succeeded in carrying out that order, there had to have been a significant body count. And then there was the brotherhood side. I didn’t know them all personally, but I hated to think they’d lost more brothers that day.

  Odds are, they did.

  I’d accused Tobias when we met of being a petty thief who threw parties trying to downplay the extent of what I knew, all the while they kept me cornered, shielded, and safe from the ugly truth of the reality of what the war they waged entailed.

  Dominic had admitted as much to me the night he died.

  “You were amongst liars, thieves, and killers.”

  And as many times as I was told, I still had to see to believe. And that night, I became a believer in the worst imaginable way.

  But I understood their logic. They never wanted me exposed to it, so they distracted me, kept me ignorant to it for as long as possible because they didn’t want me to see them for who they really were—dangerous criminals whose bad deeds ran more along the lines of corporate theft, blackmail, racketeering, espionage, and if forced, retaliation that included bloodshed.

 
They were never cold-blooded killers, but they all had blood on their hands, and I share in that secret now.

  Though I searched the web for endless days of any report on what happened in this house, I came up completely empty. Not a word was spoken, no reports on any media outlet, not even an obituary or service announcement for Dominic, which infuriated me.

  I have no knowledge of what transpired after I left, but it was covered up in a way that is unfathomable to me.

  For months I checked the papers, the web, searching for clues, arrests, anything pertaining to that night and drew a blank. I also checked Miami papers as well and got nothing. Not even in the nearby counties. It was eight months later that I finally stumbled upon an obituary for Delphine, who’d finally succumbed to her cancer.

  And after that investigation, I checked out. I had no choice. My health and sanity were at risk by that point, and I had to give in and do their final bidding.

  I had to try and move on, start to live some semblance of a life.

  I’d spent months and months between grief and anger in the waking hours before I made a decision to try. I never returned Roman’s inquisitive emails on my well-being or progress at school, avoiding him altogether until the day he died of colon cancer two years after I left.

  Not once after, had I tried to contact anyone in the brotherhood. I knew it would be pointless. Anger and resentment had helped me with that task.

  I played along for the sake of self-preservation, despite my eyes being pried wide open by what went down here.

  It was the decision of preservation that helped me forge ahead and finally yanked me from the spiral. But shortly after, the dreams took over, threatening to destroy every bit of progress I made.

  I’m declaring a new war by coming here, and I need to be ready. It’s not just my sleep I want back. I’m not certain of exactly what my motives are. But my dream last night set this into motion, so for now, I’m going with it, knowing the truth will never really set me free, but maybe it will close a few doors, and I’m hoping it’s enough.

  Shaking off the freezing rain and unease of being back at this house, I take a step in and close the door behind me as history threatens to come at me from all sides. I shiver in my jacket and rub my arms, making my way over to the thermostat and cranking it up. Peeking over the couch in the formal living room, I note the board still intact sitting where it rests on the lip of the fireplace. Unbelievably, the pieces are set up from the last time Tobias and I played chess.

  “Your move,” he prompts after taking another of my pawns.

  I sip my wine and gaze at him bathed in the amber light of the few candles I lit when I came downstairs after my shower. We’d shared an intimate smile when I spotted him from where he stood, uncorking a bottle of wine. After lathering myself up in juniper lotion, which I learned was his catnip, I’d chosen an off the shoulder, thin sweater, and nothing else. I don’t own any lingerie, except for the nightgown he bought me that I decided to save for our last night together, which will be the night before I leave for school, which I refuse to think about. The clear approval of my choice shines in his eyes as he sweeps me appreciatively while passing me my wine before we take our seats. The board rests diagonally on the fireplace, where we sit across from the other, very little space between us. The game itself, I still find incredibly boring, but the beauty and mystery of the company I’m playing with make it more than bearable. And if I’m truthful makes for some intoxicating foreplay.

  “Is there another game you would ever play?”

  “Non.”

  “And you never watch TV aside from the news?”

  “I do when I’m sick.”

  “How often do you get sick?”

  “Once every three to five years.”

  I roll my eyes. “I don’t suppose we’ll be bonding over any sort of binge-watch then.”

  He glances over at me, the touch of vulnerability evident in his gaze. “Is that what we’re supposed to be doing?”

  His question is serious. As naïve as it is for a man his age. Over the last week together, I’ve learned that much like his brothers, the man truly doesn’t at all run in any circle, or include any norms of his life that would indicate standard ‘American’ living. Though he went to school abroad, he was raised in the States for a long period of time, but it doesn’t seem to have rubbed off on him in the McRib way, which is crazy ironic for a man with his finger on the pulse of current events. A man who is so in tune with the world yet so far removed from it in a personal sense. One, he’s very much a hermit and a creature of habit. His touch of OCD making his routines hard to deter from. Two, he lectured me endlessly when I told him I was craving said McRib. In fact, he went full-on French snob. I barely got away with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and now have to hide my junk food.

  The man’s indulgences include expensive coffee beans, his food must be nothing less than fine dining standards, and his wine choices—though delicious—are very, very, expensive. And every one of his suits is designer and tailored, that much I knew, but I have yet to see a repeat in the two months he’s taken me hostage. While his tastes maybe a little over the top, I don’t at all fault him for spending his money on the finer things because he didn’t grow up in a house like the one we’re occupying, he grew up enduring a ‘wrong side of the tracks’ type of lifestyle answering to an alcoholic aunt who considered cockroaches a part of the family while trying to play father to his little brother.

  He hasn’t lived a charmed life, and I’m happy that he gets to not only experience these things but demands them for his daily life. If he’s selfish about anything, it’s these little indulgences that bring him joy. He’s complicated, yet simple. And he doesn’t seem to require the stimulation of the average man. He seems to consider most things an experience, not music, but a single song, not food, but a feast, not wine but a tasting. And sex, that he takes even more seriously. For him, it’s an art form, and one he’s mastered beautifully.

  “What?” he asks, flicking his gaze to mine while contemplating his first move.

  “I don’t hate you anymore.” I don’t miss the slight lift of his lips. “You smile, but I really did hate you, Tobias.”

  “I know,” his smile only grows.

  “You love my opposition.”

  “You’re the only woman in the world who’s good at making me really angry.”

  “I’ll take that as my first compliment, and that’s quite a lot of honesty there, Sir, are you drunk?”

  His lips lift even higher. “Maybe a little.”

  I narrow my eyes. “I knew you polished that half a bottle off while I was in the shower. I hadn’t imagined seeing it. Stingy.”

  “Sorry,” he says unapologetically.

  It’s so insincere, I laugh. “Oh, I can tell just how sorry you are, thief.”

  He makes his first move.

  “Nous entraînons-nous ce soir?” Are we practicing tonight? I ask when I push a pawn into play.

  “Peut-être.” Maybe.

  “Où vas-tu m’emmener?” Where will you take me? I ask, licking my lips clean and savoring every drop.

  “J’étais en train de penser à te pencher sur ce canapé.” I was thinking I would bend you over that couch. “But if you keep looking at me like that, we won’t make it that far.”

  I roll my eyes. “Je voulais dire en France, pervers. Où m’emmènerais-tu en premier?” I meant in France, you pervert. Where would you take me first?”

  “Easy,” he says, frowning at the board, “The Eiffel Tower.”

  “En français, s’il te plaît.” In French, please. “And that’s the last thing I expected you to say.”

  “Why? Isn’t that what all those traveling to France dream of seeing first? Who am I to deny you?” He reads my deflated posture. “You had something more personal in mind?”

  “Your favorite places. And I wouldn’t mind going down memory lane with you. Seeing where you went to school. Meeting some of your college friends.”


  “I don’t have friends.”

  “Not one?”

  He sits back against the fireplace. “I don’t have the type of friends to look up and have drinks with when I’m there. Not in that way.” There’s a hint of melancholy in his voice, and I understand why it’s there. He was far too busy playing grown-up to have a life of his own. Been there.

  “So, you never kicked back, relaxed? Aside from banging lingerie models?”

  “Non.”

  “Well, I’ll be your friend,” I say easily. “I’ll be your best friend, but that requires far more effort, at some point, you’re going to have to tell me where you live, let me snoop through your bedroom and tell me about the first time you got your period.”

  This earns me a dead stare just before he takes another of my pieces. I scrunch my nose in frustration. “I’m never going to get good at this.”

  “Because you don’t want to get good at it. I’m going to beat you again. But the good news is your French tongue is no longer complete shit. Though it could use some improvements.”

  “Oh, yeah? I’m pretty sure you love my tongue by the way you were sucking on it not too long ago.”

  Face inscrutable, he nods to me. “Your move.”

  “I’ll let you win.”

  He lifts burning eyes to mine. “Why?”

  “Because I want you to win, so our tongues can negotiate your last statement.”

  “There you go, mixing business and pleasure. You’ll never learn.”

  I drain my glass and set it down before lifting on all fours.

  He shakes his head. “We’re still in a match.”

  “I just said, I’m letting you win.”

  “No,” he says sharply. “And I’m going to win anyway. Get your ass back in your corner. I’m into this game.”

  “You win,” I say, my thin sweater gaping in the front as I lean in, giving him a clear view of my bare breasts all the way down to my navel.

  He doesn’t spare my girls or me a glance as he focuses on the board.

  “You’re really going to play immune?” I rasp out, covering some of his upper half where he sits with one leg stretched out and one leg drawn up, his forearm resting on the fireplace his other on his knee.