by Danah Logan
"What happened?"
I stare.
"RHYS!"
My mom’s smaller frame is mostly hidden behind my father, and I see more feet in the hallway.
"TALK!" my father roars.
My mom pushes past him. "Tristen, STOP!"
She squats beside me and takes my free hand. The other one still holds my phone in a death grip. "Honey?"
"She’s fine," is all I rasp out.
My mom’s hands fly to her mouth, followed by her wrapping herself around me and starting to sob. I can’t hold back any longer and join her. I don’t care that my father and several agents are hovering in my room; it’s just mom and me. Mourning Lilly.
Chapter Two
His tone is all casual. "Hello, Lilly."
I stare. No matter how hard I try, no coherent sentence will form. How did I miss this?
"You."
Right, I already said that.
My breathing has slowed down. I should’ve known.
The corners of his mouth quirk up, and he shrugs lightly. "Me."
His nonchalant attitude sparks something deep in my core, and instead of being terrified, like someone kidnapped—for the second time—would be, I bare my teeth at him. "You’re psycho." It also helps that the gut feeling that I’m in no physical danger is even stronger now that we are face to face.
He shifts, crosses his arms over his chest, and leans against the doorframe. His posture emanates confidence, not predator. "I’ve been called that before—and worse."
What the ever-loving—
There is a familiarity between us that I can’t shake, something beyond my kidnapping past with him, something beyond our first in-person interaction ten years later.
"Nate." My voice holds a warning note.
Nate Hamlin. Tall, blond, hazel eyes, and a genuine smile. That’s who’s standing across from me. I talked to him—even shook his hand. And I…I had no clue. He played me, another person that purposefully manipulated me. I steel my jaw.
"We should probably talk." Nate straightens from the doorframe.
His words bring me back to the present, and I focus on my captor.
No shit.
I keep quiet but tip my chin up. I’m snubbing my kidnapper; I’m not sure if that’s brave or utterly stupid.
"May I come in?"
Is he serious? I scowl. "You kidnapped me; please come in." I wave him inside with my uninjured arm in an exaggerated arm gesture—unable to refrain myself from mocking the man in front of me. Maybe I did lose my mind after all? Or the car accident caused some weird fear-diminishing brain injury?
Nate slowly moves into the room and sits down in the bergère chair I remember from my first stay with him.
He rests his arms on his legs and looks me straight in the eyes. "I probably deserve that attitude."
You think?
"Why don’t you tell me what I’m doing here? Why me?" The number one question that’s been on my mind since I found out who I am—or more accurately, who I’m not.
"That requires a longer answer." He looks almost apologetic.
I frown. "I’m going out on a limb that I’m not leaving anytime soon?"
Where does this sass come from? Denielle is the sassy one, not me. But no matter what, he seems amused by it, not angry.
Nate smirks. "You remind me of Audrey."
Audrey. It’s the same name he mentioned ten years ago in my memory. Though, back then, he was all emotion, less collected.
Do I want to know? But I ask before I can think about it further. "Who is Audrey?"
He replies without hesitation. "My sister."
Uh, what?
He looks at a spot on the wall above my head, and we sit in silence. I wait.
"Audrey died twelve years ago. She was six." His voice is pained.
Six? Is this why he’s been kidnapping all these little girls?
"I’m…sorry?" My response is more a question.
He continues as if I hadn’t spoken. "She died in a car accident together with my mother."
Shit, this time, no words will form. What are you supposed to say to your kidnapper who just spilled his family drama? I just sit there. But instead of saying more, he gets up and walks out, closing the door in the process. I don’t hear a click or anything that would suggest I’m locked in, but I know I am. I don’t bother checking.
I have no clue how long I’ve been in this room. It seems like days, but it’s probably just a few hours at most. Eventually, I can’t sit still anymore, and I ease off the bed. A sharp pain shoots through my shoulder, and I wince. Not moving for so long, I forgot about the injury. It’s not dislocated—been there, done that. But something is wrong with it. I cradle my arm to my chest. A few years ago, Rhys and I sparred; Rhys attacked, I didn’t pay attention, and hit the ground the wrong way. Tristen was not happy with him. The memory brings the first smile to my face since waking up. Rhys. My chest constricts. I was furious with him when I left school, but now…all I want is to wrap my arms around him and let him hold me. What is he doing? Are they looking for me? He’s probably out of his mind. Moisture starts building up in my eyes, and I swallow several times over the lump in my throat before I’m able to focus on my surroundings again. I refuse to show weakness.
Slowly, I start moving around. I’m pretty sure it’s a different room from my first time with Nate.
God, I sound like I’m talking about a past vacation.
I recognize the white chair and matching dresser, but the bed is different. It’s white but doesn’t have the same antique style as the rest of the furniture, or a canopy. Also, this one is queen size versus the one back then was for a child, maybe a twin? I have no clue—smaller. The walls are the same pale lavender, but no mirror. I’m standing by the foot of the bed, across the spot Nate occupied not too long ago, when something registers. There is another door to the left and a window to the right on either wall. The old room had neither.
Why didn’t I notice that before? Oh, right, because I was focused on the guy who kidnapped me. Twice. Looking back and forth between both, I’m rooted in my spot, not sure which one to check out first. What if they are just props and not real? I wouldn’t put it past someone who takes little girls.
Three deep breaths later, I’m able to make my feet move toward the door. The doorknob turns without issue, and I’m facing—oh, wow. One of the most stunning bathrooms I’ve ever seen, a perfect blend between old and new, appears in front of me like an oasis in the desert. I could fall to my knees and kiss the floor because I don’t realize how badly I have to pee until I see it. Everything is black and white. The room is rectangular, with the door on the narrow side and a white clawfoot tub with black feet across on the other. There are white subway tiles to the ceiling, the black grout creating a steep contrast, and the floor has an almost ornate pattern of black-and-white mosaic tiles. A square, white sink sits on top of a black table to the left. The toilet is located between the sink and the bathtub. On the other wall are two black metal towel racks with fluffy white towels draped over them. And are those—the initials L.A.H. jump out at me. What. The. Fuck? I ignore the disturbing discovery for now, because nature calls. Closing the door behind me, I triple-check the lock before I take care of the most pressing issue. When I wash my hands, I come face to face with someone in the mirror I barely recognize. My hair is plastered to the side of my head, caked with dried blood. There is an inch-long gash on my forehead that has been cleaned and stitched up, but the rest of me is still covered in grime. Dirt covers my hair, and looking down on myself for the first time since waking up, I can see it’s not just in my hair. My clothes are filthy, and I have a sudden urge to clean myself thoroughly.
I mean, who wouldn’t want to take a shower in this situation? It’s the most normal thing in the world to find out you were kidnapped after you drove your car into a ditch, and instead of trying to escape, you’d rather take a shower. Makes sense, right? I cover my face with my hands.
Maybe
I’m the crazy one, after all?
Screw it. I turn on the shower and watch the steam rise. After confirming once more that the door is indeed locked, I peel off my clothes, taking it easy on my shoulder, and step under the hot spray. The temperature borders on the edge of burning, but instead of turning down the temperature, I let the scorching water wash away all the emotions crashing over me like waves breaking against the edge of a cliff, trying to overtake my mind and body but unable to grab hold. I shut my brain off, refusing to deal with any of it. If I let it in, I lose control.
A seemingly endless amount of time later, I’m sitting on the edge of the tub, wrapped in one of the large L.A.H. towels—nope, no…still not acknowledging the letters. Looking down at my exposed arms and legs, all four limbs are bright red from the heat of the water.
I debate my next move; I don’t want to put my old clothes back on, but I have nothing else. Ten years ago, Nate had clothes for me. I take the gamble and ease open the door. Making sure he is not camped out in my room, I step out of the steam-filled bathroom.
My room? Good Lord, what’s wrong with me?
With the towel securely fastened and no Nate in sight, I walk over to the dresser and open the top drawers. Bingo! Beyond creepy, but bingo nonetheless. There, neatly folded, are a bunch of dark-colored tank tops and long sleeve shirts. One drawer down, I find a large selection of sweats and leggings, everything close to my size. I grab a tank top, a loose black long-sleeve shirt, and a pair of gray sweats and move back to the bathroom to get dressed.
In the little basket under the sink-table is a brush, and I gingerly disentangle my wet and knotted hair, careful not to come near the stitches. Maybe I should’ve covered them somehow before the shower. The last thing I need is an infected head wound.
Sitting on the bed a little later, I feel like the shower not only washed away the dirt, but also my last bit of strength. I’m exhausted to the point of barely keeping my eyes open. I push the grime-stained pillows to the floor and lean back onto the remaining ones.
My eyes slowly ease open. The room is dark, and there is a blanket draped over the lower part of my body. Nate was in here. My stomach rolls, and I swallow several times. Yesterday’s adrenaline rush is officially gone, and the severity of the situation sinks in. I’m kidnapped. Again. I rub my trembling hands over my face, and pulling them back, I realize the room is not fully dark. In my exhaustion, I forgot about the window. It’s covered in white drapes, but given the amount of actual light coming in, they must be heavy blackout curtains. Slowly sitting up, I slide one foot off the bed and then the other, taking stock again. My shoulder still hurts, but the pain is not as sharp as yesterday; it’s manageable. On the nightstand, I find a bottle of Advil and a glass of water. Greedily, I drink the water, but I leave the pills. Not that he couldn’t have put something in the water, but taking the pills is pushing my comfort level.
My heart beats double time but curiosity wins out, and I close the distance to the window. Easing one panel back, I don’t know what I’m expecting, but definitely not…this. The sun is still low, but the rolling hills covered in grapevines are already bathed in sunlight. The scene is surreal.
Who is Nate Hamlin?
As if on cue, there is a knock, and before I can say something, the door swings inward. Nate is dressed similar to me in gray sweats, and the long-sleeve black shirt emphasizes his broad shoulders. Well, this is a bit awkward.
In addition to the whole kidnapping thing, of course.
We stare at each other. Refusing to talk first, I raise my eyebrows, and his mouth quirks up.
"Good morning, Lilly."
I mimic his casual tone, "Good morning, Nate." Aaaand the sass is back in full force—no more shaking hands.
His eyes crinkle. "Would you like some breakfast? It’s time we talk. This conversation is long overdue."
He’s offering answers; my pulse instantly speeds up. I jerk my head in a quick nod, unable to hide my eagerness.
"A few ground rules, though."
This was too good to be true.
I tilt my head to the side, waiting.
"I don’t want to treat you like a prisoner."
I snort, but he holds out a hand to stop me from commenting. "It will all make sense soon enough, but you need to understand that there is no way for you to leave. You are free to walk around, but the property is locked down."
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
He steps back, gesturing for me to walk past him out of my prison cell. Okay, cell is an exaggeration given the luxury it holds, but still.
In the hallway, he passes me, and I follow him through seemingly endless white corridors with espresso-stained wooden floors, lined with large windows facing more of the sunny hills. We go down a set of narrow stairs that leads into a massive kitchen, and I can’t help taking it all in with wide eyes. Everything is pristine and looks like how you imagine a hotel’s kitchen, but it’s also…homey. The appliances are all state of the art; the white cabinets have dark-centered cup pulls and give the room a country-like feel. Who needs a kitchen like this?
He sees my awed expression and explains, "This used to be a vineyard that allowed for guests to stay."
Gesturing for me to sit at the long oak table, which can easily hold twenty people, he gets to work on breakfast. I scan the kitchen, and my eyes fall on an enormous knife block with more knives than I can count. Glancing back at Nate, he is watching me with raised eyebrows. "You can’t leave, even if you overpower me."
But instead of feeling intimidated, I shrug sheepishly. "A girl has to try."
Shaking his head, he turns back to the fridge and mumbles something along the lines of "So much like your sister."
"What did you just say?"
But he ignores me.
"Nate!"
Nothing. Ugh.
Chapter Three
Nate prepares a feast; there is no other word for it. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, muffins—reheated, not fresh, but still—and toast with the largest selection of jams I have ever seen outside of a hotel buffet. I wonder if they are still housing guests? It seems like way too much food for one—currently, two people—living here. Living here? I mentally slap myself.
"I never expected a kidnapping victim to be treated like this," I quip, gesturing to the amount of food displayed in front of me.
"You are not a victim, Lilly." His tone is calm, but his shoulders are rigid.
"What else would you call my current situation?" Why doesn’t he scare me? Despite my training, I’m pretty sure he could easily take me down.
Nate frowns. "I guess you’re right." No other comment.
We eat quietly until I can’t hold back anymore. "What do you want with me?"
Slowly, he lowers his piece of toast and leans back. He rubs his palms on his sweats under the table. Is he…nervous?
"I’ve thought all night about how to explain everything to you. I think it makes sense to start with my…story and then come to your part in it."
I wait for him to continue.
Wiping one hand over his mouth, he looks out the window and takes a deep breath. "My birth name is Nate Hamlin, but in public, I go by Altman."
Altman? He can’t be serious.
"As in Altman Hotels?" I interrupt, my voice shrill. I was kidnapped by one of the wealthiest people in the world.
Well, fuck me.
"The one and the same." Facing me, he almost looks apologetic. "My father’s name was Hamlin, but when I took over the business, I started using my mother’s maiden name."
"Was?" His father is dead, also?
"He died a year after my mother and sister."
I’m not sure what to say. Is that what made him crazy? I know better than to ask.
"My parents’ names were Payton Altman and Brooks Hamlin. My mother was the heiress of the hotel empire. My father was a patent attorney," he explains. "They met while my father was an intern in the Altman legal department. My sister was Audrey Hamlin, but I
already told you that. Audrey was born when I was fourteen; she would’ve been eighteen now."
That makes him, what? Thirty-two?
Guess I was off with my late-twenties estimate.
The pain recalling his sister is written all over his features. Nate is staring out the window, and when he doesn’t say anything, I prod carefully, "What happened?"
Why do I sympathize with this man? I tell myself that I’m just curious, like when you see an accident. You shouldn’t watch, but you do it anyway to see if you can figure out who’s at fault.
His gaze snaps back to me as if he completely forgot I was in the room. "Sorry," he mumbles. "I was told my mother found out that my father had an affair a few years prior. She was leaving him. She picked Audrey up from school and was on her way home to pack their belongings when she ran a stop sign. They collided with a truck and died on impact."
"That’s…terrible." It truly is, but what does that have to do with me?
His lips press together for a brief moment. "I was away at school. I left early that year to take summer classes. My father was in a drunken stupor and, apparently, forgot he had another child. I got a call from our family attorney…" He trails off again.
"I’m…sorry." I sound like a broken record.
"I found out what happened when I came home for the funeral. The press ambushed me the minute I stepped out of the terminal at LAX. People at the wake kept giving me the look. These your-father-was-the-reason-you-lost-your-mother-and-little-sister pity side glances."
Now we’re getting somewhere. Nate blames his father for his sister’s death.
"I refused to speak to my father during the time I was there. I went back to school the day after they were buried, but I lost focus. I couldn’t concentrate, school lost its appeal, and I stopped going to my classes. My therapists later said that I partially blamed myself, because I had promised Audrey to come home the weekend before to take her to the zoo. But I stayed at school to prepare for the fall semester."