Out of the Dark: A Thrilling Romantic Suspense Novel (The Dark Series Book 2)

by Danah Logan

  Nate leads me to a couch set against the third wall, where the floor-to-ceiling windows should have been. It is mostly hidden behind the massive desk, which explains why I didn’t notice it until now. As soon as we reach it, he lets go of my wrist, and I slump down into the plush leather cushion.

  "Explain, please." His command is gentle but a command nonetheless. The hair on my neck stands up.

  I pull my legs underneath me, and my gaze briefly flickers to his face before settling on my hands resting in my lap. I have the sudden urge to tell him everything. Why? I’m not sure. Maybe because I want to share it with someone else. Perhaps because he is my half-brother. Or perhaps I’m simply on the verge of an emotional breakdown.

  "That’s how it all started," I whisper and wait for Nate to react, but he just studies me with narrowed eyes.

  I continue, "That’s how I found out that I am not who I thought I am. I started having migraines. Combined with memories of my past. Of you." This time, I lock eyes with him, and for the first time, Nate is unnerved.

  We sit in silence, and he is opening and closing his mouth several times. It seems that he doesn’t know how to respond. I assume he isn’t aware of what my parents did to me, that I couldn’t remember—still can’t. Do I want him to?

  Ah, screw it.

  "After you dropped me off at the hospital and threatened Emily, they erased my memory. I was so messed up that they thought I wouldn’t be able to have a normal life. And because they were scared of you, they sent me away."

  There, I put it all out there—no sugar coating.

  Nate stares at me, lips pressed in a thin line. Then, with blinding speed, he jumps off the couch and is in reach of the desk within two steps. He grabs one of the laptops and hurls it across the room against the picture wall. Half the pictures shatter to the floor from the force, and the computer joins the chaos in multiple pieces. His entire posture is rigid. His hands grip the back of his neck, and his chest is heaving up and down. For the first time, I’m scared. His outburst is so abrupt and makes me wish I’d phrased it differently.

  I need to stop poking the lion.

  I don’t move. I barely breathe. I want to hide in my room, but I don’t think I would make it out of here—if the door would even open with the gazillion security measures it takes to get in. Finally, after several minutes, Nate turns toward me, and what I see shocks me to the core. His eyes shine with unshed tears, and his expression is pure anguish.

  "I’m so sorry," he rasps out.

  It’s my turn to open and close my mouth. Nothing. I can’t come up with a single word. He’s insane. He kidnapped me. He took the other girls. That means he’s crazy. Right? But what I see is remorse in its rawest form. What am I supposed to do with that?

  "Why?" is all I come up with. Why did you kidnap me? Why didn’t you just come to me? Why did you threaten Emily? And why the other girls? All those questions are packed into this one word, and he understands. He slumps back down beside me and puts his head in his hands, elbows supported on his thighs.

  "I snapped." Nate’s voice is hoarse. He talks toward the floor. "Twelve years ago, something broke inside of me. Then the bar incident happened. I found out about you and had a second chance at a family. I was just discharged and still on, like, five different meds. Meds that were supposed to help with my rage and guilt. But they also muddled my rational thinking. I had to have you. My sister. No matter what the cost."

  Okay, sadly, I can see that.

  "But why the other girls?" I probably shouldn’t push the issue, but he seems to be willing to give me some answers right now. He’s quiet for so long that I think he’s going to ignore the question.

  "I don’t know." His reply is barely audible.

  Well, that confirms that he’s crazy.

  I’m not sure what to say. I can understand that, after losing his family, he was...lost? But still, no sane person kidnaps little children for a few weeks to feel less lonely. Before I can prod further, it’s Nate’s turn to ask questions again.

  "So…you remembered the hospital? That’s why you came back?"

  I stare at the blank monitors on the wall as if they show a rerun of what happened the last few months. The three weeks I thought I’d lost my mind. The night Rhys confronted me. How I ended up in the school parking lot after fleeing the house. The discharge papers and how I decided to go to California. I’m exhausted. I’m tired of the secrets in my life. I don’t want to constantly be on guard. It’s like something falls into place, and I pivot on the couch, facing my half-brother. He must’ve sensed the shift in me, because he mirrors my posture, and his entire focus is on me.

  "No more secrets." My voice is firm, confident. It’s not an act; I’m done with the secrets. Keeping what happened in the last three months to myself won’t do any good in this situation. But in return, I want answers from him.

  Nate’s knitted eyebrows indicate that he doesn’t understand the meaning of my words, so I elaborate.

  "I’ll tell you everything. Everything I remember and figured out about what happened to me. In return, I want answers as well. No more secrets. You say we’re family; then we need to deal with this like one." Yep, a cheap shot and slightly manipulative, but it’s also the truth. At this point, he is the only blood family I have left, crazy or not. I need to know where I come from.

  Understanding dawns in his eyes, and he holds out his hand. I stare at it for a moment, hesitant to take it. But my need for answers wins out, and I place my palm in his. It’s a brief contact. He squeezes my hand with a quick shake up and down, and it’s settled.

  I tell Nate everything. From my first migraine to the reason why I left school this week. I’ve been talking for so long my mouth is parched, and I’m emotionally drained. The clock on the wall shows one a.m., and I realize we’ve been in here for hours. Nate hasn’t spoken once. Every so often, his facial expression changes to something I interpret as surprise, but he never comments.

  At some point, he resumes his previous position with his elbows on his thighs, staring down at the floor, though his stiff posture is a dead giveaway of him listening.

  When I finally finish, I take a deep breath. Nate doesn’t react; his focus remains downward. The first words out of his mouth are, "I caused you a lot of pain."

  It’s a simple statement, and he doesn’t expect a response. He doesn’t want me to make him feel less guilty; he knows what he has done. Which, in return, makes me question my earlier assessment of his sanity.

  "I guess it’s my turn." Our eyes lock for the first time. He is just as exhausted as I am.

  I want my answers, but my ability to focus is dwindling fast. "Let’s postpone your turn for tomorrow."

  "Yeah, that’s probably better." The relief in his eyes is palpable.

  I still have one request, though, that I didn’t dare ask until now. "Nate?"

  "Yes?" He tilts his head to the side, wary.

  "I want to talk to Rhys." I’m not asking him; I will make this call somehow, but I’d rather have his support. Nate faces forward again but peers at me sideways, and I brace myself to utilize my last bit of energy for a fight.

  "Okay."

  "Okay?" I ask in disbelief.

  He sighs heavily. "Yes, okay. From everything I just heard from you, I am smart enough to know that ‘no’ is not an option. You are as smart and as stubborn as the rest of your family."

  I suck in a breath. My family? Is he referring to him and Audrey? Or Rhys? Or even Emily?

  "But I’m asking you for more time. I want you to hear me out before you make the call."

  The condition.

  Rhys is probably going crazy, and so are Heather and Tristen, I’m sure. I don’t even want to think about Natty. Closing my eyes, I nod in concession. Arguing will do no good, as much as I hate waiting, or making them wait. It’s the only option I have until I get my bearings of this place.

  Chapter Five

  It’s mid-morning when I stumble into the kitchen. I still don
’t have access to a clock, so I go by the sun’s trajectory when I finally make my way downstairs.

  I woke up earlier to the room flooded with light. In my exhaustion, I forgot to close the drapes last night. Groaning, I flipped over and dragged one of the pillows over my head. It was definitely too early to get up, but I also didn’t feel like moving and closing the blinds. The pillow did the trick, and I managed to fall back asleep for a while longer.

  After waking up for the second time, I lay in bed, replaying the events of the previous day. This seems to have become a regular occurrence. Something came to the forefront, and my hands flew to my mouth to stifle the gasp that tried to escape me. I didn’t want the mic to alert Nate; we didn’t change the password yet. Still covering my mouth, I squeezed my eyes shut and remembered last night’s migraine. With everything that happened, I had pushed it to the back of my mind and completely forgotten about it. Nate was probably too distracted as well to ask what my most recent memory had revealed. But now—in the light of the new day—it was all back. What did this mean? A knot formed in my belly, and I knew I had to tell him. But first, I wanted to hear more of his side before I revealed my trump.

  Nate is sitting at the massive kitchen table with a mug in front of him, staring out the window. He doesn’t react when I drop down across from him in the same chair as yesterday.

  "Hi," comes out as a croak, and I clear my throat. I wipe my all-of-a-sudden damp hands against the black yoga pants I pulled out of the drawer today.

  His eyes flick to me. "Good morning. Did you sleep okay?" He sounds genuine, like a big brother. I swallow the lump in my throat—my brother. My heart starts beating double time. My emotions are contradicting each other again, and I’m more confused than ever. And I thought being in love with your adoptive brother was complicated. Try to enjoy spending time with your half-brother who kidnapped you. I want to bang my head against the tabletop.

  Maybe I have Stockholm Syndrome?

  "Uh, yes. Thank you. You?"

  "I didn’t sleep much."

  He stares at a spot behind me, seeming distracted, and I raise my eyebrows. His gaze swivels back to me. He blinks once, twice, then his focus is entirely on me. "Sorry. I was working most of the night."

  Working?

  "You work?" I ask, baffled, before I can stop myself. Why wouldn’t he work? Even rich people work.

  Nate chuckles. "Yes, the hotels don’t run themselves."

  "Oh."

  He pushes back from the table. "I had to make sure we’re not getting interrupted today, so I was working ahead. How about you eat something and then I’ll show you the property? I believe it’s my turn to give some answers?"

  He phrases it like a question. Does he expect me not to want answers anymore? I fight the urge to roll my eyes. At the precise moment that I’m about to say that I’m ready now, my stomach growls, and I resign myself to nourishment before answers. After all, I haven’t eaten much in, what, forty-eight hours? Seventy-two?

  "How long have I been here?"

  Nate stops his retreat and turns back to me.

  "It’s Friday. You slept for close to twenty-four hours after the accident." His tone is calm and matter-of-fact, but I see…something flash across his face. It’s gone as quickly as it appeared. I wonder if he recalls the day I didn’t wake up.

  He turns and leaves the kitchen. I make myself a cup of tea and throw a slice of toast in the toaster oven. After grabbing a banana from the fruit basket, I rifle through the pantry—which could hold our entire kitchen at home—until I find a jar of peanut butter. Sitting back down at the massive table with my PB&B sandwich, I think about Nate’s response. Friday. That means I’ve been gone for three days. Shit. My sense of time is all off. Heather is probably beside herself. I don’t even want to think about Rhys. Or Natty. I’d lose my mind. I have to make this call.

  The clock on the stove shows 11:39 when Nate saunters back in. He has my boots in one hand and a long, black, fleece jacket in the other.

  "You really planned this out, huh? Buying me all these clothes and whatnot?" I gesture at his arm and then at the clothes I’m wearing, fully aware of how snide I sound.

  Mimicking my smart-ass demeanor. "This is Margot’s jacket, for when she comes here with me."

  Who the—

  I narrow my eyes at him, and he gives me a smug smile. "My fiancée. We come up here every few months, and she keeps clothes in one of the rooms. Your jacket got ruined in the accident and would be too warm anyway."

  Fiancée? But he’s crazy. How can he have a fiancée?

  "Fiancée?" I’m too stunned to ask in a full sentence.

  Nate doesn’t answer and throws the jacket at me instead. I snatch it out of the air, and I hold it out, eyeing it like it’s going to explode. Peeking at the label in the collar, I recognize the brand from Denielle. This thing costs more than all my jackets combined. Before I can say anything else, Nate is back out of the room, and I have to scramble with my boots to follow him. With Margot’s fancy jacket in hand, I find him waiting in the foyer, leaning against the rail of one of the staircases.

  "Ready?"

  As ready as I’ll ever be.

  I nod and follow him out of the massive wrought-iron door, coming to a halt. I’m standing in a ginormous circular driveway. In the center is a Mediterranean-inspired fountain—currently turned off. Behind it is the beginning of a long, winding driveway lined with trees on either side and leading God knows where. I still have no clue where I am. I walk toward the fountain and then spin in a circle. Holy— The estate is even grander than I assumed. The outside is the same color scheme as the inside. The walls are a blinding white, as if freshly painted, with dark-brown window trims and shutters creating a dramatic contrast. The roof has a similar shade and stands out against the bright-blue sky. To the left, I can see the beginning of a four- or maybe five-car garage; that part of the building is at an angle, so there could be even more.

  A warm breeze caresses my face, and I briefly close my eyes. "Where are we?" I can’t hide the awe in my question.

  "Northern California. Not far from Santa Rosa, actually."

  I’m back where it all started. My eyes pop open. What did I expect? Somehow, I’d thought that he moved somewhere else after what happened ten years ago.

  Nate starts walking to the right with his hands clasped behind his back. The narrow cobblestone path seems to go the entire length of that side of the building. When I catch up, he doesn’t look my way but keeps a slow and steady pace.

  "This estate belonged to my grandfather. He purchased it not long before he passed away, and I don’t think either my mother or father knew about it. If they did, they seem not to have cared for it. I came across the title when my mother’s attorney handed me the paperwork for the Altman ‘Empire’." Nate makes air quotes around empire before he sticks his hands in the pockets of his hoodie instead of interlacing them again. I take in today’s attire. Instead of sweats, he’s wearing faded jeans that have probably seen better times and a dark-gray hoodie of no apparent brand. Not something I would expect from a billionaire, but so far, everything I’ve learned about Nate Altman-Hamlin contradicts itself.

  He continues, which pulls me out of my fashion observation. "The first time I came here was a few weeks after my discharge. I couldn’t stay in LA, deal with all the people. So, I moved up here. My grandfather had already restored the majority of the property, and I finished the rest over the years. Added my touch to it."

  You mean your spyware.

  "I don’t know what his intention for the property was, but I decided to keep it. I started growing grapes again about eight years ago but opted against the winery part of it. When the time comes, the grapes go to another vineyard ten miles from here. I have staff that takes care of the property when I’m not in residence. When I’m here, I prefer my privacy. I don’t stay long enough these days to require them to be around. I actually prefer to do things myself. I don’t know…it helps me relax."

&
nbsp; I listen, fascinated. Nate sounds so normal. We reach the edge of the house, and the path branches off in several directions. One follows along the side of the house, one seems to lead toward a small park, complete with stone benches, and the last disappears between the grapevines on the nearest hill. Everything is perfectly landscaped, not one blade of grass longer than the other. We follow along with the house until we reach the backside of the property, and I realize that it’s a massive U-shape, which also explains the angle of the garage. Centered between the two arms of the U is a rectangular pool flush with the obscenely perfect manicured green.

  "This place is huge."

  "It has twelve guest bedrooms, each with a bathroom, not including my rooms, the library, and several sitting rooms. As I said, I have no idea what he intended for it. Most of the rooms are empty; I have no plans to open the property up for guests again."

  "Is this where you brought…" The girls? I can’t stop myself but, at the same time, can’t finish the sentence. However, Nate is fully aware of what I’m asking. Hands still in his pockets, his chin dips to his chest, and his shoulders slump forward. His gaze flickers to me before he lowers it to the ground.

  "Yes." His tone is eerily quiet, and I can’t make out if his crazy side is making an appearance or if he feels…guilty?

  "How did you know where to find me this week? Or the day at the gym?" I’m not ready to pursue the other topic. Mentioning the gym, I realize something else. "Wait…one of the pictures—you were in it."

  "I have a guy," Nate murmurs.

  A guy?

  He continues before I can voice my confusion. "My security. He worked for my grandfather, and I kept him on the payroll when I took over." His admission that he had someone spy on me makes my blood boil. My entire body goes rigid.

  "You paid some creep to spy on me? What the fuck is wrong with you? Did he know your plans for me? You’re sick." Every word makes the bile in my throat rise further, and I basically spit the last sentence at him. I’m beyond caring if I make him angry. However, I’m not prepared for his next action. I’m ready to tear past him when Nate places a hand on my forearm and stops me in my tracks. Instead of getting mad for disrespecting and verbally attacking him, he looks at me with understanding.