by Danah Logan
I settle in the middle of the pile of papers and start pulling individual pieces out. They’re all handwritten letters from Emily to Brooks, dating back over several years. I briefly wonder why she would write by hand instead of emailing him but then dismiss the thought. It’s not really important. I start putting them in order until I have a neat pile in front of me. Then, I begin to read.
The very first one is dated eight months before I was born. Emily tells Brooks how glad she is that she visited Heather during her conference, and she never thought she'd meet someone like him, how much she misses him, etcetera. At the mention of Heather’s name, my heart rate doubles. Did she know? Emily was Heather’s best friend. According to Rhys’s recollection, Emily and Henry were already married at the time, which means she cheated on her husband. What kind of woman was Emily? Rage surges up inside of me, and I fight the urge to rip the piece of paper to shreds. I read each letter in detail and, based on the way Emily phrased things, it's clear they contained pictures. I wonder if seeing them would trigger more memories. Emily mentions how tall I’ve grown and the uncanny resemblance to "my father." She means Brooks, not Henry—her husband. The dates are pretty spaced out, and I’m starting to understand where Nate was coming from. They are superficial; if someone—Payton, for example—would find them, it just seems that Emily kept Brooks up to date on his illegitimate daughter. But nothing points toward the affair still being ongoing.
When I’m through all of them, I sit back and lean against the back of the couch. I’ve learned more about myself, but nothing of consequence about Emily and Brooks’s relationship. I know that I had a teddy named Bobo that came from Brooks and that I never let it out of my sight. I have to ask Rhys if he remembers that teddy. Apparently, I also got my peach allergy from Brooks. Interesting. In one letter, Emily describes that I’m getting more and more daring, playing with Heather’s son, climbing trees, balancing on the top of the swing set, and that she thinks she should enroll me in gymnastics. That makes me smile because it relates to two of my favorites—Rhys and gymnastics.
It’s the type of information I’ve been hoping to learn about myself, but the fact that I find it here, in the house my half-brother brought me to against my will, is almost comical.
My stomach starts growling, and I look over the back of the couch. The clock on one of the shelves shows it’s almost five in the morning. I decide to take a break to get some caffeine and food. At home, it’s already past my usual breakfast time.
Home. Rhys. God, I hope Nate comes through with the call today.
Twenty minutes later, I’m back in my spot; next to me is a steaming mug of tea and a plate with yet another muffin. I’ve consumed more carbs in the last three months than in the past few years.
Pulling open the drawer to the left to see what kind of files this one hides, I start taking out stacks of yellow manila folders. The first few are annual tax returns, nothing of interest to me.
The fifth folder, however, draws my attention. The first page is a bank statement, Brooks’s name on the top, and initially, I don’t think anything of it. My eyes scan over it, and most transactions are your usual day-to-day expenses—gas station charges, little amounts for something that looks like a coffee house. Nothing out of the ordinary until my gaze stops at a number with way too many zeros. This can’t be a regular expense. Brooks transferred fifteen thousand dollars to an account that’s only listed with an account number. No merchant or accountholder name. Every other transaction is meticulously labeled with some information on what the charge is for. I flip to the next statement, and there it is—same date of the month, same amount. Brooks transfers the same amount every month for two years from what looks like his personal bank account. Every so often, there is an even more significant number coming in. I make a note to ask Nate about that later. After the two years, the amount increased to twenty-five thousand dollars.
Where does he get that kind of money as a patent attorney?
I set the bank statements aside to not mix them up with the rest of the pile and focus on the next yellow folder. I find the closing documents for a house in Los Angeles dated around the time Nate was born. Not relevant. Moving on.
I pull several financial documents and legal papers from the next folder. Audrey’s name is on the top of the first stack neatly stapled at the corner, and further reading reveals that it’s a trust fund Payton and Brooks set up for her. I flip to the following one, and my hands freeze. There, in black and white, is my name. Not my current name but my birth name: Lilly Ann Sumner.
What. The. Fuck?
My hands shake while I turn the pages. When I come to the page that contains the amount of the trust fund, I drop the entire stack. My hands fly to my mouth, and I’m sure my eyes are about to pop out of their sockets. This can’t be real.
"Holy shit!" I whisper against my hands.
Gingerly picking the pages back up, I sit there staring at it. My brain has stopped processing information; all I can do is count the black digits over and over.
I must’ve stayed like this for quite some time because, all of a sudden, I hear the door open, and Nate stumbles around the couch.
"There you are." The last word is drawn out as he yawns. I can’t peel my eyes away from the paper. My hands are clasped around it so tightly that it’s starting to wrinkle.
"Lilly? What is it?" He squats down next to me and tries to catch my eye. But I can’t look away. Ten million dollars. TEN. MILLION. DOLLARS. There must be a mistake. Where did Brooks get that kind of money?
Finally, I’m able to turn my head; my eyes remain glued to the number until I can’t see it anymore, and then my gaze meets Nate’s. Eyes narrowed, he’s trying to figure out what’s wrong with me.
Carefully, like handing him a bomb, I start extending my arms. Both hands remain wrapped around the pile until Nate pries it from my grasp. He scans the first page, and his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. Seems he wasn’t aware of it either. He flips the first page, second page, third page—bingo. His wide eyes snap to mine and ping-pong between my face and the paper several times before he ungracefully plumps on his butt.
"Ho-ly shit!"
A giggle bubbles up in my throat, and his focus is back on me, narrowing his eyes as if to assess if I’ve finally lost it.
"We"—more giggles—"we tru-ly are re-la-ted." My hands are covering my mouth to hide my idiotic expression.
"Yes?" His head slants to the side.
The giggles subside and I explain, "I had the exact same reaction. It’s pretty funny, given the circumstances." I shrug one shoulder and smirk.
Nate’s mouth tilts up in the corner. "I guess so."
"What does this mean?" I nod toward the papers in his hands. I feel like I am back in control of my thoughts.
"This"—he waves the document in front of me—"means that you, little sister, are rich!"
Why? How?
Nate keeps scanning the pages, and his eyes widen several times before his gaze settles back on me.
"I stand corrected. You are more than rich."
"WHAT!" I tear the pages from his hand and flip through it. I have no clue what I’m looking for, though. My gaze swivels back to him. "What does it say?"
"We need to find my father’s will. But if this document is accurate, your trust fund has been accumulating for the last fifteen years, plus there is one passage that refers to his wealth if something would happen to him."
"But—" Words leave me. I’m back in shock mode.
Nate rubs his face. "Here is what we’re going to do. First, I need to prepare your call; give me a few hours to set everything up. Then, we will tear this fucking library apart and find out what was really going on ten years ago." The anger in his voice sends a shiver down my spine.
"You’ll still let me call Rhys?" I sound hesitant, almost timid.
"I told you I would, didn’t I?" He looks genuinely offended.
"You did…but I figured…" I trail off.
Nate p
laces his hand under my chin and makes sure I look straight at him. "Lilly, you are my sister. My only living relative, and when I tell you I will do something for you, I will do it, no matter what. Okay?"
The seriousness in his tone causes my pulse to increase.
Chapter Nine
Nate leaves me alone in the library with the promise to get the call ready as quickly as possible. I keep sifting through two more drawers before I give up and trudge back to my room to shower and change.
All clean, I want to lie down for a minute to rest my eyes, but I must’ve been more tired than I thought because I wake up with the sun high in the sky.
That’s what you get for waking up in the middle of the night.
I make my way across the second floor—not the kitchen—to Nate’s spy center.
Knocking once, I don’t have to wait long. I look him up and down and burst out laughing. What the—? He is still wearing the pajama pants he slumped into the library with, but up top, he wears a crisp white cufflink shirt with a navy-blue tie, his blond hair styled impeccably.
He scowls at me. "I had to take a call from the board of directors."
That immediately dampens my amusement. If Nate was working, he wasn’t setting up my call. He picks up on the shift of my mood and opens the door wider for me to step in.
Every single monitor is lit up. The top three show a dozen different security-camera feeds from all across the estate. Looking closer, I can see the pictures change every so often to a news feed.
How many cameras are on this property?
The bottom three show different news channels, as well as something—I’m guessing, the stock exchange? But to be honest, I have no idea. Lots of numbers and graphs, totally over my head.
My gaze swings to the desk, and the remaining laptop—the one that didn’t end up against the wall—has some sort of documents displayed. The two other monitors have…what is that? Command line windows? I turn to Nate, who watches me take everything in. He doesn’t hide anything this time; he lets me see it all.
"I’m sorry I’m not done. Hank called with an urgent issue that couldn't wait. But I should be done soon."
"How long have you known Hank?"
"He’s been with me since the day I took over. He was an intern at the time and worked his way up. His grandfather was a friend of mine. He can be a pain in the ass, but he’s been a good friend. All the senior guys still see me as the…" He leaves the sentence hanging. He’s referring to his stay at the mental hospital.
Maybe they’re not so far off, given the fact that…
"Does Hank know?"
Nate blinks at me. "About…? Oh. No. He has no idea about you or…" The girls.
I take a deep breath. "Eventually, we have to talk about that."
Silence.
"Yes, we do." Nate looks at his feet. "But let’s get your call done first, okay?"
If we start on the other topic now and you hear what I have to say, I’m not sure I’ll get my call.
"Okay." I try to give him something resembling an encouraging smile, but I’m not sure I succeed.
Settling back behind the desk, Nate’s fingers start flying across the keyboard, and I can see him work in both command line windows simultaneously. The programming courses in school have always come easy to me, and I guess I know now from which side I inherited that trade. I'm not computer illiterate by any means, but seeing Nate at work makes me feel like Grandma Ruth when she decided to use the self-checkout line to save time. None of the produce had a bar code, and, in the end, the poor employee manning the self-scanners ended up being the object of Grandma Ruth's target practice when she whipped celery and carrots at his face, followed by her dropping several F-bombs and leaving without her groceries. To this day, she refuses to set foot into that store again. Chuckling, I shake myself out of the memory and watch Nate, fascinated. I have no clue what he’s doing.
All of a sudden, a phone starts ringing, and I jump. I haven’t heard that sound in so long, and I frantically look for the device. Zeroing in on the desk, I realize it’s not mine, but nonetheless, my heart stops a beat. Taking a step closer, I take in the picture on the screen. A stunningly beautiful woman with an elegant hairdo and evening gown smiles back with brilliant white teeth.
Nate catches me staring and answers my unspoken question. "Margot."
"She’s gorgeous."
He smiles. "She is."
"Don’t you want to get that?"
He hesitates. "Uh, not right now. She probably wants to tell me about all the trouble she and Ce-Ce are causing in the south of France."
"Oh, wow. That uh...that sounds fun. Who is Ce-Ce?" I don’t want to be nosy, but I am. He’s talking openly with me about everything, and I’m soaking it in like a sponge.
"Julian’s fiancée. Celeste. He calls her Ce-Ce, and every so often, I slip and use the nickname. J is the only one getting away with it, though. She hates it." Nate chuckles.
Why does the thought of him having a best friend surprise me? He does have a life despite his, uh…other side. The topic keeps creeping up, and we will cover it in the near future, if I want to or not.
The ringing stops, and Nate clears the screen and starts typing again. A few minutes later, he looks over his shoulder. "I should be done in an hour or two."
Two hours?
I get to talk to Rhys in two hours. My pulse speeds up, and the insides of my palms dampen in anticipation.
When I don’t move, Nate says, "I’ll come find you. You should go eat something; you haven’t had anything since early this morning." And as if on cue, my stomach rumbles.
I guess I could use some nourishment.
That’s where Nate finds me two hours later, as promised. Although, I didn’t eat. I made food, but it’s still sitting untouched in front of me. Before I could take my first bite, I thought about hearing Rhys’s voice, my mouth went dry, and my hands were shaking so bad that I couldn’t bring the fork to my mouth without losing everything on it in the process.
What am I going to say to him? He’s probably worried out of his mind.
"You didn’t eat."
Looking up, Nate drops into his usual chair.
"No."
"Talk to me." Eyebrows knit together, concern is written all over his face.
"I’m scared." It’s a whisper.
"About?"
"What am I going to tell him?"
Nate draws in a breath and exhales slowly while looking out the window. "You’re going to tell him that you will explain everything to him and that you will call him again soon."
"Am I?" I’m too scared to hope.
My brother stretches across the table as if to take my hand, but with the table being the size of a one-bedroom apartment, he can’t reach me and places his hands, palm down, on the table.
"Yes, you will. As for the actual explaining, keep it to a minimum for now."
I contemplate his words. I will talk to Rhys again. I have no reason to doubt Nate’s words.
"Ready?" He looks at me expectantly.
Pushing back from the table, I exhale. "Ready."
I’m sitting on the leather couch with the headset Nate handed me a minute ago.
"You’ll have two minutes."
I raise my eyebrows. "Not thirty seconds?" I’m joking—mostly.
Nate snorts. "I’m better than that. I could give you ten, and they wouldn’t trace the call. But you and I need to work out some things before you have a longer chat with your boyfriend." He says the last part so seriously that I feel slapped in the face.
Has my desire to have a brother clouded my judgment too much?
"Okay, here we go. Stick to what we said earlier."
I nod and put the headset on. My heart is in my throat, and I wipe my palms on my pants. The phone starts ringing in my ear, and my breath hitches. Come on, come on, come on—nothing. Rhys’s voicemail picks up, but before I can even listen to his recording, Nate hangs up and dials again. This repeats two more times,
and I can’t hide my panic.
"He’s not answering. What if something happened to him?"
"Nothing happened to him." Nate speaks with such conviction that I wonder what he’s done to be so sure.
He dials again, and this time, it only rings four times before someone accepts the call. When I don’t hear anything, I look up at Nate, who motions for me to talk with his hand.
"Rhys?"
Please don’t have anyone else pick up his phone.
A strangled sob travels through the earpiece, and my heart breaks into a million shards of glass. What have I done, playing family while my love thinks the worst?
"Are you there?"
Please say something.
"Yes." His response is barely audible, but no matter how low, I would recognize his voice anywhere.
An instant calm settles over me. My anchor. I smile. "Hey."
"Cal, I’m so sor—" I avoid looking at Nate; I’m sure he’s listening in anyway.
"It’s okay. I don’t have much time."
That seems to get Rhys’s attention. "Where are you? Did he hurt you?"
Shit.
Out of the corner of my eye, I note Nate is making a motion to move on. He is listening in.
"I’m fine. That’s why I’m calling. I…I just wanted to let you know that I’m safe. I’m fine." What am I saying? I sound insane.
"What do you mean? Is he threatening you? Where are you? The house was taken over by the FBI; they will find you." He’s getting louder, and I look with wide eyes at Nate.
FBI?
My half-brother gives a casual shrug as if that’s the most normal thing in the world. He knows, and I understand that they have nothing on him. The call is untraceable.
I wonder if they even know that I’m not a McGuire?
"No, they won’t. This call can’t be traced." I exhale slowly. "I…I just wanted to hear your voice. And tell you that I’m okay. I’ll explain everything to you when I see you." I avert my eyes from Nate. He had said call him again, not see.