by Danah Logan
"Rhys is not going to answer his phone for a while," George interjects, watching the living room feed closely.
An idea starts forming, and I turn to my brother. "My phone is untraceable, correct?"
He squints at me. "Yes, what do you—" He’s unable to finish his question.
I’ve already hit dial and pressed the speaker button. Three sets of eyes are glued to the device in my hand.
Come on, come on, come on.
"Hello?" a hesitant voice comes through the phone.
"WES!"
Oh, thank God.
"Lilly?" Rhys’s best friend squeaks.
Nate slaps his forehead and gives me a what-the-fuck look, and I avert my eyes, focusing on the conversation.
"Hey, um…I need you to do something for me."
"Wha—?" Poor Wes has never handled surprises well, and I don't have time to explain either.
"Listen, I’m sorry I’m calling like this. I need you to go to my house and get Rhys to answer his phone. Don’t call him. You need to go over in person."
"Bu—?"
Oh, for Christ’s sake.
"WES!"
"Lilly?"
"Yes," I sigh. "Tell Rhys I called you. But only when you two are alone. My parents can’t know."
When he doesn't say anything, I add, "Please, Wes!"
"Okay." His response is only a whisper.
I hang up.
"WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?" Nate roars at me.
"Miss Lilly, that was not wise," George adds, calmer, but his anger with my rash decision is clear.
"We need to figure out what happened, and we can't just call the house phone and ask for Rhys," I defend myself.
My brother throws his arms up. I brace myself for more shouting, but instead, he storms out of the room.
I chance a glance at George, who remains mute. He must see something on my face, because his expression gentles. "Give your brother time to calm down. He is worried about you. This took us all by surprise."
I’m not sure if by "this" he means the news or my call, so I stay quiet. I hope I didn't make a mistake. Sitting down, I watch the security feed on the wall monitors. I should probably Google myself to find out what is being reported, but I'm not ready yet.
Ten minutes later, Nate walks back in and plants himself in the chair next to mine. George has moved to the couch and is looking at something on his phone.
None of us talk until George announces, "Weston is on the move, heading toward the McGuire residence."
So that’s what he’s been doing.
Sure enough, not long after, Wes’s red 4Runner pulls up and parks behind the black SUVs in the driveway. I hold my breath as I watch Rhys’s best friend make his way into the house—walking straight in. All eyes are on him, and Rhys and Heather jump up from the couch, Heather's hand on Rhys’s forearm as they face the newcomer.
Wes says something. I can’t see Rhys’s expression, but I notice Heather nod at him. Both boys make their way upstairs.
Nate enlarges the camera in Rhys’s room to full screen, but when neither of them shows up, I frantically search the remaining feed. Rhys and Wes are in my bedroom, and a blush creeps up my cheeks.
What are they doing?
Not that I have anything to hide in there, but seeing the two boys in my private space…my face, neck, and ears feel like I just opened the door to an oven.
We switch to that frame, and I recognize my name on Wes’s lips. Rhys darts into my closet and emerges with—what the hell? He has my purple satin grip bag in one hand, and he latches onto Wes’s arm in passing, dragging him into my bathroom.
"Uh, little sister, why is your boyfriend and his best friend going into your bathroom with sex toys?"
My head whips to my brother. "WHAT?" I shriek, then it clicks, and I smack him across the head. "That’s my grip bag." When he just raises an eyebrow, I slap him again. "For gymnastics, you moron."
"Ohhh." He grins. "Not my fault that it looks like the, uh…gift I gave Margot for our second anniversary."
I cover my face. "Oh my God, just shut up. Rhys probably used it to hide the phone." I keep the duh to myself.
I hear a snort from the couch, and even George can’t keep it together. Thankfully, that’s the moment my phone starts vibrating on the desk.
Before I can answer, Nate snatches it and swipes, pressing the device to his ear. "This better not have been you or your little friends!" His tone is calculated, and I recognize how my brother is running through several scenarios in his head. He listens and nods to himself. "How do you know?" Pause. Another nod. "Okay, keep me posted. Here." Nate hands me the phone, and I give him the evil eye.
"Rhys?"
"Hey, babe! Sounds like he is not too happy right now." Rhys’s tone is subdued, and I hear water running in the background.
"This, yeah…this was quite a shock."
"No, shit!" I hear Wes’s muffled voice.
"Am I on speakerphone?" My heart rate picks up.
"No! Do you think I’m an idiot?" Rhys huffs. "Wes has one of my headphones."
Wes heard Nate talking. Oh my gosh, this is getting worse by the minute.
"Did he hear…" I trail off.
Instead of Rhys, Wes answers coolly, "I did. You have a helluva lot to explain."
SHIT!
"I will," I mumble. Glancing over at Nate, he’s glaring, and I shrink in my seat. "Rhys?"
"Yeah, babe?"
"Tell Wes."
There is silence on the other end.
"Maybe Den as well, while you’re at it. But only if there is no chance of anyone overhearing you."
George jumps up from the couch, staring at me. He shows no expression whatsoever, which is worse than the way Nate glowers at me. He is close to blowing a gasket. Holding George's gaze, a cold shiver runs down my spine.
"Uh, are you sure?" Rhys also seems to think I’ve lost my mind.
"Wes?" I address him directly.
"Here."
"Can we trust you?"
"You kidding me?"
Why is everyone so angry with me? I’m the one who got freaking kidnapped.
A red haze starts forming in front of my eyes. "No, I am not kidding. This. Is. My. Life."
"Of course you can trust me, Lil." Wes is himself again.
"Thank you." I exhale slowly. "Then yes, Rhys, I am sure."
"Okay."
"He’s going to catch you up. You guys need to get out of my bathroom before someone comes looking."
Rhys chuckles, but Wes’s reaction is less amusing.
"How does she—?"
"Don’t ask, man." Then Rhys addresses me one more time. "I’ll be in touch later. Love you."
"Love you more."
Wes and Nate simultaneously make a gagging sound, and I hang up.
For the next couple hours, we try to make sense of what happened. Rhys told Nate that they were just as surprised as we were. One of the agents got a call, followed by several more suits showing up at the house with screeching tires. Tristen had been on the phone with the different news channels for hours, dodging questions and, at the same time, trying to figure out how they got their information. I'm not surprised that he won't let the FBI handle it. One fact that no one has caught on to yet: I am not a McGuire. And I wonder how long that will take, given the fact that the whole incest thing is all over social media.
Nate can identify the first report, and almost all the news channels followed suit, reporting mostly the same. Some used my most recent yearbook photo, others one from a gymnastics meet that is posted on Butler's website. The news started calling Nate "The Babysitter," as he treated all the girls like he was just watching them for a while. The nickname seems to be what gets to him the most. At one point, he excuses himself without an explanation and leaves. We're in the middle of another news video, and I pause it, watching the door close behind my brother.
Unsure what to do, I look at George, who nods at me. I push myself out of the chair and
go after my brother. I find him two floors down, swimming laps. Looking at the pile of clothes on the floor, I squint at my brother, butterflying his way through the pool with violent strokes. He didn't even take his jeans off.
This could take a while.
Eventually, Nate changes to freestyle but doesn't slow down for a good twenty minutes. When he pulls himself out of the water, his chest is heaving, and he leaves a trail of water on the floor, walking to the lounger next to mine. He lowers himself down, facing my chair, and I mimic his position, our knees almost touching. Head in his hands, he's leaning on his thighs, and neither of us speaks.
"I’m sorry."
Nate's pained voice startles me. We've sat in silence for so long that his whisper sounds like yelled words inside an echo chamber.
I reach over and pry one of his hands away from his head, trying to catch his eyes.
"What for?" I ask carefully.
My brother looks up, holding my gaze. "If I weren’t so fucked up in the head, none of this would’ve ever happened."
I think that over and choose to give him the truth. "That’s true. But we can’t change the past. All we can do is deal with it and move forward. As a family."
Chapter Thirty
For the last forty-eight hours, Gray has been following every lead I’ve thrown at him. Especially when I stumbled across the social media accounts for one Kat Rosenfield. The rest of the McGuires have never been of interest to me, as long as they kept Lilly alive and away from him. What I didn't take into account was the possibility that they would allow their children to enter into a relationship. It seems to be a relatively recent development, so I consider the possibility of them not being aware of it yet. Though, knowing Tristen, there is no way the kids could’ve kept this from him. There is nothing the man doesn't find out. All they had to do was keep Lilly in the dark until the date. What set all these events in motion?
I'm sitting in my office, staring at the white walls. There are no pictures—anywhere. I like my house clean. Art is distracting; it evokes feelings—a characteristic I no longer value having.
My hand swipes over the top of my glass desk and stops at the keyboard to my silver laptop. Silver, gray, and white—the only shades I tolerate in my space.
Gray's room is full of color, blues and greens with mismatched furniture. I refuse to set foot in it. He can come to me whenever he desires, but I will not engage in any physical contact in that dreadful bedevilment. It's appalling.
I open my untraceable email account, the one I use to contact my source of information that has kept me up to date on him. It's pathetic how easy one can get people to talk if you throw enough money at them. If it's not cash, it's something else. Everyone can be bought.
Gray doesn't know about my informant or him. He is useful on different levels, my tool for many tasks—sex, murder, he makes the most delicious Russian cheesecake—but confiding in him? No. No one is worth my trust. I lost that ability years ago.
It's time to change the story.
My dearest friend,
We have a problem, and I am incredibly disappointed. You know what happens when I am not satisfied with your performance.
You are being compensated very generously in the currency of your choosing. May I remind you that I can change this instantly by sending an anonymous message to our mutual acquaintance?
It is in your best interest to execute this next task precisely as I will outline in the attached file. I want the information to be broadcasted by every news station by the end of the day tomorrow.
Failure to complete the request will end our very lucrative arrangement, effective immediately, and I will have my associate pay you a visit to collect.
Chapter Thirty-One
Dad issued a press release.
The chime of the incoming text wakes me, and I squint at the clock in the corner of the screen, trying to clear the fog in my brain. 5:37. Rubbing my eyes, I read the words over and over. Press release. Press…release. I drop the device onto the comforter and sit up in a jerked motion. Tristen issued a press release. I throw the covers back and dash out of my bedroom and across the second floor.
Placing my index and middle finger on the small glass panel, I immediately raise myself on my tiptoes to reach the retina scanner—this was not designed for short people.
Come on, come on, come on.
I rattle off my string of words as soon as the mic is exposed and push the door open. The NCC is empty, and I stand in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do. Goosebumps appear on my bare legs and arms. Looking down, realization sets in that I'm just wearing a pair of sleep shorts and a tank top.
Finding more clothes or my brother? Another full-on body shiver decides for me—clothes first. I race back to my room and grab a pair of gray sweats and a white hoodie from the dresser. Pants on, I start speed-walking out of my room, sweatshirt halfway over my head, and slam into something solid. Owww.
Pushing my head through the opening, I look around, disoriented. I ran straight into the door frame. Rubbing the bump on my forehead, I wince and look at my hand; red stains my fingertips. Beautiful. I managed to aim perfectly at my almost healed cut.
It’s too early for any of this.
Dressed and with a wad of paper towel pressed against my forehead, I set off to find my brother. After checking the gym, library, and even the kitchen, I make my way back to the office—nothing. He is usually long awake at this time. The possibility of him sleeping didn't even occur to me until I stare at the empty desk chair.
Knocking gently, I push the door to Nate's bedroom open. A gap between the curtains lets enough moonlight in for me to identify his sprawled-out form in the king-size bed. I watch him from the door. One arm is draped over his head; the other rests on top of the navy comforter over his chest. His features are relaxed for the first time in days, and I don't have the heart to wake him.
We didn’t leave the pool area until George came for us, and then we finished going over the news reports for the rest of the night. The entire time, Nate was withdrawn, no snarky remarks—very unlike the big brother I've gotten to know.
Closing the door, I make my way back to the computer room.
We received an exclusive statement from the agent in charge assigned to Lilly McGuire’s second disappearance. Miss McGuire has been missing for the past ten days after her totaled Jeep Wrangler was discovered on the side of the road between Westbridge, Virginia and the neighboring town of Fallsbrook. It is confirmed that Lilly McGuire was indeed the first victim of The Babysitter, a perpetrator who has kidnapped five girls between the ages of five and seven in the last ten years. Miss McGuire was abducted at age six, during a field trip to the San Diego Zoo, and reappeared at a hospital in Santa Rosa, California several days later. Miss McGuire had no recollection of the time she had been held captive and was released into the custody of Col. Tristen McGuire, USMC, and his wife, corporate attorney at Webb, Sinclair, and Sinclair, Heather McGuire, who later adopted the girl. The statement did not reveal why there was never a missing person's report filed for either kidnapping or where Miss McGuire’s birth parents are. We will keep you updated on the case as the authorities release more information.
Or you start digging into my personal life.
I pause the video and sit back, exhaling slowly. It's just a matter of time before someone figures out my birth name and who my biological parents are—well, mother, since I doubt they'd be able to track down Brooks.
I pull out my phone and send Rhys a text.
Why did T issue the statement now? They already reported yesterday that I was the first.
As expected, there is no reply. The door behind me opens, and George walks in with a travel mug. Handing it over, he sits down in Nate's chair.
"He's still sleeping?"
I nod and raise my eyebrow, glancing at the mug in my hand.
"I assumed you wanted your morning tea."
I smirk. "How did you know I didn’t already have it?"
I must've resembled a telescope eye, because he winks. "You've been using the same thermos every day, and it was still sitting in the kitchen."
Oh.
Instead of continuing this trivial conversation, I move on to the more pressing topic at hand. "Did you see the news?"
"I have."
"Why now?" I whisper.
George thinks that over before responding. "If it were me, I would want to get ahead of the press—before they start digging into your personal life."
I bark out a laugh. "They'll still dig. I mean, the statement basically told them that something happened to or with my birth parents. They never reported me missing."
"That is true. However, I believe the press release was not meant to deal with that part of your past. If your brother couldn't find that information, the press definitely won’t." He pauses for a breath. "I've been following Miss Rosenfield's online activities since last week. She's been busy. She’s asked around if anyone has heard from Rhys, putting out speculations as to why neither you nor your boyfriend have been to school. And my favorite, why Weston is, all of a sudden, acting as if his dick is permanently shoved down Miss Keller’s STD-infested mouth."
Offended on my friends' behalf, my nose scrunches. "That. Is. Disgusting." Tilting my head to the side, I add, "And it doesn’t even make sense!"
"Miss Rosenfield's words, not mine." George's disdain is as visible as the white line across his face. Not making eye contact, he continues, "The social media posts with the photograph have increased as well."
That damn picture.
"Do I want to know what’s being said about me?" I have a pretty good guess. Having gone to school with Katherine for the past three years, I’ve witnessed how she operates. It never ends well for the target of her obsession.