by Hart, Stella
“What the fuck have you gotten me into, Logan?” he asked. I could hear him furiously typing again.
I rubbed my jaw. “I didn’t get you into anything. I’m just trying to figure out what really happened to Willow’s dad.”
“He’s the president’s husband. If someone killed him and covered it up, they must be high-level operatives. I don’t want to be involved in that shit.”
“Calm down. Nothing’s going to happen to you,” I said. I started pacing up and down the wardrobe. “Do you think they took photos of the real body?”
“If he was actually murdered, then yes. They would’ve taken photos as proof to show to the person who ordered the kill before they cremated the body to destroy the evidence.”
“Could you find those photos?”
Connor let out an exasperated sigh. “I already got the hell out of the morgue’s system, just in case, and I wouldn’t be able to do that anyway, for obvious reasons. Why the fuck would they upload the real photos?”
“Good point,” I muttered, hitting my forehead with the heel of my palm. “Fuck. What about security cameras?”
“Huh?”
“Do any of the morgue rooms have CCTV cameras in them?”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“If they do, you could hack into their security system and have a look at today’s log. They might not have wiped all the footage yet, but they probably will soon, so you’d need to look now.”
Connor snorted irately. “I’m not gonna do that, Logan.”
I stiffened. “Why not?”
“I told you, I can’t get involved in this shit. Not now that I know there’s actually something seriously fucked up going on. It’s too dangerous. I have a wife and kid.”
“And I have a traumatized fiancée whose father was just murdered.”
“Sorry. Can’t risk it.”
I let out a short, frustrated sigh. “I really didn’t want to resort to this, man, but if you don’t do this for me, I’ll tell your wife about all of your Wonderland visits.”
He went quiet for a moment. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he finally said. All traces of friendliness had vanished from his voice.
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to. I just really need to know what happened to Stephen. For Willow.”
“Fine. Fuck.” He started banging away at his keyboard again, muttering curse words under his breath. “Okay, they do have cameras, so I can try to find something. But I swear to god, I’m packing my shit up and moving to Canada after this.”
“I don’t blame you.”
He kept typing on his end. “This’ll probably take a while. I’ll let you know if and when I find anything, okay?”
He hung up before I could respond. I didn’t mind. I deserved it.
I went back out to the bedroom and returned to Willow’s side. She looked exhausted, chin lowered to her chest and hands limp on her lap. When she finally realized I was with her again, she turned her flat gaze to me. “Were you right?” she asked. “Was he murdered?”
“I’m pretty sure he was, yeah. But I still don’t have any proof.”
“Shit.” With that, Willow erupted in another flood of tears, chest rising and falling in harsh, shaky breaths.
“We’re gonna figure this out, okay?” I muttered, pulling her into my arms again. “I just need some more time.”
She let out a wrenching sob, and I pulled her closer and stroked her head. As I held her, it occurred to me that I wouldn’t have even considered showing her an ounce of kindness or giving her any comfort just a few short months ago. Not for a second.
Now I couldn’t even imagine being so cold and heartless. I genuinely felt terrible about everything she was going through. She’d lost so much already, and everything seemed to keep getting worse and worse for her.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered against the shell of her ear. “I’m so sorry.”
I stayed in the same spot for over two hours, but it flew by in what felt like an instant. It was easy to lose track of time when I had Willow nestled in my arms, sweet-smelling head pressed against my chest.
There was a knock at the door just before eight. “Come in,” I called out.
A maid stepped inside. She was holding a cardboard box. “A man brought this here for you, sir,” she said. “I don’t know what it is. He said only you could open it.”
“Thanks.” I got up and took the box before ordering her out of the room.
Willow sat up straight. “What is that?”
“I don’t know yet. Let me look.”
“What if it’s a bomb?”
I shook my head. “It’s not a bomb. It’s way too light for that.”
She watched me from the bed with wide eyes as I put the box down on the coffee table and carefully ripped the tape off the top. When it was open, the first thing I saw was a lined piece of paper; a note in Connor’s handwriting.
Didn’t want to send this online just in case. I got into the ME’s security files and watched the footage from this morning. You were right. Two bodies were brought in by some shady-looking dudes in black just after six this morning. When they unzipped the bags, I could see that one was a random drowned guy (no idea who), and the other was Stephen Rhoades.
They put him on a slab, took a load of photos, took some hair, fingernail and blood samples (I guess for DNA to test against family members to prove he was really there and really dead) and then they took him down to the crematorium. With the other guy, they did an autopsy and then sent him to the crematorium too. He’s the one they’re saying is actually Stephen in the official report.
I’m giving you a flash drive with the important parts of the footage, and I printed off a bunch of screenshots too.
PS. Burn everything after you’re done looking.
PPS. Fuck you for getting me into this. Don’t ask me for a favor ever again.
Beneath the note was the flash drive and the printed screenshots. I leafed through the pictures first, stomach heaving as a sour taste appeared in my mouth.
Even though Willow’s father was tall when he was alive, he looked small and fragile on the big silver morgue table. It was clear that he hadn’t drowned several days ago like the authorities were claiming.
His torso and legs were mottled with bruises, and there were two stab wounds on the right side of his neck. His lips had been sewn shut with thick black thread, and in the center of his chest, there was a symbol in the shape of the Order’s Eye of Providence. It had been burned right into the skin.
All of the injuries looked fresh. That meant he’d probably been beaten, stabbed, and branded only a few hours before these photos were taken. However, someone—most likely Q—wanted his demise to look like a suicide, and they also wanted it to look like it happened right after he vanished from the parade. Hence the drowned decoy body; some unfortunate soul who’d been dragged into the whole thing in order to cover up the murder. Probably a homeless person they figured no one would miss.
“Fuck,” I muttered, shaking my head.
“What is it?” Willow asked.
“Photos of your dad,” I said, glancing up at her.
“He’s definitely dead, isn’t he?” she said in a resigned tone.
I nodded. “Sorry.”
She closed her eyes for a few seconds and took a long, deep breath. Then she straightened her shoulders and looked me in the eye. “Can you show me?”
“I really don’t think you should look at this stuff.”
“Let me see. Please.”
I picked up the box and took it over to the bed. “You sure?”
She nodded. “I doubt it’s any worse than what I’m already picturing,” she said. Before I could reply, she held up a hand and went on. “I can tell it’s bad by the look on your face. Just let me see. Please. Otherwise it’ll drive me crazy.”
I relented and set the box down, watching her face carefully as she began to pick through the pictures.
“Oh my god,” she whispered, reco
iling at the first close-ups.
“I’m sorry, Willow.”
She took another deep, shaky breath. “This was the Order, wasn’t it?”
“It certainly appears that way.”
“So Q lied to you when he said the body-drop at the parade was just a warning to stop him from going to the media.”
“Yeah, I’d say so. It was probably more like a warning that they were about to grab him. Something big and elaborate just to fuck with his head,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. “Q clearly loves doing that. Loves making people feel weak and powerless compared to him.”
“That’s why Dad vanished into the crowd so fast. He knew it was coming. He was trying to run.”
“But they caught up with him eventually.”
She blinked rapidly, fending off more brimming tears. “It looks like they kept him and tortured him for days before they finally decided to kill him,” she said, tracing a fingertip over one of the photos. “Most of these bruises and cuts look fresh, but a few others look older. See?”
I looked closer. “You’re right. I didn’t even notice that.”
She leaned forward and rubbed her temples. “This is so fucked up.”
“I know.”
“What can I even do about it?” she said in a low murmur, shoulders sagging. “I can’t try to get justice for him, because I can’t trust anyone I talk to. Not unless you count my brother, but he’s ten. He can’t do anything.”
“You can trust me,” I said, grabbing one of her hands and entwining her fingers with mine.
She didn’t reply. She just lowered her gaze to the box and pressed her lips into a flat line.
I squeezed her hand tighter. “Look, I know I’ve hurt you and done horrible shit to you, but I’ve never lied to you, have I?”
“I guess not.”
“So you can trust me. I swear.”
She rubbed the side of her head again. “How did things get to this point?” she asked, nose twitching as she attempted to sniff back a fresh set of tears. “How are you the only person I can trust in the whole world?”
“I know. It’s fucked up,” I said softly, shaking my head. “But I promise I’m going to help you. No matter what it takes, we’re going to get to the bottom of this.”
“Not if Q kills us first,” she muttered. “Like my father.”
“That’s not going to happen,” I said, brows pulling into a deep frown. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”
With a tired sigh, she lay down and closed her eyes. “I can’t deal with this,” she muttered.
“You don’t have to. I’ll take care of everything,” I said, grabbing a pillow. I stuck it under her head and rested my palm on her forehead. Her skin was pale but hot to the touch. “I know this is going to sound impossible, considering everything that’s happened, but you should try to get some sleep.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sleep again. Not unless someone sticks a shot of morphine in me.”
“Just try,” I insisted, pulling a chenille blanket over her legs. “You’re going to feel like shit for a long time, but getting rest and proper food will help a bit. Trust me. I know from experience.”
She nodded defeatedly and pulled the blanket all the way over her head. At the same time, my phone began to vibrate in my pocket.
Assuming it was Connor, I answered it without checking the caller ID. “Did you find something else?”
A feminine voice replied. “Huh?”
“Nothing. Sorry. Who is this?”
“Cleo. I got your number from Connor, remember?”
“Oh. Right. What’s up?”
She hesitated. “I was just wondering about the saliva sample you gave me earlier. Is there any chance someone else used the straw? Apart from the guy you got it from, I mean.”
“No.”
“Are you absolutely positive?” she asked. “No one else touched it at all?”
“Well, I assume whoever put the straw in the water bottle would’ve touched it, so there might’ve been fingerprints or germs from that,” I said, brows furrowing. “But I used gloves when I touched it, and I put it straight in a Ziploc bag, so I didn’t get anything on it.”
“In that case, I’m officially confused.”
“Why?”
“Well, I haven’t started sequencing or analyzing the DNA from the sample yet—like I said, that can take weeks—but there’s one pretty major thing I can tell you right off the bat just from taking a quick initial look at it.”
“What?”
She launched into an explanation, and my jaw dropped more and more with every word out of her mouth. When she was done, my mind had gone so numb with confusion that I couldn’t even find the words to thank her for calling. I simply slipped the phone back in my pocket and stared out the window, eyes wide with shock.
I was wrong about everything. So fucking wrong.
There was no way the saliva sample came from my father. No way any of my theories about him were even remotely correct at this point. He wasn’t Q.
Q was a woman.
17
Willow
Rays of winter sunlight peeked through the curtains on my right, and from somewhere near one of the other windows, a bird chirped and trilled. With a slight groan, I buried my head under the pillow, wanting nothing but complete silence and darkness.
Six days had passed since my father’s death. Six days that seemed to last forever and blend together in a million shades of gray, drowning me in misery and exhaustion.
I didn’t want to get out of bed. I didn’t want to move at all. It took all the strength I had just to get up and take a shower each morning, and if Logan wasn’t around to make me eat and drink, I probably would’ve starved to death by now.
I’d only left my room once since I heard the news, and that was for the funeral yesterday. My mother had elected to have a small private service in a church near our old house in Annapolis, and after it was over, she scattered his ashes in a garden he once loved.
I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to stand there without my little brother, who still didn’t know our father was dead, and I didn’t want to pretend that I actually believed Dad committed suicide when I knew the terrible truth.
Despite my reluctance, Logan made me go. He told me I would regret it forever if I didn’t. I knew he was right, so I grudgingly let him drag me out of the room and all the way to Annapolis, and I let him hold me all the way through the service.
Now that it was over, it felt like it hadn’t even happened. When I tried to remember who was there and what was said about my father, it felt like I was looking at a blurry silent film, and the more I thought about it, the worse it got until the whole thing just faded away. Someone might’ve asked me to speak at some point, but I wasn’t sure if I actually said anything, or what was said if I did. It couldn’t be bad, though. Logan wouldn’t let anything bad happen.
He’d been an amazing support to me over the last week. I never thought I’d hear myself saying something like that about a guy like him, but it was true. Aside from the funeral, he hadn’t made me go anywhere or do anything, apart from the obvious things like bathing and eating. He’d let me curl up in bed and hide under the blankets as much as I wanted, and he’d woken up to comfort me whenever I started crying hysterically at two, three, or four in the morning. Every damn time.
There were a lot of tears, and they didn’t seem to be drying up anytime soon.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my father’s death was my fault. Deep down, I knew I shouldn’t feel guilty at all, but the insidious thoughts seeped in anyway, filling me with cold washes of remorse.
I kept wondering what would’ve happened if I’d actually decided to forgive Dad for selling me to the Thornes. If that happened, would he have tried to betray the Order for my sake? Would they have killed him?
The answer was obviously no, and that was exactly why I felt so terribly guilty.
> The logical side of my brain kept telling me to turn those feelings off, because my father never should’ve begged for my forgiveness or tried to fix the situation in the first place.
He sold me. Fucking sold me. Who could ever forgive such a heinous action, and how could the relationship ever be truly repaired, no matter what was done to fix it? Even if he’d destroyed the Order, voided the marriage contract, and brought me home, it wouldn’t change what he’d done twenty-one years ago. It wouldn’t fix anything. It would simply be a Band-Aid on a gaping wound, and I would still hate him and resent him for the rest of my life.
The not-so-logical side of my brain kept reminding me that I didn’t truly hate him, though. I’d tried my hardest to despise him all these months, and I’d tried to tell myself I wished he was dead and out of my life forever, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t true. In the end, he was still my dad, and I knew those old feelings would never go away.
That knowledge made the guilt sweep in all over again, and then the cycle of regret and self-hatred continued, making me sink deeper and deeper into despair.
I let out a groan and scrunched my eyes shut, sliding deeper under the blankets as the birdsong outside grew louder. I had a splitting headache, and the high-pitched sound wasn’t helping.
A moment later, someone knocked on the door. Logan answered it, and then I heard faint voices out in the hall.
Logan returned to my side after a minute or so. “Hey, are you awake?” he asked softly, peeling back the blanket.
“No,” I mumbled.
“Your psychotherapist friend is here. With everything that’s been going on, I totally forgot to cancel your appointment with her.”
I rolled over and looked at him. “Myla’s here right now?”
He nodded. “She said she figured we’d want to cancel, but she wanted to check just in case. I think she also wants to see how you are.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll tell her to go.”
I took a deep breath, sat up, and rubbed my aching head. “No. Don’t,” I said.
“Why?”
I bit my lip and looked down at my clasped hands. “I… I want her to help with my memories. Like we planned.”