Dark Secrets: A Paranormal Romance Anthology

by Colleen Gleason

  No, Nicolas concluded, something is definitely wrong. She would never shut me out.

  Nicolas decided they would need to leave right away. He would have his assistant make the arrangements. In the meantime, there was someone he needed to visit first.

  * * *

  29- ALEX

  Alex could make excuses all day about the weather outside, but as long as he was in his house doing nothing, he was as guilty as the St. Andrews boys. Who knows what they’ve done to her due to my inaction, he thought with a shudder.

  “We’re gonna see dat boy on the news one day,” Alex’s mother had said about Jon, years ago. She shook her head, as if there were some things in life that couldn’t be helped. “Poor Claire. One child is hell’s spawn, the other a future serial killer.” Angela Whitman was wrong about a lot of things, but Alex had never forgotten those words. And neither brother had ever done a single thing that would change his opinion for the better. True, Jon was kind to animals, and Finn was always the first to help Mrs. Auslander plow her driveway, but Alex knew even bad people were not all bad. Everyone had something nice you could say about them. His mother had taught him that, too. It was why she never left Alex’s father, Bill, even when he beat her so badly she could no longer stand upright.

  I couldn’t save you, and I couldn’t save the others, but I will save Ana. Alex’s gut told him there was still time. And if there wasn’t, and, God forbid he came too late... well, he would not let Jon or Finn get away with it. He would not fail like Sheriff Horn undoubtedly would standing in Alex’s long-trodden shoes.

  The calls with Nicolas Deschanel were eating at him. There was a change in the man’s voice at the end of their last call, one that made Alex wonder if his lie was really so convincing after all. No matter. He can’t do anything for her. No one is getting on or off this island for a long time.

  The Auslanders radioed him earlier that afternoon, telling him Finn had fired up Andrew’s old snowcat and headed north. Where that boy is goin’ is anyone’s guess, Gertrude said, but Alex was sure he knew. The only thing that would get people out of their homes risking their neck on the roads was a lack of resources. Finn was probably heading toward the town’s food storage, which coincidentally connected with Alex’s property. The island was not large by any means, but those vehicles were slow as mud, and not meant for long treks. He estimated Finn would make it there by late afternoon or nightfall, and returning at that time would be hazardous.

  It was a given Alex would watch for him. The bigger question looming in his mind was whether or not he would offer Finn his hospitality, and give him a room for the night. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t. He had squandered enough time already, and Finn’s trek toward Alex’s backyard would force Alex into action.

  Alex sat upstairs in his study, fidgeting. The window fogged from his hot tea and it made him sleepy. Finn would be here sometime today, and Alex would need to have a plan. And what if Finn wouldn’t make eye contact when he asked if he had seen the girl. Or if Alex shuffled his feet and lost his words? What would Alex do then? Hold Finn against his will? Call the sheriff? Go out to the house himself, where the crazier brother was still holding poor Ana hostage? What then?

  And what if Alex did go with Finn back to the St. Andrews home, attempt to rescue Ana, and she refused his help? She wouldn’t be the first. Alex’s mother had done exactly that, and she learned her lesson the hard way. All those other women, too. He could have helped them, he knew he could have. He would have done anything to save them. But how do you save someone from themselves?

  Ana was different. He knew she was; she had to be. There was no doubt in his mind. But then, why was he covered in sweat, pacing endlessly? If it were true, why had he not gone over there immediately, and demanded answers?

  No, he told himself. She is the one. She has to be. She’s the one I will finally save…

  * * *

  30- AUGUSTUS

  Augustus could not decide which emotion was most overwhelming at the moment: anger, frustration, or worry. Anger and frustration were easier. He experienced both on a daily basis at the office. When he was angry, he was, if nothing else, in control. He could decide when he was ready for the anger to subside, and move on. There was no confusion or hesitation, just a realization and a decision, followed by action. This methodical approach to emotions summed up almost everything one needed to know about Augustus Deschanel.

  Worry, on the other hand… worry was full of holes; full of unknowns and things Augustus had absolutely no control over. His thoughts would take over, start spiraling in dangerous directions, and then the anger would return, because nothing angered him more than being out of control.

  Over a week was a long time not to hear from his daughter. She could be peculiar at times, but she was always good to her family. This was the girl who had technically lived on campus but stayed at home most nights, even after she joined her sorority. The child who used to fall asleep in his study because she’d rather be close to him even if he was working. The young lady who had called him when her boyfriend had become too friendly. She didn’t call Nicolas, she called Daddy. She was introspective, and maybe even challenging at times, but she was deeply connected to her father.

  She was either being uncharacteristically selfish or something was wrong. Believing she was being selfish was easier. Anger was controllable, and temporary. At the end of it, he could yell at her, shame her, and even threaten to disown her, but there was a start and end, both of which he could control. If something was wrong, then sitting in an empty skyscraper in the Central Business District of New Orleans made him about as useful as that intern he fired today.

  “If you are fine and just being a brat, I am going to kill you,” he muttered as he picked up the phone once again. He sighed as he set it down, without reaching her.

  “I thought you might still be here, Uncle Augustus,” came a startling voice from the doorway. It was past eight and the building was nearly empty. He was used to being the last one to leave. “Sorry if I bothered you.”

  “No, Nicolas, it’s fine,” he said, and scattered papers around his desk, embarrassed to be caught lost in his thoughts. “Did you need something?”

  Nicolas sat down without being invited to, but this did not surprise Augustus.

  “I’m going to Maine,” he said, right to the point. “I can’t say for certain, but something feels wrong and I can’t sit back here like a fucking lame duck.” He winced. “Pardon my language, Uncle.”

  Augustus pursed his lips together. This changed things, but he still felt as if he should stay composed. “So you have not heard from her either.” It wasn’t a question. He didn’t know why he hadn’t called Nicolas sooner. There was a small, insecure part of him which believed maybe she was calling everyone but him. It was the same reason he didn’t call the overseer, he supposed.

  “Neither has Adrienne, and, I am guessing from your reaction, you haven’t either.” Nicolas had already known that though, or he wouldn’t be here, telling him his plans. “I’ve booked my flight, and I’m leaving in a few hours. The hard part is getting to the island. It’s closed and they have no estimate on when the ferries will run again. I am planning to go anyway, wave around the family credit card, and see how far it gets me.”

  Augustus nodded, though he was already aware of the island situation. He had his secretary make some phone calls. Thinking about surprising my daughter, he had said. Purely informational calls. No reason to get worked up over nothing, and he was still convinced there was an explanation for her silence.

  “Perhaps the phone lines are down,” Augustus said in a controlled voice. “If the island is shut down, it would be surprising if the phone lines weren’t also incapacitated.”

  Nicolas shook his head and sunk back in his chair like a wayward teenager. “No. I talked to the overseer. He said the phone lines were fine, as of a few days ago.”

  “What else did he say?” Augustus bristled, annoyed Nicolas had more information than
he did.

  “That she was fine, and hanging out at her neighbor’s house. I asked why she hadn’t called if she was fine, and he gave me some bullshit excuse about long distance calls being expensive, but this isn’t 1980. So I asked him to talk to her and tell her that if the neighbors were so cheap then she can call collect.” Nicolas sat up. “But that was almost a week ago, and do you think she’s called?” Nicolas went on, “I looked up the neighbors’ number, and tried to call myself. There’s been no answer for days.”

  Augustus felt better already. If the overseer said she was fine… “Let her be. She will call when things clear up. It is thoughtful of you to worry, but you have your answer.” See? Control. Resolution. Back in the comfort zone.

  Nicolas laughed. His face flushed crimson, and he narrowed his eyes. “No, she is not fine, Uncle, and I knew it before I even talked to that idiot. I don’t trust him.”

  “What reason would he have for lying, Nicolas?”

  “I don’t care to psychoanalyze him, and I don’t need to, because I know Ana. I know she would have called. She would have known that I’d be pulling my hair out with worry, and so would you, and Adrienne. The only thing Ana hates more than her own pain is being the cause of others’.”

  “Ana went to Maine to be alone. Has it occurred to you she might want space?”

  “She doesn’t,” Nicolas stated confidently.

  Augustus shifted in his leather chair, growing frustrated. Nicolas was making it harder to put the worry to bed and he felt that cold, unwanted feeling coming back; the control receding. “I know,” he started, slowly, methodically, “how close you two are. I know—”

  “With all due respect sir, no. You don’t.” Level, intense gaze.

  “—and I know your imagination is getting the better of you.” I have to believe that, because the alternative…

  Nicolas stood up and carelessly wiped his hands down his wrinkled shirt. “I wasn’t looking for your permission. I thought you might like to know.”

  Leave it alone Nicolas, he wanted to beg. Ana, please call.

  “I think if we give it some time…”

  Nicolas moved to strike the desk but stopped himself, instead gripping his short, spiky dark hair in frustration, as if ready to rip it out. “Time? Uncle Augustus… it has been over a week since anyone in the familyhas heard from your daughter. We have a man saying she is fine and having the time of her life, but he doesn’t know that we know Ana, who she is and how she acts. She is quiet, but she is ours, and she would never, ever, ever let us suffer like this needlessly. She is not cruel.” He moved to the door. “I know you don’t want to face this. Do you think I do? Without her…” his voice trailed off, and Nicolas took a deep breath to control the emotions threatening to take over. “I can feel it in my bones. She needs me.”

  Yes. Augustus had felt it too, but ignored the nagging sense. Addressing it meant admitting he may have sent his daughter into danger and he could not—would not—believe something could ever happen to her.

  Defeated, he reached into his desk and pulled out a credit card. He handed it to Nicolas. “Take this, then.”

  Nicolas waved it away. “I have my own money. Thank you, though.”

  Augustus stood up and opened Nic’s hand, placed the card inside, and closed it again. “I’m not asking. If I can’t go, then I can at least feel like I am doing something to help.”

  Nicolas nodded, looking at the card, or his feet, Augustus couldn’t tell. “I’ll call when I get there.”

  “Yes. And as soon as you know anything.” He lowered his head so he could meet his nephew’s eyes. “Anything, Nicolas. No matter what.”

  “I will,” he said and left.

  Augustus stood in the center of his office, feeling the blood drain from his face. He was now acutely aware of which emotion had won the battle.

  * * *

  31- JONATHAN

  It was nearing nightfall, and Finn was not back. Jon hadn’t expected him to be back this early, but it was no less disconcerting being unable to reach him, or know how he was faring with that damned snow contraption.

  Jon remembered when his father had brought it home. It was the day Finn got suspended from high school for getting into a fight, defending Jon.

  Their father had been so excited over the blasted thing. The model was built in the ‘70s, for military search and rescue operations, and was over six tons of heavy steel and rubber. Dan Gundersson had traded it as payment for his long-running medical tab, and Jon’s father didn’t care that he would never use it on this small island, or that it was ridiculous and impractical. “Dad, the island is only two miles long,” Jon had said.

  Andrew St. Andrews had given him the signature eyebrow raise. Not the quick rise and fall of amusement, but the other one. The disapproving one. “Your brother will understand.”

  Of course Finn would understand. Finn was good with his hands, was more masculine. What was masculinity, really though? A way to measure a set of interests, and abilities? Jon had always felt masculinity was less about ability and more about confidence, but saying so would probably result in his father calling him soft. He could handle people calling him different, reclusive, odd… but his father’s thundering voice, the word soft… nothing else hurt him like that.

  But then their father had received that call from the school. Andrew St. Andrews had spent more time than he would have liked there, usually meeting with Finn’s teachers about his failing grades. Their father had chalked it up to Finn’s lack of focus on his education, but Jon knew it was quite the opposite. No teacher had bothered to challenge Finn enough to keep his grades up, or keep him focused on his studies. On the mainland, Finn might have been put in advanced placement classes, but the small school on the island had nothing like that. Finn had been forced into special classes when his poor grades were mistaken for a learning disorder. Jon was furious at their neglect, but Finn had shrugged and said it didn’t matter anyway. But it did matter, and even Jon could see that.

  If it was not Finn’s grades, it was his temper. Such was the case the day the snowcat joined the family. “I see. I’m coming,” Andrew had said to the caller, and left the house without another word, the snowcat forgotten. It stayed there in the put away until Finn dusted it off to find food.

  “Stop fighting my battles, I don’t need you to,” Jon had said that night as Finn stood at the edge of the porch, his eyes focused on the sea. Finn would be unable to sit that night, and maybe tomorrow. The birch tree lashings grew more difficult as they grew older.

  Finn laughed, smirking. “I’m not doing it for you,” he said proudly. “If I walk away from a fight, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “And if you don’t walk away, one day you might get seriously hurt,” Jon pointed out. Finn had been getting in fights since he was old enough to put his fists up. This wasn’t the first time he had done it to defend Jon. “What happens when you’re older, and you’re in a bar, and this time there’s no principal to jump in and suspend you both?”

  “My ass hurts enough already. I don’t need two dads,” Finn spat.

  When their father died years later, Jon assumed their father’s role as Finn’s protector and teacher, even though by that point Finn had been on his own long enough to graduate college and start his fishing business.

  Except this time he had not protected him. He had allowed him to take that thing across town after one of the worst storms Jon had ever seen. Finn always did whatever he pleased, but there was usually a way to stop him, and Jon had only tried half-heartedly this time. He could have tried harder, but he was so scared they would run out of food, and he hadn’t wanted to risk calling anyone when that had been an option. He sometimes hated himself for his fears.

  He used his finger to mark his place in the book he was reading, and studied Ana. Without the pressure of conversation, he could finally take her measure. She was really quite striking. Her red hair was long, and a deep auburn mixed with flecks of fire. She had me
dium cheekbones that gave her face a softness, and her eyebrows were thin but a bit unruly right at the inside edges. Her nose was what they would call a nice Roman nose, but underneath it her angel’s kiss was more deeply grooved than most, and her lips arched up to meet it, soft and inviting. Her face was round, almost heart shaped, and the color in her cheeks from the warmth of room made her seem ethereal.

  Jon could see what Finn saw in her physically, but he was unable to grasp the connection otherwise. He noticed from the moment she walked into his office that she was different. Different like he was different. People looking in might have felt their hearts warmed at the thought of two lost souls finding each other, but it didn’t work that way. They were the way they were with everyone, no matter how much that other person might understand.

  He wondered if she was pretending to be someone else for Finn. Jon had tried it before, too, thinking maybe if he tried hard enough it would become true at some point. He remembered Shannon, how he had done it for her, and how she had seen right through his attempts. She loved him anyway, she said, a concept that had baffled Jon—how could anyone love someone as difficult and cold as him?—but as it turned out, she had believed she could change him for the better. Shannon believed Jon would outgrow his severe introversion, and that, through her acceptance of him, he would grow and blossom, becoming whole. But Shannon had been wrong, and the last thing she ever said to him was an accusation for being exactly the person he had always been.

  “I am as whole as I will ever be,” he said to her.

  “You’re a shell of the man you could be, and you are dead inside,” she spat.

  He didn’t blame Shannon for the inevitable end of their relationship. He knew it was his fault. The year they dated, he had been so enraptured with her—her brilliant mind, that long, curly blonde hair—that he threw all caution aside. In the end, he had shrugged her off, in the same way he had shrugged off medical school. They were both gone, but they would always serve as a reminder of why it was better to see the world through realistic eyes, rather than hopeful ones.