Pretending

by Shanna Clayton

  “Why does he want us to live together?”

  I glance across the table at her, examining the girl my dad decided to stick me with. Dressed in all black, she’s sitting there staring out the window, a lifeless look on her face. I don’t think she’s heard a word that’s been said, but then again I haven’t paid attention too much either. I wonder what’s going on in her head. They say my dad’s death didn’t come as a shock. Apparently he’d been sick for months, but the girl looks like she’s in shock. I’m not sure if I buy it—the tear-streaks on her pale face, the sadness in her eyes—who the hell cares that fucking much about my dad? I sure as hell don’t, and I’m the only family he had left.

  “Wes? Wesley? Are you listening?”

  I look up at Francisco. How long has he been trying to get my attention?

  He points to the envelope with my name on it. “I don’t know his reasons, Wes, but I imagine they’re in that letter. Maybe when you read it, you’ll get a better understanding.”

  I fling the letter across the room, missing the trashcan by a few inches. “I don’t give a shit about understanding Harland Kent.”

  Francisco’s face drops into a pained frown. I immediately feel like an asshole, because Francisco isn’t a bad guy. He’s just doing the job my dad left him to do.

  When I look up, I notice I’ve caught the girl’s attention. Her eyes are glued to the envelope I’ve thrown. I hold my breath, wondering if she’s one of those hysterical girls, the kind that burst into tears. God, I don’t think I could fucking handle hearing someone cry right now. All I want to do is bring my dad back to life so I can strangle him for what he’s put my mom through—what he’s continuing to put her through even in death.

  But the girl doesn’t cry. She slowly gets up from her chair, crosses the room, and picks up the envelope from the floor. Almost robotically, she sets it on the table next to Francisco and then walks out the door without saying a word.

  As soon as she’s gone, my mom slams her fist against the table. “This is ridiculous!”

  “Mom, stop—”

  She pushes up from her chair, the legs screeching against the floor. “Explain to me why Harland expected my son to share half of his inheritance with that girl—that nobody! We’re talking about generations of Kent heirlooms passed down to the daughter of one of his sluts—”

  “Mom!” I pierce her with a hard look. “This isn’t about you.”

  She stands there for a few seconds looking startled. I’ve never yelled at her before. I’m sure she wasn’t expecting it. After a moment, she grudgingly takes her seat again. I know there’s a lot more she’d like to say about my dad and his girlfriend, but I’ve heard it all before. Screaming and complaining about how much of a dirtbag my dad was isn’t going to change anything.

  Francisco places his hand across my mom’s, squeezing gently. “I understand that you’re angry, but you should know that Harland loved Dahlia like a daughter, and well, he’s the closest thing to a dad she’s ever had.”

  My mom purses her lips. She doesn’t care. She can’t see anything pass my dad leaving her for another woman, and I don’t blame her.

  “It’s fine,” I tell Francisco. “Draw up the papers. I’ll stay here the four years.”

  “You don’t have to do it, Wes,” my mom says, her voice sounding depleted. “You can make your own money. There’s no need to be his puppet.”

  “And watch years of my ancestor’s treasures go to someone outside the family? I don’t think so.” I nod to Francisco. “Draw up the papers.”

  She’s not happy about my decision, but she doesn’t say anything else. There’s no changing my mind. I’m not doing this for my dad; I’m doing it for my grandfather and his grandfather before him. I’m doing it for myself.

  Hours or seconds may have gone by, I’m not sure which. Time and space absolve within the walls of this room. I’m still holding the envelope, debating whether or not I’m ready to read his last words. There’s something in me that wants to know, but whatever it is, it’s not strong enough to get me to open the envelope right now. Even written down on paper, I still can’t bear to hear his voice, so I stuff it inside my pocket and leave the room.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  DOLL

  Apparently hurricanes come with perks. All classes are postponed until next week, giving me plenty of free time. Unsure of what to do with myself, I sit in bed eating popcorn and watching TV. Summer classes are officially over. There are no more exams to worry about. No more papers to turn in. Normally, I spend any extra time I get researching, but I’m still too disappointed over the map. I need some distance from it for at least a day or two until I can get my head straight. Besides, I’m content to do nothing for now. It’s nice to be in my own bed again. Sometimes I hate Kent House, but then there are times like these when I feel completely at home.

  When Gwen breezes in through my door wearing a miniskirt and bright red lipstick, my mouth pulls into a frown. Miniskirts and red lipstick are her favorite date night combination.

  “Are you going out?” I ask.

  “Yes, ma’am! Your advice worked. I told Luke I was dating someone and bam! He invites me to his friend’s hurricane party.”

  “What?” I sit up straighter, kicking my legs off the bed. “But you said he lives in Tallahassee.”

  Gwen shrugs. “Apparently he’s down here for the weekend.” She checks herself out in my vanity, running a hand through her long dark hair. “Isn’t it great, Doll? I finally get to meet Mr. Sexy Voice.”

  “Can’t he wait until tomorrow night?” There’s a slight pleading in my tone. “I brought up two bottles of wine from the cellar. Oh and look.” I dig beneath my bed, pushing boxes aside until I find the right one. “We can do girl stuff, like mani-pedis.”

  “Since when do you like doing mani-pedis?”

  Ignoring her question, I hold up the nail kit I ordered a few weeks ago and show it off like I’m a spokesperson for QVC. “It comes with all these little stickers and gems. Cool, huh?” Biting my bottom lip, I wait for her to answer, praying she’ll be impressed enough to stay. Being stuck by myself in a torrential storm sounds like a nightmare. I don’t want to go through it alone.

  “No way. I’ve waited years for Luke to come around. I’m not missing out on an opportunity like tonight.”

  My mouth forms a pout, and I narrow my eyes on Gwen, the traitor. “Where’s your loyalty? Oh never mind,” I grumble. “The penis has been winning that battle for centuries.”

  “What’s with you today?” she asks, laughing.

  “You’re challenging my codependency issues.”

  “You are not codependent.” She taps her chin as she looks at me. “Are you afraid of the storm?”

  “Oh please.” I sit back against my pillows, refocusing my attention to the TV. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “You are afraid of the storm.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “It’s only a category two, Doll; it won’t be that bad.”

  I don’t care what category it is. Hurricanes come with tornadoes, strong winds, a lot of rain, and a high probability of the electric going out, but I don’t voice those thoughts aloud.

  Gwen plops down on my bed, leaning back on her arms. Her lips expand into a devious smile. “Here’s an idea. Why don’t you call your hot roommate into your bedroom for a slumber party?”

  I change the channel, trying to act as if that idea doesn’t appeal to me in any way whatsoever. Even though it does. A lot.

  “You know I’m not going to do that.”

  “I know.” She sighs as if I’m a lost cause. “You’ll probably sit in your room all night watching Ancient Aliens or some other dumbass show on the History Channel.”

  “First of all, that show is entertaining,” I say in my most serious voice. “Second of all, I was excited to watch chick flicks and do nails until you came in here and ruined my plans.” I grab my bowl of popcorn and start crunching on a handful dismissively.

/>   “He likes you, you know.”

  Fidgeting with the remote, I stare at the TV guide and pretend to tune Gwen out. “Oh look. Ancient Aliens is on.”

  “When he found out you were gone, he had this look of devastation on his face. He came in here looking around your room, all lost and sad. It was really cute.”

  I glance at her sideways. “You could be describing a puppy.”

  “That’s how he looked. I swear.”

  “Yeah right.”

  “It’s the truth. You can’t deny it, especially after telling me what he did to get you back here.”

  I like you.

  Those words haunt me all over again. I think about telling Gwen how Wesley asked me to go out on a date with him, but then I realize I would have to explain why I said no, and by the time she got done lecturing me, the storm would be here. And as much as I wish she weren’t leaving me to fend for myself, I’m kind of glad she’s finally meeting Mr. Sexy Voice. She seems really happy about it, and she deserves to be happy.

  “You look nice. Luke will be head over heels.”

  “Is this your way of dodging all Wesley conversation?”

  “Maybe.” I shrug evasively. “But it’s also the truth. Hope you have fun.”

  “Seriously?”

  I nod. “Seriously.”

  “Okay.” Her red lips pull into a hesitant smile. “Are you going to be all right?”

  “Of course.” I look around the room. “This place has held up for far too long to let a little hurricane destroy it.”

  “Very true.” She pushes up off the bed. “Well I better get going. I need time before the storm gets here in case I decide to leave the party.”

  “Why would you need to leave?”

  “You never know. What if there aren’t any sparks?”

  “There will be sparks, Gwen. There has to be.”

  “Hope you’re right.” She checks herself out in the mirror one last time before leaving. “Call me if you really start to freak out,” she says, closing the door behind her. “I’ll talk you through it.”

  “I won’t freak out,” I shout back. “Because I’m not afraid of a stupid hurricane.”

  Her heels click against the floor as she makes her way down the hall, growing fainter and fainter with each step. A strong gust of wind blows against the house, forceful enough for me to hear it. I look at the clock on my nightstand. Still a few hours to kill before it gets here. With any luck, I’ll sleep through the whole thing.

  I watch TV until dark. The winds begin to pick up their pace, growing louder and faster against the walls. Grabbing my headphones, I plug into my mp3 player, hoping to block everything out. It works for a while, and eventually, I fall asleep.

  I’m not sure how long I’m out because when I wake up, it’s still dark. I pull off my headphones, blinking into the darkness. It’s raining now, but I can’t see anything outside my boarded window. Spiraling winds rush against the house, shaking the walls. I flinch at the sound.

  Was it too much to hope I’d stay asleep?

  For a few delusional seconds, I lie there in my bed with my eyes shut. It doesn’t take long to realize there’s no going back to sleep. I look at the clock on the nightstand. The brightly red numbers are missing.

  No, no, no.

  Just to make sure, I try switching on the TV.

  Nothing. The power is definitely off. Another howling wind rattles the window. I jump off my bed, hugging my arms to my chest.

  I don’t like this, any of it.

  The havoc being wreaked outside is too noisy compared to the quiet of my electronic-free room. There’s something unsettling about the contrasts. I need the humming of my fan, the buzz of my television—something to keep me calm.

  Then I remember. The batteries. I left them on the kitchen counter along with the candles. I grab my flashlight and leave the room in a hurry to get them.

  The hallway is dark, and I can barely see a thing. I turn on the flashlight, but it doesn’t help much. I hold out my free hand, running my fingers along the wall for a sense of balance. Up ahead I see the outline of one of the staff members hovering outside the library door. Seeing someone else instantly helps me breathe easier.

  “Hey,” I call out. “If you’re looking for a generator, we don’t have one.”

  The person swings around as I close the distance between us. When I look up, I stop in my tracks, my body going rigid. Dark eyes dart to mine beneath a black ski mask.

  Not the staff.

  I tighten my hand around my flashlight, feeling my heart slam against my chest. My mind furiously tries to grasp what I’m seeing, my eyes working hard to recognize the cool brown ones staring back at me. By the time I realize I should run, it’s too late. They move first, rushing me all in two short steps, shoving me against the wall.

  “Where is it?” a scratchy male voice growls. One of his hands presses against my ribcage, and the other he uses to hold my throat.

  “Where is what?” My voice sounds small and choked, nothing like me.

  His fingers dig into the sides of my cheeks. “Tell me where Wesley’s hiding it,” he demands.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whimper.

  My assailant moves just enough to give me room to lift my leg. I take advantage of the moment, kneeing him in the gut. He moves his hand away from my throat, grunting, but keeps me pinned beneath him. I squirm to get away from him, but I can’t move.

  So I scream.

  With every ounce of voice I can draw out of my body, I scream.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  WESLEY

  Noises come from upstairs, distracting me from the game I’m playing on my phone. Strange noises aren’t unusual for this house, but this kind is different. Tossing the phone aside, I leave the living room and make my way into the foyer. I stand there for a few moments, listening, not sure what I’m listening for.

  Screaming.

  At first I think I’m imagining it. It can’t be staff; I told the few employees that live here to take the night off and go be with their families. It must be the storm playing tricks on me. Howling winds, squeaky gutters—any of those things could sound like screaming.

  But I’m wrong.

  The screaming gets louder and more terrified. It’s definitely not the storm I’m hearing. I break out into a run, taking the stairs two steps at a time. I’m halfway up when I recognize the voice behind that scream. Dahlia.

  Fear grips my stomach, and I run faster. When I get into the hall, everything goes black. The boarded up windows shut out every ounce of light, and I don’t have a flashlight on me. Dumbass move, Wes. I should’ve thought to bring one with me.

  But I’m too terrified to go back for one at this point, so I scramble through the darkened halls, shouting for Dahlia and praying she hears me. When she doesn’t answer, I start to break out in a sweat. Her scream didn’t sound like it was over something stupid, like the kind girls do when they see a mouse. It was the ear-splitting kind that chills your blood.

  “Dahlia, are you up here?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  I continue to call her name, stumbling through the hallways. Each time I shout, the panic in my voice increases. Why the hell isn’t she answering? Frustrated, I pound my fist into the wall. This place is too fucking dark. The longer it takes, the more pissed off I get.

  Where the hell is she?

  As I round the next corner, I recognize the library doors. Looking down, I catch sight of a flashlight lying on the floor.

  “Wesley?”

  Behind the flashlight, Dahlia is sitting on the floor, pressed up against the wall. She’s holding her knees to her chest, violently shaking. Dropping to the floor beside her, I take her face in my hands. “What happened?”

  She lifts her arm, pointing at something across the hall. I pick up the flashlight and steer the light in the direction she’s pointing. Broken glass litters the floor. Above the glass, there’s a busted window. I swallow. That
window isn’t storm damage; someone broke in.

  The outside winds push against me as I make my way toward the window, rain needling against my face and arms. I look for signs of movement, but it’s no use. I can’t see anything through the storm.

  “How long ago did they leave?”

  When Dahlia doesn’t answer me, I turn back around, shining the light on her pale face. She’s still in shock. I go back to where she’s sitting, kneeling beside her. I have no fucking clue what to say right now. Where do I even begin? She’s still shaking and staring at the window, and I’m not sure how to make her any less afraid.

  “Dahlia,” I whisper. “Did they hurt you?” I hold my breath, afraid to hear the answer.

  “No. Well…he grabbed my throat.”

  “He?” I ask, confused. “Did you know him?”

  “I’m not sure. He was wearing a mask.”

  “How long ago did he leave?”

  She lifts her shoulders in a small shrug. “Maybe five minutes.”

  I tilt her chin up, using the flashlight to inspect her neck. Angry red marks outline the imprint of fingerprints.

  I lose it.

  I pull her into my arms, crushing her against me. “Fuck, Dahlia. I’m so sorry.”

  The girl who shied away from me disappears. She wraps her arms around my shoulders, clutching the collar of my shirt in both of her hands. For a few moments she stays like that, stiff and trembling at first, and then slowly relaxing against me. “What are you sorry for?” she finally asks, sniffling.

  “This may have been my fault.” Heaviness weighs my voice down. “I think I know what they were after.”

  “Treasure?” she guesses.

  “Yeah.”

  “Does it have to do with Egypt?”

  I pull back, meeting her gaze. “How do you know about that?”