by Peach, Hanna
“Bottega Veneta” is engraved into the bottom left of the inside with “Made in France” underneath it. It smells of leather and wealth. Whoever owns this wallet is very rich. I check the cash section first, expecting another stash of hundreds. And am surprised when I only find a twenty.
I turn back to the card section, which only has three cards peeking out, and pull out the top one. It’s a platinum American Express credit card. Damn. I’ve never seen one of these. I scan the name. H Lexington? Who is H Lexington? And why does Caden have his wallet? An uneasy feeling creeps over me.
I pull out the next card. A gold bank card. Also for H Lexington.
One last card. I pull that out. It is a driver’s license for a Harper Lexington. I swallow a gasp. In the picture is Caden. He is clean shaven, and with a softer jaw he looks several years younger. His hair has been dyed blonde with honey highlights and styled messily. But the self-assured smirk I recognize.
Oh my God.
Caden didn’t steal Harper’s wallet. Caden is Harper. Or is Harper really Caden? Whoever he is, what the hell is he doing with two sets of identification? I roll this new name over in my head. No. I haven’t heard of a Harper Lexington. The name sounds alien to me. Caden can’t be Harper Lexington.
So are these cards fake? Why does he need a fake ID? Where would Caden even get a fake ID from?
Then my mind runs over the underground labyrinth of criminal activity in every city, and I know it wouldn’t be hard for a man to become someone else if he had the right connections…
A knock at the door startles me. “Kitten?”
My hands flinch. In slow motion I watch the wallet fumble out of my fingers. Shit. I scramble to catch it. But I am too late. The wallet lands on the marble tiles with a sharp clack. Shit. Did he hear that?
“Are you okay in there? You’ve been in there a while.”
I scramble for the wallet and shove the license back into its spot. “Fine. Just finishing up.”
I stand. I pick up the toilet lid and let it drop so it makes a noise, then I flush the toilet. I step up to the sink and place the wallet on a dry spot on the side and turn on the tap to wash my hands. I stare at the black rectangular leather like it is a bomb. What do I do now? How do I get it back into the bag without him seeing me do it?
After I turn off the tap and dry my hands I still haven’t come up with a plan. I’m going to have to wing it. I shove the wallet into the front of my shorts and check myself in the mirror. Hmm, the bulge is obvious. So I move it to the small of my back. Better but not perfect.
I unlock the door and open it. I jump back when I see Caden’s figure leaning against the frame.
His brows furrow with amusement. “Not who you were expecting?”
Oh my God, he knows. “I just didn’t think you’d be standing outside the bathroom waiting for me to finish.”
His eyes rake lazily down my body and he reaches out to finger the hem of my silky top near my stomach. Thank God I didn’t leave his wallet in the front of my shorts. He pulls me closer to him by my hem and my skin reacts by breaking out in goose bumps.
“This is new. Did I tell you earlier how much I like this color on you?”
My stomach tightens. “No.”
I try to push through the gap between him and the door frame, keeping my back to the frame. I stop when I realize that the space is too small and he’s not moving aside. If I squeeze through, the frame will knock the wallet from my back.
Now I am stuck here, forced flush against Caden’s side. He slots his knee between my legs so that I can’t move back into the bathroom. When I look up at Caden, his shoulders are positively looming over and around me. His eyes are hooded from sleep, but from the way his mouth is quirked up I know he has something else on his mind. Shit. I absolutely cannot let Caden put his hands on me or he’ll find his wallet.
“Are you going to let me through or are we gonna stand here all night?”
Caden leans down and captures my bottom lip in his mouth and draws it in for a slow deep suck. Heat pools in my belly. Stupid body. Wanting him at a time like this. My lip pops from his mouth when he pulls back.
He grins, a lazy grin. “You’re being weird.”
I swallow. Shit. I am so screwed. I prepare myself.
But he moves past me into the bathroom. He turns and looks at me, one hand holding the edge of the door. “You gonna let me use the bathroom?”
I blink. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”
As I back out of the bathroom I can’t believe my good fortune. He’s still giving me that amused slightly-confused look, but I don’t care. I may just get out of this mess. He swings the door closed and I hear the lock click.
I turn quickly to the bag, slipping the wallet out of my waistband as the stream of water into the toilet begins. I slip my hand in the top of the bag and fumble through the folds of cloth. The tinkling noise stops and the toilet flushes. Come on. Where is that back pocket? The toilet noise fades and is replaced with the sound of running water. Shit. Come on. He’ll be done soon. My fingers become frantic and I almost pull out the whole pair of pants.
Yes, found it. I slip the wallet in and snatch my hand out of the bag. I yank the zip closed just as the water shuts off in the sink. I cringe and pray that he didn’t hear the zipper.
I bolt for the bed. The lock clicks.
I slip onto the mattress and yank the covers over me. I hear the door open and the small panel of light falls across his bag on the bag rack like a police spotlight. Did I put it back right? Can he see that his bag has been touched since he put it down? The light switches off. In the thick blackness I can see Caden ambling back to the bed. I try not to tense up as he slips in under the covers behind me, but it’s hard when my whole body is prepared to run.
“Kitten?”
My breath hitches. “Yes?”
“I’m… sorry. About earlier.”
“What?”
“I know you’re upset at me because I didn’t tell you what’s wrong.”
“Oh.”
“I just…” I hear him sigh. “I wish I could… tell you. But I can’t. If it were only my secret, if there weren’t others involved that could be affected by my telling you, I would. I know it doesn’t make it any easier for you not knowing.”
I go over his words in my brain. If it were only my secret. Has this got to do with the girl in the photo? Is she somehow the reason behind his two identities?
He moves closer to me. His warmth reaches for me like luring arms and I want so badly to sink back into him. How can this… this stranger behind me feel so familiar and safe? He reaches over to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Do you forgive me?”
Do I?
My heart wants so badly to believe that Caden has a perfectly good reason behind all of this. But am I just being a fool if I believe him?
You were fooled once, remember?
I have to know. I can’t leave this alone. Until I figure out who Caden is and what he’s hiding, I need to act like nothing is wrong.
“I forgive you, Cade.” I inch back towards him and press into his body. He hums as he pulls me closer to him and I slot back into my spot against him. I frown as a contentment waves over me. How can it still feel so amazing to be with him even though I know he is hiding things from me? Am I a fool for staying?
How can something wrong feel this right?
Chapter 13
Later when I wake, Caden is gone. But the discoveries from last night still curl around me like a vulture and grip me with its claws.
Caden Thaine. Harper Lexington.
Who are they?
I don’t bother showering. I dress in a pair of skinny jeans and a top and slip on my black converse sneakers. I throw the rest of my things into my overnight bag and leave. I don’t head home. I head straight to the closest public library, located about a twenty minute walk from here according to the hotel concierge.
In the library the librarian directs me to the table set up with four grey an
d boxy-looking computers. I thank her and sit before one of the computers. I have already done an internet search on Caden Thaine once before. But I do it again now just in case.
Finally the slow internet loads up the search result page. I scroll the pages of the results, keeping an eye out for anything relevant. No. Still nothing. But I expected this.
I click back on the search bar and type Harper Lexington. I pause before I hit the search button. I feel like… if I do this, there is no turning back. What if I find something that I wish I didn’t know?
No. I have to know. No matter what it is.
With my body jittering with trepidation, I hit search. My fingertips drum on the desktop while I wait for the page to load. Come on. I catch a stern look from the lady sitting next to me. “Sorry,” I mouth to her, and I stop the drumming.
The page blinks as it finishes loading. I lean into the screen, my gaze flicking over the search results and article titles. I click further and further back and the news articles get older and older by years and years. Surely there has to be something. Anything. Or is Harper Lexington a ghost too?
A headline stops me dead.
“Lexington family murdered in their home”
In the snippets of text below I see:
…survived by son Harper Lexington…
A chill grips my bones. I click on the article link and it opens in a new window. There is a picture of a mansion looming through a set of gates. It is white and stark like a museum, and I imagine the insides must look like one as well. The lawn that stretches out from the gate to the house is made of sternly cut grass. No flowers, no bushes or garden paths. Where’s the “no fun allowed” sign? I think.
I read the article.
Mr. and Mrs. Lexington and their thirteen-year-old daughter, Hayley, were found murdered in their family home. The mother and daughter were found shot through the head execution style. The scene showed signs of the father fighting back until he succumbed to three gunshot wounds to the chest and stomach. The father had been tortured prior to his death, but the police would not reveal the details. The police are launching an investigation but currently have no suspects. They are survived by their son, Harper Lexington, nineteen, who was not home when the brutal murders took place.
Nineteen. This Harper is too young to be Caden. Unless… I check the date of the article. This happened almost fifteen years ago. I calculate the years and realize that would put Harper Lexington now at almost thirty-four.
So this could be Caden.
Oh my God. This could be Caden whose whole family was murdered fifteen years ago. Could the girl whose photo he keeps in his wallet be Hayley, his murdered sister? A rush of pure sadness washes through me, leaving a bitter taste on my tongue. My heart aches as I imagine a young Caden trying to deal with the fact that his whole family had been killed.
Further down in the article is a photo insert of a youthful looking couple in their mid-forties that looks like it could have been taken from the society pages. She is a dark beauty with hair swept back, green eyes and long legs shown off through the classic black Chanel pantsuit she wears. He is a thick-jawed man with dark hair with a touch of white at the sides with a build like a wrestler evident under his Armani suit.
Could these be Caden’s parents? They certainly look like they could be based on her eyes and his jaw. There is no photo of Hayley nor is there one of Harper.
The article continues by talking about Lexington Industries, a construction company that Mr. Lexington and his father started several decades ago. At the time of Mr. Lexington’s murder the company ownership transferred solely to young Harper Lexington.
I click on the links to subsequent follow-up articles.
As Harper Lexington was the sole beneficiary of his parents’ will, he was questioned over his family’s murder and became a suspect. He was later cleared as his then-girlfriend was his alibi. But no one was subsequently arrested and charged for the murder.
I slump back in my chair. Is this really Caden? Is this dark past really what he is hiding?
Now that I looked was I glad that I did?
Chapter 14
That night I have one of my nightmares.
I am running barefoot through grass in the moonlight. Sweat pools under my armpits and makes my white dress stick to my back. The stars are bright enough in the sky that I know I’m not in the city anymore. I can hear laughing behind me. And footsteps that keep up with me. My skin is crawling at every crackle and crunch, and I want to scratch it all off. It doesn’t matter how fast I run, the footsteps just match my pace.
The grass gets taller and taller and the blades start whipping around my legs. They get taller until they become trees. Soon I am running through a forest. The leaves above are keeping out the moonlight, which makes my path harder to see. Roots reach out to trip me. Branches scratch at my bare arms and legs. Rocks cut my feet. But sheer terror keeps me running.
Even though I know I can’t outrun the footsteps, I keep on running.
Click.
The gun loading behind me sounds like it is right in my ear. But I’m breathing so hard I can’t scream.
Bang.
The first shot echoes into the night and it clips the tree trunks that I am running quickly past. They keep coming. Bullets pass through the trees, but instead of splinters, pink and grey chunks of tissue and flesh spatter on my skin. I shake as I run, trying to fling the pieces off me. My skin crawls as if bugs are all over me.
From the wounds in the trees, blood begins to gush. The warm spray is like fire to my skin. Some of it gets in my mouth as I strain to suck enough air into my lungs. I spit and spit to try to expel the foul bitter blood. Under my feet the ground starts to get damp as the forest fills with death’s sap.
But the gun keeps going off.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
I wake up as I usually do, air tearing out of my lungs, in a mess of sheets and sweat and hair. Immediately I switch on my bedside light and reach for my gun in the drawer beside my bed. A 9mm Smith and Wesson M&P Shield. Compact but deadly. With my eyes and my gun I seek out every corner and possible hiding spot in my room. Then I check the bathroom. And when I am sure that there is no one in here with me, only then do I breathe.
Just a dream, just a dream. I repeat this mantra over and over until my heart slows.
After turning on all the lights in my apartment, I walk to my small kitchenette, still clutching my Smith and Wesson. I stick my face under the cold water and gulp down the liquid until my stomach groans from the volume. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and turn to the small calendar on my wall. I mark today’s date with a red pen. Then I flip back to the last month. Last month there are three red marks. The month before that, there are two. I flip back further. I don’t know why, but lately my nightmares have been getting worse.
I don’t dare turn any lights off. Just the thought of being consumed by darkness makes my skin crawl. So I sit in bed with my knees up, blankets tucked around me like a cocoon, hugging my gun to my chest. I desperately need Caden. But I have no way to reach him. I try to tell myself that cold steel is a better thing to have by my side. But it doesn’t ease the ache I have for Caden’s warm protection.
Fucking bastard. The anger rises up through me like a geyser. If he had given me his phone number I could call him and he would be here for me, stroking my hair. Better still, if we were a real fucking couple, in a real fucking relationship, then he would already be here, sleeping next to me. Instead this hateful weapon is my best friend, my lover and protector.
What if something happened to me? Did he think of that? Did he think to leave me some way to contact him? Fucking fucker. Screw him. I’m going to shoot him the next time I see him. He’s gonna get a big fat bullet right in the leg. Then he’ll be sorry.
Then something inside cracks like a glass that has taken too much heat too quickly, and I start sobbing until day breaks.
Thankfully, as it always do
es, the sun’s light helps to disperse the darkness. After a cup of home-brewed coffee, last night seems less terrifying. And my reactions seem almost silly. My hands still shake when I bring the coffee cup to my lips.
At a respectable hour, I call Dix to tell her that I can’t come in to work. Then I shower and dress and make my way to the safest place in this whole godforsaken town.
I pull into the parking lot of Felltham’s Gun Club. I sling my bag carrying my Smith and Wesson over my shoulder and make my way into the building.
Inside is a wash of faded green carpet and cream walls.
Bang.
I jolt from the noise of a gun going off. And I see blood all over the walls.
No. No blood. No one got shot. Calm down. You’re in a gun club. But I can’t move any further into the place. I feel sick. It was a mistake coming here. I have to get out of here. I force myself to turn, and with stiff legs I march out of the club and get back into my car.
I call Mick on his cell.
“What’s up, kid?”
“Mick, are you in the gym today?”
“Sure.”
“I need to train.”
When I get to the gym, I barely say hello to Mick before I am gloved-up and bouncing up and down in front of a bag, beating the living shit out of it. He is talking to another regular, but it’s not long before he comes over. I’m not surprised. He’d have to be blind not to see that I’m in a fucking mood.
“Somebody kicked your cat or what?” Mick’s gruff voice cuts in through the sound of leather hitting leather and my own rhythmic breaths.
“Don’t. Want. To. Talk about it,” I say between hard punches that make the bag swing erratically.
Mick tisks and holds the bag steady for me. “Maybe you just need to get laid.”