Serenade

by Heather McKenzie

  Soon, a smiling, young nurse was next to me cleaning and removing the shards of glass from my hand. A janitor tossed all the flowers in a bin and swept up the broken vase. His broom left red streaks on the floor and the sight made me woozy—I didn’t do well with blood, especially my own.

  “You okay, my butter bean?” Stephan asked.

  He was so frail and now appeared to be so worried about me I thought he might faint. The majority of the tubes were gone but the IV line in his arm remained. He was still sick. I was supposed to be looking after him and here I was bleeding all over the place. “I’m fine,” I said with as much reassurance as I could muster.

  “Nurse, you got two minutes,” he said impatiently to the woman digging around inside my hand.

  “Relax, Sir. We don’t want you to have another heart attack,” she said sweetly.

  He swore at her under his breath.

  “Geez, it’s amazing what a bunch of flowers can do to a guy,” I said jokingly to the nurse, who nodded in amusement, and silence fell over the room like the calm before the storm. Stephan tapped his finger anxiously on the bedrail, New Guy chewed his gum, and Oliver fumed.

  Thankfully, Anne broke the silence. “Listen Kaya,” she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to upset or scare you, but we have reason to believe these flowers are from John Marchessa.”

  As the nurse nudged a piece of glass, I flinched—not from the pain, but from the mention of my grandfather. John Marchessa made himself very clear years ago. An eye for an eye, a daughter for a daughter. He blamed my dad for the death of his only child—my dear, sweet, suicidal mother—so he wanted me dead too. It was safe to say there were no warm and fuzzy family reunions in our future.

  New Guy straightened up, obviously up to speed on the family drama, and checked the door to make sure it was locked. The tension in the room suddenly made the air seem dense and uncomfortably hot.

  “Why do you think they are from him?” I asked, starting to sweat.

  “Because daisies were your mother’s favorite flower,” said Anne. “The day your mom went into labor, John Marchessa sent thousands of them to the estate. She was so happy she wanted to name you Daisy.”

  “Shut up, old woman.” Stephan hissed, looking like he might leap from the bed and rip her eyes out.

  Anne ignored him and continued. “Your dad wouldn’t let her name you Daisy because you already had a name.”

  This made no sense. “Did Dad choose to name me Kaya, then?” I asked.

  Anne bit her lip. “No—someone else did.”

  “Annie, stop it,” Stephan barked, now squeezing a corner of his bed sheet into a crumpled ball.

  “She isn’t a child anymore, Stephan. It’s time to tell her what we suspect.”

  “Not what we suspect, what you suspect, which is completely irrelevant because you’re bat-shit crazy.”

  Anne wasn’t even remotely fazed by Stephan’s insult. She stayed remarkably calm, and her eyes drifted to my chest where she knew I was concealing the necklace. She didn’t seem mad, or crazy, or unreasonable, and I felt like I was listening to the Anne from my childhood—the sensible woman who made me eat my porridge and say my prayers.

  “Your father didn’t name you,” she said, “neither did your mother. I think you were—”

  “Anne, there are no facts!” Stephan interrupted. “No solid, black-and-white evidence for any of this nonsense rolling around in your head!”

  “Stephan, you can turn a blind eye all you want, but you know as well as I do what a newborn baby looks like, and Kaya looked to be a least a week old when they put her in your arms. She was not a newborn. I realize that, yes, Lenore was pregnant—we know she went into labor—but we didn’t witness the birth. I guarantee that stocky, brown-eyed, redheaded Lenore Marchessa did not give birth to this fine-boned, green-eyed girl!” Anne’s finger hung in the air, pointing at me, and with a wink, a smile came over her face.

  My mind reeled. My mother, the one who abused me and died by her own hand, wasn’t really my mother? Suddenly, a sense of relief washed over me like a tidal wave. That would make sense as to why I never had an emotional connection to the woman I barely knew. Even though Stephan was adamant that Anne was crazy, her words felt like the truth— like they were the most real thing I’d heard in years.

  The room was silent again except for Stephan’s heavy breathing—he was avoiding my eyes and gritting his teeth. I was about to throw a thousand questions at him, but a staccato popping sound silenced the words not yet off my tongue.

  I knew that sound.

  “Get down!” Stephan yelled.

  A woman started screaming in the hall, accompanied by the gut-wrenching sound of gunshots. Oliver and New Guy flipped the empty metal bed over onto its side and then pushed the nurse and me to the floor behind it. Stephan pulled a gun out from under his pillow, flung himself off his bed, and crouched down, his IV line taut as he aimed for the door.

  I could hear the thud of large bodies hitting the floor in the hallway, and then the door burst open and bullets ripped through the air. I put my hands over my ears while Oliver pinned my body tightly to the metal bed frame. Out of the corner of my eye I watched New Guy’s shoes gripping the floor, jerking as he pulled the trigger, and it was as if I had been transported back to my sixteenth birthday… the pink restaurant… the windows shattering as a waiter held a knife to my throat… four guards dead, and my own blood a warm pool spreading beneath me…

  Then, the noise stopped. I felt something wet dripping down my cheek and Oliver dropped to his knees to face me. “Are you hurt?” he asked frantically.

  “What? No, I’m fine,” I stammered, staring at a wound on his hand.

  The mattress was riddled with bullet holes, some big enough to see through. Had I been three inches to the right, one would have gone through my forehead. Suddenly, I felt faint.

  Oliver stood and pulled the frightened nurse to her feet, then reached for me, his blood mixing with mine from the cuts on my palm. I forced my knees to extend, and then I looked up; there was blood everywhere—on the walls, the floor—and I pleaded with my stomach to not get sick.

  “I got one, wounded two others,” Stephan said breathlessly, his open hospital gown leaving nothing to the imagination. “Now get Kaya the hell out of here before more of those cockroaches come crawling in.”

  As Oliver guided me around a body that was blocking the doorway, the room started to spin. In the hall, the guards and the ‘golfer’ were sprawled out on the floor, creating a pattern that only death could design. Someone was screaming, an old man was hyperventilating in his wheelchair, and a doctor was calling 911.

  Then I heard a voice repeating Anne’s name frantically. I pulled away from Oliver and turned to see Stephan on his knees before her, shaking her, pleading with her…

  “Annie?” he was saying, as if trying to wake her.

  I wanted to go to him, but Oliver caught me by the waist and held on.

  “Stephan, is she okay?” I asked, desperately trying to see through the doorway.

  Stephan shook his head and crumpled to the floor. Then, I saw her, slumped over in the chair, her hair loose and hanging over her face with her hands resting on her lap like they were catching raindrops—only they were filled with blood from a hole in her chest—made by a bullet meant for me.

  There were no flowers on her casket, only large green-and-white hosta leaves I’d plucked from the garden. It was a small gathering, and Dad was not among us. My anger toward him and his unbelievably messed up priorities distracted me, which helped me get through the funeral—and I held onto those feelings of anger until they lowered Anne’s coffin into the ground. Then, I thought my heart might break; the woman who was the closest thing I had to a mother was gone.

  The whole estate was on lockdown, but I didn’t care. I had no intention of leaving my room anyway. I wanted to be alone—to grieve, cry, scream—but Oliver wouldn’t budge an inch from my bedside and the maids wouldn’t stop pro
dding. So I buried myself deep under the covers, hiding and hoping to sleep away the sadness, but it lingered like one of those nightmares when you’re trying to run for your life, but your legs don’t work.

  For days, voices drifted in and out of the room. I ignored them successfully, until one found its way through the thick, wool blanket covering my ears. The cocky, self-assured tone turned my sadness into anger, compelling me to sit upright. I blinked to make sure what I was seeing was real as a figure stood in front of the window, sunlight surrounding him like a halo—only this was certainly no angel.

  “Hello, Kaya,” said Dad.

  He had a worried look on his face, and this pleased me to no end. His jet-black hair, the same inky color as mine, was freshly cut, and he was tanned a light golden brown, making his green eyes stand out even more underneath his heavy lashes. I placed my hand on my chest—thank goodness, the necklace was still hidden under my flannel pajamas.

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” Oliver said politely, and he left, closing the door behind him. I stared blankly at the man I hadn’t been alone with in years.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “You missed the funeral,” I snapped, hoping my voice had an edge to it.

  “I’m so sorry about that, really I am. I feel terrible that I couldn’t be there for you, but business…”

  I put my hand up. “Yep. I get it.”

  He sat down on the bed next to me, sinking lightly into the floral-patterned comforter, but his posture was still straight as an arrow. Then, totally out of character, he reached out his arms and pulled me in for a hug. I stiffened with shock; I couldn’t remember the last time I’d received any sort of affection from him. His arms were far nicer than the stuffy sheets and blankets I’d been using as a substitute for all these years. The smell of expensive cigars and cologne around him brought me back to my childhood. I felt myself relax, and I placed my head against his chest. All my anger disappeared. “I missed you,” I admitted.

  “I missed you too,” he said, hugging me a little tighter. “I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you, lately. I’m truly sorry.”

  How I needed to hear that.

  He pulled away and put his hands on my shoulders, looking at me with laser focus. “I know it’s been hard for you, but I promise things will get better. I’m working to get everything under control. Our lab is close to an incredible breakthrough that could change everything, Kaya. It’s—”

  “Stop,” I said impatiently, “I don’t care about business. I just care about finding out who killed Anne.”

  His eyelid twitched, and his left nostril flared slightly. I knew what those little ticks meant—lying…

  “I don’t know,” he said flatly.

  “Tell the truth,” I demanded.

  He dropped his hands from my shoulders and shook his head slightly in defeat. “You’re a smart girl; you can see right through a lie, can’t you?”

  I nodded. “Yep, and with you, they occur often.”

  “Such a valuable gift,” he muttered. As he turned his head, I noticed a new scar than ran from the middle of his jawline to his ear. How long it had been since we were in the same room? Two months?

  “John Marchessa is determined to destroy me; he’s aiming right for my heart…” he said, pointing a manicured finger at my chest, “which is you.”

  “So I’ve heard,” I said dismally.

  “Anne was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “So, her death was courtesy of dear ol’ Gramps? You’re sure?”

  “Police are investigating.”

  I knew there was something he wasn’t telling me, but I also knew that when he clasped his hands together, like he had now, there was no chance of learning any more information. So I moved on to another topic—one that had been eating away at me like a slow-eroding acid. “Anne said something to me before she died—something about Mother wanting to name me Daisy, after her favorite flower…” Dad raised his eyebrow, but I took a breath and pressed on, “but you wouldn’t let her because I already had a name.”

  His expression darkened, as if turned to stone, and he pulled away to rake his fingers through his hair. My heart sped up; Anne wasn’t crazy. Dad’s discomfort at the mere mention of the topic was confirmation enough.

  “Just the ramblings of an old woman. Be thankful your crazy mother didn’t name you Gertrude or Buckwheat,” he said, feigning lightheartedness.

  “Yeah,” I muttered.

  Dad’s face softened. “Listen, I’m sorry you lost your mom at such a young age—it’s not fair—but you have to know that I tried to cure her, Kaya,” he said, staring out the window. “I spent a fortune on research and new treatments, but nothing worked. She didn’t commit suicide because of me—no matter what Marchessa claims. She was sick. She did it to herself.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I said automatically.

  “I know. But John Marchessa blames me for her death.”

  “Yes. An eye for an eye.”

  “Uh hmmm.” He nodded absently, and then he stood, smoothing the front of his thousand dollar pants. “Listen, Kaya, I actually came here to talk to you about something very important.”

  I knew it. His visit to my end of the estate wasn’t to check on my mental health—that would have been too good to be true. I considered burying myself under the blankets and covering my ears to avoid hearing whatever he had to say, but he was nervous—lip twitching, nostril flaring, hands running through his hair repeatedly—and I was intrigued.

  “By law I am required to inform you of a few things, and my lawyer insists that there’s no time like the present,” he said coolly, as I fidgeted on the edge of the bed, embarrassed that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d changed my clothes. “So here goes…” He cleared his throat nervously. “Everything is yours. This estate, Eronel Industries, and its sister companies. All of it is yours. I’ve only been acting as the executor of the estate until you become of legal age, and then you will subsequently take over.”

  “What? What the—what are you saying?” I asked, wondering if I had woken up in an alternate universe.

  “I am saying that you have inherited a fortune, and when you turn twenty-one, you will take control of it. The condition under which John Marchessa gave your mother the estate and Eronel, was that in the event of her death, everything would be passed down to her firstborn child—as long as the child is of sound mind, of course. If there was no child, or in the event of the child’s death, all ownership would revert back to him.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. Lenore—your mother, promised me she would have this condition removed when you were born, but she never did. So I have fought against this matter in court for years, but as of last week, I’ve officially lost.”

  The bitterness in his voice was obvious. I pinched myself discreetly under the blanket to see if I was awake, but the feeling of shock, much like that of being submerged in ice-cold water, had already taken my breath away. I was completely and unfortunately awake.

  Dad sighed. “So, that leaves you in the middle of a war. As long as you’re alive and able to take control when you turn twenty-one, Eronel Industries and the estate will be yours to do with what you choose. But, if you die before then, John Marchessa will get it all back—which is exactly what he wants.”

  So that was it in a nutshell. A slippery, withered, rotten-in-the-middle nutshell. I was only protected for the sake of the business. For the money. For greed. I squeezed my eyes shut against the painful answer to the burning question that had been in my mind for so long. “All this time I thought Granddad just wanted revenge on you,” I said, gulping as tears pushed against my eyelids.

  Henry laughed. “Well, yes, he wants that too, but, mostly he’s a money hungry bastard just like the rest of us. I turned Eronel into a force to be reckoned with. The failing dump of a company he gave to your mother is now a powerhouse. A game changer. He knows our research is close to giving us—and by us I
mean me and you, Kaya—the control of…”

  “Whoa!” I said, almost bolting off the bed. “What if I don’t want control… of anything?” A crazy grin inched across his face—it was that evil, lopsided one that revealed his true nature. “Then, you can sign it all over to me, and you can walk away,” he said smugly.

  Sign it all over to him and walk away. That was exactly what he wanted. The need oozed from his repulsive pores and glowed like a radioactive dollar sign hovering over where his heart should have been. I was only important to him so that one day I could give him complete control and ownership of the business he loved more than me.

  I bit my lip too hard and tasted blood. “What if, when I turn twenty-one, I keep it all for myself and decide to have nothing to do with you?” I said harshly. “What if I don’t approve of your research, and instead I want to make, oh I dunno, lipstick? What if I shut down the company and turn the entire estate into a pet shelter?”

  This rattled him down to his one-hundred-dollar socks. His Adam’s apple bobbed a few times, and his lips thinned into a tight line. “No one could stop you,” he said, “it really is all yours. But I have faith that you will make the right choice.”

  Well how about that. I held the keys. I could toss them over a cliff if I wanted to. We were staring at each other like gladiators in battle, and he blinked first.

  “Please sign this at the bottom and initial here and here,” Dad said, producing a thick batch of papers from his suit jacket. “This is to acknowledge that you understand what I have told you, and that you are aware that this conversation has been recorded.”

  Recorded? Asshole.

  I struggled to pull air into my lungs, and then I scratched my name with his overly ornate pen on the lines he had indicated. I wished that my last name was anything other than Lowen and that my hands would stop shaking from overwhelming feeling of pure hatred I reserved for the man before me.