Attached to the message is the photo of me lying beside Zoe’s body.
The Unveiling?
The Unveiling.
I’ve heard that name before, a long, long time ago …
Memories begin to tear at my brain, making my head throb, begging me not to see them. Vomit burns in my throat as my stomach lurches.
I drop to the ground then crawl over to the trashcan where I puke. Once the vomit settles, I lie down on the cold, hardwood floor. I don’t know what he meant by saying I’ve killed before. I’ve never killed anyone. And, according to Zane, I didn’t kill Zoe.
If that’s the case, then where did the photo come from? And why can I suddenly feel the familiarity of blood staining my hands, as if it’s happened multiple times, not just that night when I might have hurt Zoe.
The Unveiling.
The Unveiling.
The Unveiling.
The words are an echo inside my head, mixing with blurry images I can’t make any sense of, as if my brain is trying to recall a forgotten memory but can’t quite get there.
As if it doesn’t want me to remember something so awful.
Chapter Twelve
For the next couple days, I spend most of my time cleaning, helping Loki out, and trying to do an online search of The Unveiling. I don’t find anything substantial, other than a couple of photos of old warehouses where, according to some very short article, an organization used to make illegal, experimental drugs. But none of the articles ever mention The Unveiling, so the connection is a mystery.
That’s not my only problem, either. Forgotten memories have begun to stir inside my head, ones I can’t ever make sense of, yet they make me sick every time they surface. It’s as if my brain wants to remember, but it’s too weak to see the actual truth.
Exhaustion clouds over me as I head upstairs to our parents’ bedroom to do some cleaning and distract myself from trying to remember. Loki won’t be home from the bookstore for a couple hours, so I figure I’ll pack up some boxes before he shows up. Maybe it will show him that I can handle more than he thinks. When I step over the threshold, however, I damn near collapse as memories hit me, slamming my heart against my chest.
The framed photos on the wall, the jewelry box on the dresser, the clothes in their closet, the shoes on the floor—every single inch of space reminds me of them. My brain begins to pulsate.
Remember.
Remember.
Remember.
Who you are?
“I’m Jessamine Madelynn Baker,” I whisper through a shaky breath.
I wait for the voice in my head to quiet. Then, summoning a deep breath, I inch into the room, trailing my fingers over the cologne bottles on the vanity. Memories trickle through my mind, causing my fingers to tremble.
“You can do this,” I try to convince myself as I inch into the closet.
I pick up a box from off the floor and check the contents. Photos. Lots and lots of photos. I start sifting through them, smiling at the memories each one carries. Then I notice a pattern. None of the photos are from when me and my siblings were babies.
So strange.
I stumble across a photo of when I was younger that I don’t remember ever being taken. In it, I’m standing in front of an old warehouse that reminds me of the photos I found on the internet when I searched The Unveiling. In the photo, I’m dressed in strange, plain, grey pants and a T-shirt. My eyes are wide, my cheeks sunken in. I look sickly. And horrified.
“I don’t remember this,” I whisper as I flip over the back. “Why do I look so sick?”
On the back, it’s dated fifteen years ago, and written in my mom’s handwriting are the words: Madelynn Jessamine, a little girl.
“Huh? Madelynn Jessamine? But my name’s Jessamine Madelynn.”
Pulling out my phone, I look the photos up of the warehouses to see if any of them match. One of them does, but I can’t find a listed address for the warehouse anywhere.
“Why the hell was I at one of those places?” I mutter as I stuff the photo into my pocket.
I start digging through more boxes, unsure of what I’m even searching for, but wanting to find something that will explain the strange photo in my pocket.
By the time Loki returns home with takeout for dinner, I still haven’t found anything and am starting to get worked up. But I collect myself before I head downstairs, not wanting to worry Loki or anyone else.
“I don’t want you to have to cook all the time,” Loki tells me as he sets the bags on the counter.
“I don’t mind cooking.” I grab some forks and paper plates, putting them on the kitchen island, figuring we can go buffet style tonight. “It actually relaxes me.”
He peers up from digging around in one of the bags. “Really?”
I shoot him a duh look. “Um, hello, I was going to culinary school.”
“Yeah, I know, but …” He loosens his tie and unbuttons the sleeves. “Some of the stuff you said in the hospital … I thought … Well, I thought maybe one of the problems was that you were tired of school.”
I shake my head. “Not necessarily of school. Just of … I don’t know, school in London.”
Indecisiveness crosses Loki’s face as he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. “You know Mom and Dad wouldn’t care if you changed your mind about stuff. I mean, they wouldn’t be angry with you if you decide you don’t want to go to school and cook anymore, or live in London.”
Sighing, I look him straight in the eye. “Loki, I swear I still want to cook. That’s probably the one thing I am sure of.” It’s everything else that’s complicated.
He bobs his head up and down as he reaches into one of the bags. “Okay. But even with other stuff, like living in London, they wouldn’t care. You don’t have to stay the same person you were when they were alive. If they were here, they’d tell you to do what makes you happy.”
“I know,” I whisper.
I’m sorry, Mom and Dad, for everything.
I just wish they were here so I could tell them. And maybe so they could answer some questions.
Better yet, I wish none of it ever happened.
But it did. And now you have to deal with the consequences.
Sighing, I help Loki take the food out of the bags. The photo in my pocket feels as though it weighs a hundred pounds. I want to know more about it, like why I can’t remember that day, and why I look so sick. Loki is older than me; perhaps I can ask him. He might remember something.
My lips part—
Don’t tell a soul.
Don’t tell a soul or you die.
A chill slithers up my spine as the voice in my head and the words trigger a memory locked deep inside my brain.
“Don’t tell a soul, Madelynn, about what you can do,” he whispers. “If you do, I’ll kill you.”
I decide to keep my lips sealed about the photo. Under my own free will or not, I’m not sure. It’s probably better, anyway. Asking Loki could lead to a whole set of other questions I’m not ready to answer, like why on earth was I looking at old warehouses on the internet.
Once I’m done helping Loki empty the bags, I sneak back up to our parents’ room before he notices I’m on the brink of losing my shit.
As I’m rearranging some of the boxes, I discover a small, metal trunk covered in cobwebs and a padlock.
What on earth could my parents have locked up in there?
I try to pick the lock with a hairpin, but I’ve never been that great with that sort of shit. I give up when my other siblings start wandering home, figuring I should spend some time with them.
That doesn’t mean I’m going to give up. I want to know what’s in that trunk. The real mystery is why.
III
The Start of a New Storm
Chapter Thirteen
The next day, I am determined to get into that damn trunk. The voice in my head screams at me to discover what’s inside. My plan is to pick the lock again, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll find some b
olt cutters.
Heading downstairs, my phone buzzes from inside my pocket, reminding me of another problem I still need to deal with.
Unknown: Are you ready to start playing the game again, Madelynn? I’d think about your answer really carefully, or that photo is going to go public soon.
My fingers tremble as I start to type a reply, still undecided over what to say. Then I hurriedly put my phone away as Loki walks in to tell me he’s leaving for the party.
“Are you sure you can handle this?” he asks for the millionth time as he laces up his sneakers.
“We’ll be fine.” I shoo him toward the front door. “They’re just a couple of teenagers, for God’s sake. What can possibly go wrong?”
Worry flashes across his face. “The fact that you have to ask that means a lot can go wrong.”
I put my hair into a messy ponytail. “It’s only for a few hours, and you’ll be, like, a few miles away. If I need you, I’ll call.” I draw an X across my heart. “I promise.”
“Fine.” He reluctantly collects the car keys off the foyer table then turns for the door. “But if you need anything—anything at all—call me.”
I nod. Good God, he’s a pain in the ass to get out of the house.
He dithers for another handful of seconds before opening the door.
I blow out a breath of relief and start backtracking for the kitchen to start on the brownies Zhara begged me to bake.
“Oh, and Jessa?” Loki says.
I turn around. “Yeah?”
He glances from the stairs to the living room then steps toward me with hesitancy written all over his face. “I made you an appointment for Wednesday,” he says quietly. “I hope that’s okay.”
“Oh … Yeah, that’s fine. Thanks … for doing that.”
“It’s not a problem. I’m just glad you agreed to talk to someone.” He backs toward the door again. “I’ll be back by six, okay?”
“Stop being such an old man,” I tell him. “Stay out at least until the sun goes down, for crying out loud.”
He waves me off then hurries out the door.
“Good grief. Is he always like that?” I ask Zhara when I find her in the kitchen.
“No. Usually, he doesn’t go out.” She picks up the butter and returns it to the fridge. “I’m glad you convinced him to go. He needs to get out more.”
I set the mixing bowl on the counter. “Hmmm … Sounds like someone else I know.”
“I go out sometimes,” she whispers to the open fridge. “But I like to help take care of stuff, too. I don’t know why everyone thinks that’s weird.”
I step up beside her and wrap my arms around her. “It’s okay if you like to help, but you do need to have some fun. Trust me; life goes by so much more quickly than you think. I don’t want you looking back at your life and wishing you’d done things differently.” I give her a big hug then move away before I start bawling.
I can’t get that text out of my mind. What did he mean by: Are you ready to start playing the game again? Is that a threat? A threat for what?
I should tell someone what’s going on. Someone I can trust. But definitely not any of my siblings. I will never burden them with this.
Zhara turns to face me. “Do you wish you could’ve done things differently?”
I nearly choke as I nod.
Her brows draw together. “Like, with what?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. When she stares at me expectantly, I rack my mind for something to tell her that doesn’t have to do with that night. “I guess, I wish I’d stayed in touch with my friends more.”
“You can still get in touch with them. I see some of them around sometimes. Like Milo. He actually came here when Anna’s crazy ex-boyfriend broke into the house and we had to call the cops.”
“Yeah, Anna told me about that.” Not wanting to go down the Milo road, I busy myself with pouring the batter in the baking dish and setting it in the oven. “The brownies should be done in a few minutes.” I grab a paper towel and wipe down the countertops. “I was thinking, before we take Nik to the game, we can go get something to eat. I’d cook, but I don’t think we have time.” And then, when we get back, I’m getting into that trunk. The desire to see what’s inside grows by the second.
You know what’s in there, don’t you? You can feel it in your bones.
“Jessa, are you sure you’re okay?” She watches me as I scrub down the kitchen like someone trying to clean their problems away. “You seem … I don’t know—”
The sound of glass shattering cuts her off.
Her eyes widen. “What was that?”
“I don’t know. It sounded like it came from upstairs.” I drop the paper towel and run for the stairs with Zhara on my heels.
Oh, my God, what if they’re here? What if they came to my house!
How could I have done this to my family!
When I get to the upstairs hallway, I find Nik standing in front of his bedroom doorway, his face pale.
“What happened?” I ask, striding toward him.
“I-I didn’t mean to,” he sputters, casting a panicked glance into his room. “I was just throwing the ball around and … it slipped out of my hands.”
I nudge him aside and hurry into his room. The window along the far back wall is shattered, broken glass scattered all over the floor and his bed.
“I’m so sorry, Jessa,” Nik says. “I promise it was an accident.”
“It’s okay.” I completely mean my words. “It could be worse.” Way, way worse.
I think I need to leave; go live someplace else until I can figure out a way out of this mess.
Zhara frowns at the fragments of glass on the carpet. “But there’s so much glass everywhere. And we don’t have a window anymore.”
“The glass can be cleaned up, and the window can be fixed,” I say with a shrug. “See? No harm, no foul.”
Zhara inches forward and peers out the broken window at the cloudy sky. “It looks like it’s going to rain.”
Rain. Rain. Rain.
No!
“We need to get a piece of cardboard, tape it up, and then call someone to come fix the window.” Surprisingly, my voice comes out even.
Zhara chews on her bottom lip. “If it rains, it could seep through the cardboard.”
“Okay, then we’ll use some plastic.” I pat her shoulder. “I can totally handle this.” On the outside, I’m calm as a sunny day. On the inside, I’m a trembling mess.
The scent of rain laces the air. A storm could be coming. And the last time that happened …
I nearly choke on the thought.
That message is a warning. Something bad is going to happen again.
“Maybe we should call Loki and see what he wants us to do,” Zhara suggests.
I shake my head, trying to focus past my worries. “No way. Then he’ll try to come home.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” She hops over the glass on the carpet, moving away from the window. “I think there might be a roll of plastic in the garage leftover from when Loki was going to paint the living room.”
“I’ll get it,” Nik offers, backing toward the door.
I bend down to start picking up the glass. “Grab the staple gun, too. And a garbage bag—”
The smoke detectors cut me off, startling the shit out of me, as the noise of sirens send a memory pulsating through me.
“Are you ready to play the game!” a deep voice reverberates around me.
A crowd of cheers follow.
“Are you ready for The Unveiling!” the deep voice shouts even louder.
The crowd cheers louder.
My body trembles as I try to squint through the blindfold. All I can see is the flickering of lights.
My skin dampens with sweat as I turn in a circle, my heart thrashing to get out of my chest.
What’s going on?
Where am I?
What’s about to happen?
“Then let’s bring them out
!” the deep voice yells excitedly. “Everyone cheer for the experimental drug subjects! Their skills are going to blow your mind!”
The crowd erupts with enthusiasm as a siren blares …
I blink back to reality and cover my ears.
Skills?
Experimental drug subjects?
My mind travels to the photo I found in my parents’ closet of me standing in front of a warehouse. A warehouse that was used to make illegal, experimental drugs.
What the hell happened to me?
I lower my hands from my ears and examine my arms, searching for signs of … Well, I’m not quite sure yet. That I’m messed up? That I was doped up?
Everything about me appears physically normal.
Nik throws his hands over his ears and shouts, “Why the hell are they going off?”
“Jessa, the brownies!” Zhara cries over the shrieking.
Shit!
I shove Nik aside, race down the stairs, and run into the kitchen.
Smoke laces the air from a small fire on the burner, remnants of a paper towel lying in its midst.
“Shit.” I quickly turn off the burner, grab the fire extinguisher from under the sink, and douse the flames.
“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry!” Zhara sputters, rushing into the kitchen. “I must have left the burner on when I was melting the butter.”
“It’s okay.” I fan a dishrag in front of the smoke detector near the oven. “I’m the one who threw the paper towel on it!” I continue to wave the dishrag back and forth, but it won’t turn off. “Man, these things are temperamental.”
“I’ll open some windows.” Zhara leans over the sink and throws open the window.
“The house alarm’s going off, too,” Nik announces as he enters the kitchen with his hands over his ears. “I can’t get it to turn off.”
I set down the dishrag and hurry toward the foyer, wanting nothing more than to turn off the damn alarm and shut the damn memories off that are piercing my brain.
Reclaiming Madelynn (Reclaiming Book 1) Page 9