The Girl in the Mirror (Sand & Fog #3)

by Susan Ward

  My dad’s features alter with fear. “You’re going to be all right, Krystal. But you have to help us. You have to eat, baby. You can’t come home until you are strong enough for the doctors to release you.”

  He grabs the spoon and holds it before me again.

  I shake my head.

  I don’t want food.

  I stare at the door.

  If my leg wasn’t trapped in that harness I’d run from the room.

  I want to be back in what I never expected to find when I first left Pacific Palisades.

  I want hazel eyes and loving smiles, strong arms holding me, nights of tenderness and passion, laughter and Manhattan again.

  Is Jacob dead?

  Is that what they’re not telling me?

  No, no, no.

  Shutting out the heart-ripping truth surrounding me, I escape back into my own thoughts where life is how I want it to be. Where I can dance in my dreams with Jacob again.

  Chapter Two

  Pacific Palisades, three years earlier

  My cell phone rings, and without preamble I say quickly, “I’m heading out the door, Maddy,” as I rush around my room to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. “Don’t nag me about always being late. How long until you get to Malibu?”

  Madison laughs.

  “Just hit Highway 1. No traffic. Maybe forty minutes.”

  “See you then. You remember the codes to our beach house so you can get in if you get there first, don’t you? I still haven’t said goodbye to Mom yet. You might reach the house before I do and, heck, I’ve only got a thirty-minute drive.”

  A moment of silence and I can see Madison in my head making a face. “Of course I do. It’s my sister’s birthday. I would have thought your dad would have had the security company change the codes by now.”

  “My dad. Are you kidding? He’s predictable in his unpredictability where my mother’s concerned.”

  “Say hi to Chrissie for me.” Then she adds on a heated rush, “But don’t let her keep you there talking forever.”

  “Yes, Aunt Maddy.”

  “Don’t call me that,” she says, annoyed. “I hate it when we’re out and you call me that in front of guys.”

  “Why? You are my aunt. You’re my mom’s sister. An absolute. Accurate. Why does it annoy you?”

  I’m only messing with her.

  I know why.

  We have a complicated family.

  Not the least of which being Madison is younger than I am and the product of my grandfather’s affair with her mother from back in the day before Jack married Linda.

  “Fuck you. Just don’t call me that or I’m not staying the full weekend at the beach with you.”

  “I’m hanging up now,” I say.

  Click.

  She’ll stay all three days no matter what I call her.

  She’s not fooling me. She loves hanging out with me. Our version of nerd girls gone wild. We always get in the most trouble and have our best times together.

  I’m certainly in the mood for both.

  I haven’t been out in weeks.

  Mom’s been overly suffocating and wanting to spend every minute in mother-daughter time before I head out to New York and Juilliard.

  Sweet, but annoying.

  I do have a life.

  Well, sort of.

  Why can’t she sometimes be like Dad? He goes MIA without even saying goodbye to me half the time.

  I shove my cell phone into my pocket.

  Yep, ready to burn rubber out of here.

  Some private girl time whooping it up with Madison.

  Exactly what I need before I’m east coast bound.

  East coast bound—finally.

  Not that I don’t love my parents, because I do.

  Not that I don’t love my brothers and sisters, because I do.

  But hell, it’s damn near impossible to live how I want to here. Mom is so watchful and Dad, well, he’s always up in everyone’s shit.

  They’re really good parents, though.

  That’s the problem.

  They watch, care, and actually want to know and be part of what we kids do. Why can’t they be like everyone else’s parents, oblivious and hyperfocused on their own lives? It’s not like they don’t have plenty of other things to claim their attention. And they are definitely still hot and heavy for each other.

  No mistaking that.

  Even if us five kids weren’t quantifiable proof.

  But Chrissie and Alan somehow see and know everything—

  Well, almost everything.

  I grab my bag and head into the hallway, shaking my head to clear my thoughts. Pretty soon whatever my parents see—or don’t see—won’t matter, and maybe I can relax and stop worrying all the time.

  Four days and counting until freedom and a new life.

  Juilliard, my own apartment and living alone in the Big Apple.

  Finally, maybe now I’ll have an existence where I don’t hear on a daily basis: “You’re Jackson Parker’s granddaughter”; “Isn’t your mother Christian Parker?”; “Isn’t your father Alan Manzone?” or “Aren’t you Kaley Rowan’s sister?”

  I shudder. That last one is the worst of the worst because all through school at Pacific Palisades Academy the teachers had an annoying tendency to call me Mini-Kaley and I’d make myself smile like I thought it funny, only I didn’t.

  I love my sister, but let’s be frank here, her reputation is one no one would want to be burdened with and we couldn’t be less alike. My big sister definitely had some hell-raising teenage years—Pacific Palisades Academy won’t soon forget her senior year—though now she’s this ubersuccessful independent filmmaker and Internet sensation, and somehow that makes it all right for everyone that she was a massive pain in the butt at eighteen. My teachers’ continued need to draw a comparison between us was not only insensitively illogical but it made me feel invisible.

  It’s worth moving three thousand miles away never to hear Mini-Kaley again. I know lots of people dream of being part of the fast lane in Southern California, to live a life like they see on those dumb reality TV shows, but I would argue that’s only because they haven’t lived it.

  My childhood has been like the ultimate reality TV show. It’s not a great thing being defined sight unseen, and you spend pretty much every minute of your life stuck in sort of an insurmountable quicksand of all your relatives’ successes and mistakes.

  Yep, that’s how it’s felt—stuck in quicksand—and as if scrambling out is only way not to drown.

  I don’t doubt if anyone could hear my thoughts they’d think me petty, spoiled, and ungrateful. It would definitely make Mom and Dad butt-hurt, which is why I never tell anyone how I really feel about anything, but that doesn’t mean I’m not past ready to be out from under their shadow, being only Krystal for once in my life.

  Even my success in my dance company never totally felt my own, because you’re never just an ordinary girl when your parents are Chrissie and Alan. It makes it impossible to be confident why you achieve anything and paradoxically you work twice as hard every minute to disprove whatever wrong thing everyone is thinking.

  True, I can’t be certain it would have been any different in my dance company if my parents hadn’t been famous and rich. The ballet community is a highly competitive, petty, and close-knit environment.

  Harsh reminders rise sharply in my memory.

  The hateful rumors.

  The frequent acts of sabotage.

  The cruel accusations that every principal role I got was only because of who my parents are, and worse, the suspicion that they donated to the company to ensure my success.

  Wrong. People would know that if they knew my mom and dad.

  But it still hurt—the cattiness and spiteful words of my fellow dancers. And I know it’s not my parents’ fault, how it’s been trying to climb the ranks to become an elite dancer, but I can’t ch
ange how I feel or the stark reality that I won’t ever be who I want to be unless I get out of here.

  It’s like being a hamster trapped on a wheel. Run, run, run. Only you never get out from under other people’s opinions of you—they follow you wherever you go, no matter how fast you run, unless you jump off the wheel.

  That’s what Juilliard is for me: jumping off the wheel. If there’s a God in heaven, hopefully the other students at school won’t figure out who my parents are.

  I remind myself it’s not likely. When given a choice, I didn’t change my name from Harris—the name on my birth certificate and legacy from Mom’s husband number two—when all the other kids legally changed their surname to Manzone.

  One family.

  That’s what my parents wanted.

  I just couldn’t do it.

  Couldn’t completely erase Jesse Harris because he’d been a good dad until he died, and I loved him.

  Alan had been cool about it—it was his idea, not Mom’s, for us kids to be allowed to choose which surname we kept after we found out Alan was our dad—and whether he believed my explanation at the time, that I didn’t need to change my name to love him, is anyone’s guess.

  But Dad never tried to change my decision.

  Neither of my parents did.

  Now where’s my mom?

  The house is quiet—it’s never quiet. Maybe everyone is gone.

  I pass my brother’s open bedroom door and spot my younger brother, Ethan, lying on his bed, reading a book.

  I poke my head in. “Where’s Mom?”

  He looks up. “Studio. You heading out?”

  I nod. “Which? Recording or dance studio?”

  “Dance,” is all he says.

  I continue on through the house.

  Informative conversation in twelve words. I count them in my head again. Yep, Ethan is concise. And while to someone who doesn’t know my brother he might seem indifferent, he’s not. He’s just quiet and sort of shy, even with the family. He’s got that whole younger twin/older dominant twin—my brother Eric—dynamic going on.

  I drop my suitcase in the entry hall and go into the yard, crossing the lawn to the detached dance studio my dad had built so I’d have somewhere private to study and practice.

  Nice sentiment.

  Didn’t work out that way.

  Even the dance studio is not my own space.

  I quietly open the door and peek in.

  Ah—there’s Mom.

  Who are all these people?

  She’s in the middle of learning a new performance routine.

  Not bad—well, the routine, that is.

  Mom, even fit and hip at fifty-two, doesn’t have any moves on the floor.

  She’s a half beat behind the music.

  I hope I didn’t get my dance gene from her.

  Maybe I made the wrong choice.

  Juilliard.

  The wanting to be a ballerina thing…

  “Krystal,” she says, stopping in midstep, then turns toward her choreographer. “Can we take five, Allister?”

  From a chair she grabs a bottle of water, downs a hurried sip, then reaches for the towel to lightly dab her face.

  “You heading out for the weekend, baby girl?”

  I enter the studio and cross the wood floor to her.

  “New routine, Mom?”

  She makes a cute, aggravated face. “Yep. For live TV, no less. I’m not feeling it.” She loops her arms over my shoulders. “I never get steps quickly unless you teach me. My feet only understand you.”

  I laugh. “It looks good, Mom.”

  She gives me a silly shake. “Come dance with me? A few steps with Mom before you head out for the weekend. I’m going to miss you after you take off for New York.”

  “Really? I would have thought you’d be happy to be down another kid.”

  She drops a kiss on my nose. “Nope. Not happy.”

  She takes me by the hand and drags me into the center of the room. “Allister, cue up the music again.”

  Oh fudge, she’s going to make me do her routine with her before I can leave for the weekend.

  I stare at our side-by-side images in the wall mirror.

  Small, curvaceous, and stunningly beautiful blonde beside her only slightly taller, less stunning, much less built daughter.

  “Five, six, seven, eight,” I hear Allister call out and my gaze shifts to the choreographer who’s moved to stand in front of us.

  I effortlessly copy the steps.

  Simple moves.

  Why can’t Mom get this?

  I stop and face her, putting my hands on her hips. “Relax. Move your hips from your torso, not your legs.”

  Chrissie laughs, does a hip roll with a turn—perfectly—and I shake my head at her.

  “You just pretend you can’t do this,” I tease.

  She gives me a wide-eyed, innocent expression.

  “You’re a good teacher.”

  “Are we done, Mom? You don’t need my help and we both know that. Can I leave now?”

  She pouts. “Fine. You can take off for the weekend. Straight to Malibu. Call me when you get there.”

  “Really? I’m eighteen. Isn’t it time to loosen the shackles a little? Next week I’ll be living on my own.”

  “Don’t remind me,” she says, dropping a kiss on my cheek. “Behave yourself. Say hi to Maddy for me. See you Monday.”

  Good. I’m getting out of here quicker than I thought I would. Probably because she’s busy.

  One parental unit down.

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “Halfway to London by now. On the road three weeks.”

  My brows shoot up.

  He didn’t even say goodbye to me before he left.

  “Why didn’t you go, too, Mom?”

  “You know the house rule. One of us on the road and one of us always home.”

  I shake my head at her. “You should have gone. Had a little alone time with Dad.”

  She gives me the Chrissie look. There’s no way to adequately describe that one. Serious shit hiding behind a droll expression. Familiar and nerve-racking simultaneously.

  “Someone had to stay to see you off to college next week, baby girl.”

  Oh great—she’s going to the airport with me.

  Staring people and approaching fans.

  That’ll be fun.

  Not.

  It could be worse.

  It could be Dad.

  That would be pandemonium.

  “I’ll call you when I get to the beach. I’ll see you on Monday night.” At the door I pause to point back at her. “I expect you to have the routine aced by the time I get back here.”

  Laughing, she tosses her towel at me, and I leave before she can get out another word. As I hurry across the lawn, I pull my cell from my pocket and check the time. That only took fifteen minutes. A new record with my mother.

  Inside the house, I go straight for the front door and retrieve my bag. Eric and Khloe couldn’t care less that I’m taking off. No need to say goodbye to them—I feel a jab of something—no need really to say goodbye to any of them.

  I’m Krystal.

  Middle child.

  Largely overlooked.

  Not the baby like Khloe.

  Not the princess like my older sister, Kaley.

  The good girl.

  Little Miss Straight A’s.

  Never in trouble like my brother Eric.

  Always doing exactly what they expect of me.

  When I’m here, half the time no one even knows I’m home.

  Chapter Three

  I lug my bag out into the driveway and anxiously scan for one of the security guys to take it and get my car from the cluster of fancy toys parked in front of me, since my dad has more cars than a dealership.

  Better to let one of bodyguards maneuver my Audi to the front door.

  Oh, and
here’s another fun part of my life: we have 24/7 security at the house. Both my parents consider it necessary but I think the security guys are more here because my dad is slightly paranoid over being a billionaire and overly inflammatory with his mouth. Alan worries too much that something bad will happen to one of us kids because of him. And it’s definitely not worth pointing out to my dad that the smarter move would be to say less so he could hire fewer guys with guns.

  A familiar figure walks right in front of me, no look or smile, as he continues on his routine patrol of the property.

  Yuck, Jacob Merrick.

  Why does he have to be the only one within shouting distance? The worst of the worst from the security company.

  Such an arrogant prick.

  He’s like one of those guards at Buckingham Palace. No matter what I do I can’t get him to look or even smile at me when he’s on duty. As for help, only when I ask directly for it.

  Maybe he’s clueless. He’s younger than the rest of the bodyguards. Combat vet. Special Forces. Nothing but best of the best, elite military for my old man.

  Jacob is gorgeous, though, for sure. Sandy brown hair and bright hazel eyes. Tall, tan, and well-muscled. Hot body, no denying that. Like all the security team, handsome and cut. But he’s totally unimpressed by me, and not the least bit worried to let me know it.

  Why doesn’t he like me?

  I drop my bag to land with a thump.

  Jacob doesn’t look.

  “Hello, security person,” I call out in a rude, snotty way. But I’m not really rude or snotty; it just bugs me that Jacob always ignores me. “I need help. I need my car.”

  He stops.

  Turns.

  I dangle my keys in front of me, shaking them.

  He walks across the grass to the front entry.

  Without a word, he takes my keys and my bag, and saunters off.

  Frowning, I follow him with my gaze as he maneuvers between the cars.

  He could at least say hello to me, now couldn’t he?

  He tosses my bag into the trunk and brings up my car in about a half minute, having figured out how to get my car unburied and to the front door when I couldn’t have done that in an hour.

  After springing from the driver’s seat, he stands there waiting to close it for me.

  I drop down into the seat, but leave one foot on the pavement. “Why won’t you talk to me?”