by Tara Brown
She had raven-black hair, stark white skin with subtle freckles, gray eyes, and a bow mouth. She was a tiny woman, shorter than me. My mother had looked plain upon first sight, but when she smiled, it was as if her heart-shaped face exploded beauty. Her eyes sparkled and her lips remained full, even in a smile.
In the huge mirror on my dresser, I wished I could see something of my mother in myself. My thick strawberry-blonde hair was my father’s, along with my thin upper lip that vanished when I smiled. Even the honey-brown eyes surrounded by thick black lashes were my father’s, as was my thin face. I stared deeper, seeing nothing but him.
I closed my eyes, trying to remember what my mother looked like. I promised myself I would never forget her face. It had grown harder to recall it exactly; the features had faded with time.
My most recent memories of my father weren’t my favorite. I had loved his face before he’d grown sick, how it was when he stood tall and proud, smiling at me at graduation. He smiled, and yet somehow his eyes were still hollow and distant.
My memories of him became altered. I saw something that wasn’t there before—regret, love, and fear. It was as plain as the nose on my face, which was also his.
Tears welled in my eyes as I grasped that he had loved me all along. He had wanted to be with me but chose my aunt and uncle to protect me and keep me out of harm’s way. He had sacrificed the relationship we might have had to ensure I would always be safe and away from the dangers he possessed.
Because he believed I didn’t have those same traits.
Lastly, I recalled Rebecca. Rebecca had died as a result of being my friend, but at least it wasn’t my fault. I breathed a freeing sigh, thinking of my friend, until I remembered the cookies my aunt had made, intended for me. My aunt hadn’t expected Rebecca to come home with me. She had been out at the time. We ate the cookies from the plate, laughing about the recent Saturday Night Live skit before getting into Rebecca’s car to go for our Starbucks. We had already ingested the poison before going for coffee.
“That number.”
I opened my eyes to Roland’s smiling face and a piece of paper in his hand. “Thank you.”
He nodded regally and left the room, ever silent.
I picked up the phone and took a deep inhale, trying to figure out my story.
Chapter 6
Is that a gun in your pocket or are you happy to see me?
“The young officer is in the front room,” Roland spoke after sneaking up on me again.
“How do you do it?”
“I have no idea what you are referring to, but I will let the young man know you are coming down.” He was gone again, making no sound. His feet never scuffed, shuffled, or made a single noise on the hardwood.
I gave myself a once-over, noticing a pride in seeing my father’s face in my own. It was a new sensation for me to recognize his features and not hate them, born out of my sudden understanding of the mysterious man. His love was more, now that I saw the sacrifice he’d made.
I left the room, wondering how the conversation would go, once the police officer knew the truth about my friend’s disappearance.
Officer Paulson was in the front room admiring my father’s painting above the mantel of the lit fireplace. The room was warm and inviting with oversized dark leather couches and rubber wood coffee tables. The stones around the fireplace came from a river. My father had hand-selected each one. Since learning so many of his hidden truths, I pondered over what year he might have chosen the stones. I had assumed he bought the house only months prior to first bringing me there. Seeing the way Roland fit into every nook and cranny convinced me my father had built the house a hundred years earlier.
“Thank you for coming.”
Officer Paulson turned, smiling. His piercing blue eyes sought the truth out, speaking directly to my soul. “Hanna, it’s so nice to see you again. How are you?” His tone was genuine as were his eyes.
“Getting better, I guess. But I need to tell you something. It’s why I called you here.” I pointed to the large couch. “Please take a seat, Officer Paulson.”
“Thanks, and it’s Andy. So you live here then?”
“Yeah.” I smiled sweetly, batting my eyelashes. “My parents are both gone.”
“I heard of your father’s recent passing.” His eyes grew full of concern. “I’m sorry. You’re so young to be an orphan.”
“Thanks. Anyway, when my father died he left me some family secrets via journals. Secrets I hadn’t known about.”
His eyebrows raised. “Secrets?”
“Yes.” I treaded carefully around him, though my heart wanted to tell him the entirety of the tale. His honest face would be the death of my lies. “My mother died in an accident and my father believed it would be better if I were raised by my aunt and uncle. His lifestyle never suited a child, and he believed them to be good people. They have raised me for eleven years.” At least that part wasn't a lie.
“Okay.” He followed with nods.
“It turns out my aunt and uncle have enjoyed certain aspects of my being there more than others.”
His brow furrowed. “What aspects?”
“As I’m sure you noticed, this house is nice—my father’s things are all expensive. He had a lot of money and he compensated them to ensure I never went without.”
He frowned. “He paid them to take care of you.”
“He did. But I didn’t know about it. I was only informed after his death. I turned eighteen and apparently an enormous amount of money was released to me then, in trust. No one ever told me about the money.”
“Oh God.” He grimaced, seeing where it was all going. “Are they your next of kin?”
“Yeah.” I bit my lip again.
He took a deep breath. “This changes everything.”
“I thought it might.”
“Wow.” He ran a hand through his hair. “So have any memories come back then?”
“Yup.” I swallowed hard. “I remember we went to my house—my aunt and uncle’s. We ate cookies my aunt had left on a plate and then we went to Starbucks. I remember telling Rebecca I wanted to go home after Starbucks; I had my coffee in my hand. My stomach was hurting.”
“She poisoned you both with cyanide then?” Obviously, he was confused by the fact that I was sitting beside him and not dead like my best friend.
“But I got sick, it’s the last thing I recall. We stopped the car by the woods and I got sick there. Then whatever happened to us, happened there. I blacked out after throwing up.”
His expression was grave. “This is serious, Hanna.”
“I know. I went back to get proof.”
“What?” He looked lost again. “I’m not following you.”
“I snuck into my aunt and uncle’s backyard. Last night I watched through the kitchen window as they ground up something white. Then they stirred it into the sugar canister on the counter. My aunt told my uncle not to eat it, and to tell me he’d switched to honey in his coffee and tea. After he read a letter they started talking about my money. It was awful. She said they deserved the money.”
“Oh my God.” He sounded disgusted. “What happened then?”
“I ran into the woods and called Roland, and he came to get me. I’ve been here since.”
He shook his head. “I see so many bad things every day, but this takes at least one cake. Why would she poison your cookies with cyanide?”
“How do you know it was cyanide?”
“Easy.” He exhaled deeply. “It’s what we found inside Rebecca. She died of cyanide poisoning. We thought she’d been around something radioactive at first. We found out what it was from the autopsy report.”
“How could we eat that and not know?”
“Baking is an easy place to disguise it. It’s a type of poison I wouldn’t have thought of. It comes from apple seeds.”
“That’s ridiculous! Apple seeds aren’t poisonous.” I gasped.
“Oh yes, my dear. They are highly pois
onous. But processing them can be a bother.” Roland laughed as he brought the tea tray into the room.
“You know how?” I asked, raising an eyebrow at the old man.
“I’ve read countless mystery novels in my many years, dear girl. The inside of the seed is highly poisonous. One must split it and remove the guts of the seed, and then grind that extremely fine. I’ve never heard of it used in baking, I will say.”
Andy smirked. “I’m almost wondering where you were that night, Roland.”
Roland laughed. “Oh, Officer Paulson, you flatter me. I don’t have the energy for such adventures.” He turned to leave the room, smiling mischievously. “Not anymore anyway.”
Andy laughed. “Well, I have to say, we have enough for a warrant.” His eyes lost their humor again. “Thanks so much for calling.”
“I feel so guilty that Rebecca died because of me.”
He reached forward and put a hand on mine, covering it completely. “You can’t take the blame for something you had nothing to do with. They made the choice and they committed the crime. You were a victim as much as she was.”
“But I have the weaker stomach.” I tried to focus on his hand and not the tears threatening to spring from my eyes.
His eyes grew puzzled again. “Where were you for all those weeks then, if you didn’t end up like your friend?”
“No clue, but wherever it was, I almost hope I don’t remember.”
“Yeah, we found GHB in your system. That doesn’t bode well for your missing time.”
“Maybe it’s better I don’t remember anything.”
He looked at me, putting his hand through my hair and tucking it behind my ear. I trembled against the feel of his warm hand as it brushed against my face. “It pisses me off, thinking about you missing for all those weeks, scared and alone with strangers. Or worse—your crazy aunt and uncle.”
“Me too.” I wanted to tell him the truth.
“I never want you to be afraid again.” He leaned in, softly brushing his lips against mine. It lasted only one heartbeat before he pulled back. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. That was so inappropriate. I don’t know what’s come over me. I better go.”
“No. Please, don’t be sorry.”
He smiled, lifting one side of his mouth slightly. “I’m not sorry I kissed you; I just can’t do it again until I’m done working your case. It’s not right. Which means I’d like a rain check for this exact moment.”
“Sure.” I laughed, blushing. It was insane but the attraction was obvious.
“I will be here the minute this is over and it’s no longer a conflict of interest.” He stood from the couch abruptly. “The second it’s over. But I’ve got to go before I do something else inappropriate.”
“Goodnight.” I couldn’t help but smile. The talk had been morbid but the kiss was unexpectedly wonderful.
“Night.” He waved. “I’ll call you when the warrant has been executed.” As he left, I picked up the throw pillow beside me, grinning as I hugged it to my body.
“Awww,” Marcus mocked from behind, startling me. “Unfortunately, it can never be more than flirtation, love.”
“What are you doing, spying on me?” I turned sharply, frowning at him.
“Maybe.” His booming laugh echoed throughout the room.
I contemplated throwing the pillow at him. “What are you doing in my house? Does Roland know you’re here?”
“Well.” He cleared his throat as he sat on the couch next to me. His scent made my want to lean in. “Contrary to popular belief, love, I never drove your father to wish for a change. He and I got along in perfect harmony. I let myself in, as I always have.” He leaned in closer. “And you can never be with the police officer because you cannot control yourself. Officer Paulson would not be able to get out of harm’s way fast enough.”
“I won’t be a monster forever.”
“You are my favorite monster, Hanna. Of all the monsters in all the world, you’re my favorite. You’re feisty and spirited but deep down, in a place you don’t let anyone see, you’re sweet too.
“Gross.” I grimaced. “I could never be sweet to you. You’re old.”
“I haven’t aged at all.” He laughed harder. “And I would never want you to be sweet to me.” He kissed my cheek roughly. “I like spice better than sweet.”
Anxious about being so close to him, I leaned back and changed the subject, “How many monsters are there?”
He tilted his head. “Many.”
“Right, but types.” I rolled my eyes, pulling back farther. “Like do vampires and werewolves and trolls exist?”
He raised an eyebrow, not answering. He examined me carefully, making me more nervous.
“What about mermaids?”
“Yes, it’s all true,” he finally spoke, sounding annoyed. “Do you really believe there is a human gifted enough in imagination to create beings so amazingly accurate in strength and weakness?”
“Yes. Frankenstein?”
“It happened.”
Disbelief crossed my brow. “What? No, not Frankenstein.”
“Yes, Frankenstein. And yes, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde obviously. And Count Dracula and the Mummy. I find it hilarious you turn into a monster and doubt the existence of other monsters.” He picked up a piece of my hair, sniffing it, and continued, “You smell delicious for such a naughty beast.”
“Oh my God.” I snatched my hair back. “Stop! How old are you anyway?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “What does time matter to me? Only the dying consider time. I guarantee the eighteen years you have lived have matured you far beyond what centuries have done for me. We’re practically the same age.” He grinned wickedly.
“I don’t doubt that or find it attractive.” I sat for a moment, not sure if I should ask the question I wanted the answer to. When he didn’t speak, I blurted it out, “How long have you known they drugged me? Not only that they did, but that they would?”
A snake-like grin crossed his sensual lips. “Ah, there it is, the right question.” He twirled a new piece of hair. “For some time.”
“Can you read my thoughts?”
He laughed. “As well as you can read mine.”
“How did you know then?”
He looked at me sharply. “I pay attention.”
“Did you tell my father it would happen?”
“What do you think?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I think you wanted me to be poisoned. But why?”
“I think I’ve answered enough questions for one night.”
“How could you let me turn into this?” I narrowed my gaze.
“I never poisoned you.”
“But you knew?”
He grinned. “You assume I knew. How about you answer one for me?” He peered down at me keenly.
“What?”
“How did your mother die?” His question came across as sarcastic, as if he knew the answer and was asking to hurt me.
“An accident,” I answered softly, beginning to see the full scope of the cruelty he was capable of. “She was in a car accident on a freeway. It was a ten-car pileup.”
“Hmm, did you ever try looking it up online?”
“No.” I scowled, growing increasingly anxious. “I was seven years old.”
“Did you see anything in the paper?”
“I was seven.” My words turned firm and adamant. I wasn’t sure why he was doing this.
He stood up from the couch. “Well, I must be going. Goodnight, love.”
He walked from the room and I realized I loathed him in a lustful and perplexing way.
I sat on the couch, wondering where he’d been going with bringing up the accident. My aunt was my mother’s best friend—surely she’d looked into the accident. Surely she would have told me the truth. I thought about the poisoned cookies and sighed. Maybe not.
Chapter 7
The Roses and The Thorns
I sat on the edge of my bed watching t
he sunrise. My skin itched as if it needed something. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was.
“I have someone I need you to meet,” Roland spoke from the doorway.
“Who?”
“A woman who can help you—well, try to help you fit into the world in which you were born.”
“I don’t know why I need to fit into this world.”
“You do.” His tone meant the discussion was over.
“When do I meet her?”
“She’s downstairs now.”
“Now?” I frowned. “Roland, that’s called ambush.”
“No.” He laughed. “That’s called concern. I won’t be around forever and Mr. Dragomir can’t very well be the only friend you have.”
“Whatever. You’ve probably been alive for centuries.” I rolled my eyes.
“Now.”
“Fine, I’ll come down.” I climbed off my bed and sauntered after him down the hallway and grand staircase. He led me to the front sitting room and smiled at the older woman seated on the huge couch. “My dearest Ms. Crane, may I introduce my ward, Miss Maria Hanna Jekyll.”
The older woman had white hair tucked up in a bun and a wrinkled, kind face. I liked her immediately. “Hello, my dear girl. Thank you, Roland.” She stood, gently taking one of my hands as she smiled delightfully.
“Tea, ladies?”
“Please, Roland,” Ms. Crane answered softly.
“I feel like I’m on a BBC movie set,” I blurted out.
“My name is Lydia, not Ms. Crane. Roland is so formal.” She winked at him. “I came because I wanted to say how dreadfully sorry I am about your father.”
“You knew him?”
“Of course. Very well.” She let go of my hand and sat back on the couch.
“Oh.” I took a seat across from her, bewildered and a bit nervous. “Are you different like my father was?”
“Yes, I am. I have my own gifts—nothing comparable to your father’s. I understand you, however, have become more like him in the last few months?”
“Yeah.” I sighed. “I didn’t even know he was different until I read the journals.”