by Fiona Keane
I waited for the elevator, my palms twitching with nerves, desperate to smack the worry from my face. Climbing in, I pressed the button for his floor, and let the magnificent machine carry me to him. I felt invasive, poking my nose in pieces of Soph that she hadn’t requested me to step into, but I needed to do this for her. As the elevator doors opened, revealing a wall of frosted glass doors, I glanced around at my surroundings. His suite was close to the elevator, a massive door entirely made of frosted glass with a fancy doorknob. Lights were on, so I swallowed the lump brewing in my throat and walked inside.
“Welcome to D’Augustino and Lucerne. How may I help you?” The receptionist was bubbly, eerily reminiscent of Olivia with smiling blue eyes and a long blonde ponytail.
“Um,” I stuttered, aware that I looked like a wet, dirty, idiot. “I need to speak with Lucas D’Augustino. Please.”
“Do you have an appointment…sir?” She looked at me, her eyes settling on my face. She patiently grinned at me.
“No. No. I don’t. It’s not a legal matter, really, it’s personal.”
“Okay.” She laughed. “Let me see if he’s busy.”
I smiled at her, hoping I at least appeared polite and that she wasn’t actually calling security once she began speaking into her phone. I didn’t think it through. I couldn’t deal with police. Not just yet.
“Sir,” she nodded to me, “what’s this about exactly?”
“A very close friend of his,” I swallowed, racking my brain trying to remember if Soph ever told me her mom’s name. Crap. Shit. Oh, no. Shaking my head in defeat, wishing to buy time, my fingers scraped against my scalp.
“I’m marrying the daughter of a good friend. Please, just…can you tell him I’m here about Sophia…Sophia Reid.”
It felt like committing a criminal act. Saying her old name, the name that tantalized my tongue just weeks prior, days prior, was now poisoned.
“I’ll see, Mr…what was your name?”
“Jeremy. Jeremy…Black.”
She nodded promptly, stepping away from her desk and disappearing around the corner. I began pacing, strolling back and forth in the small office, listening to the soft mumble of conversation down the hall. The digital clock behind the receptionist’s desk reminded me I had already been away from Soph for twenty-five minutes. I needed to get back.
“He’ll see you now.” She was back from the corner, already adjusting her posture in the chair behind her desk.
My nervous attention, now beginning to focus on how unbelievably pissed and frightened Soph would be if she woke soon and realized I wasn’t there, was pulled back to the receptionist as she nodded toward the corner.
“First door on your left.”
“Thank you.” My hands stuffed into my pockets, checking that my wallet was still there and anxiously fiddling with the seams of fabric.
I tapped on the door, entering when I heard a man’s voice allow my entrance. I felt more out of place than ever before. I had spent the last four years living as the spoiled brat nephew of a judge and his philanthropic housewife. I should have been used to wealth, but that man’s office looked like Thomas’s office times eight. The rich mahogany furniture was settled above Oriental rugs, lush and vibrant with color. The walls were a dark red, almost a rich velvety crimson. A large grandfather clock ticked away in the background, decorated in strips of gold.
“Lucas D’Augustino,” he informed me, introducing himself with a solid handshake. “You’re here about Marion’s daughter.”
Marion. That was such a beautiful name. Marion, Sophia. God. I wonder what their life was truly like.
“Sophia,” I said, reaching for his hand.
His skin was too smooth, like he never lifted a finger for any work. He seemed the exact opposite of someone Soph would associate with, so I couldn’t imagine how her mom would have known this man. He motioned for me to sit in one of the chocolate brown leather chairs across from his glass desk. Nodding, I fell into the chair and clutched my knees.
“Jeremy, let me begin—”
“Her mom was murdered,” I interrupted, my heart flying a mile a minute, unable to stop the vomit of Sophia’s personal life from flooding out of me. “Marion. She was murdered. Soph was almost killed too. Twice.”
Lucas lifted a pen in his fingers, anxiously twirling it while I spoke. His brows met, startled by my verbal vomit. I reached into my pocket, pulling my wallet from its home. He was watching me, his fingers nervously clicking the cap of his pen. Clicky-click. Clicky-click. Clicky—the pen fell from his grasp, tapping along the glass surface of his desk once the picture was carefully pulled from my wallet.
“That’s Sophia,” I reminded him, hoping he would admit he was exactly who I was looking for. “And that’s…that’s her mom.”
“Marion.” Lucas lifted from his seat, leaning over his desk to hold the photograph in his hands. I thought I saw them tremble, his body and mind accepting reality.
“Sophia is here? You brought her to Vancouver?”
How much could I tell this person? Could I tell him Sophia was Sophia? She wasn’t the same person—her name had changed, her body had changed, her mind and soul had changed. I worried that telling him the truth, unable to know if he was honest, would somehow hurt us. I didn’t know what to do and, as he continued to stare at me, I realized I wasn’t able to buy more time.
“I can’t tell you that,” I mumbled. “She…she doesn’t know I’m here.” At least that was the truth.
“I have her mother’s money.” His brows met, eyes burning into the photograph. “I have it locked in an account. I didn’t know this day would actually come. It’s…”
“What?”
“The account. It isn’t in Sophia’s name. It’s in Marion’s. I’ll need to complete some paperwork to switch it over. How long will you be in town?”
“Not long.”
He eyed me suspiciously, but his eyes were soft, almost knowing. Still holding the photograph I had stolen from Soph’s bedroom in Florida, Lucas walked around his desk and paused at a tall window, his body overlooking the city beneath him while his eyes were desperately focused on the image within his hands.
“Marion and I were friends. We were maybe six, seven, when we met in grade school. We kept in touch after college, when she had Sophia, when her husband passed away.” I’d never really heard Soph mention her father. There was still so much hidden in her precious soul.
“I’d met Sophia once or twice when she was just a toddler. She wouldn’t remember me, but Marion and I corresponded through letter, so I feel like I knew everything there was to know about that little girl. I’d never married, never had kids.”
“Did you and Marion…were you…”
“No.” He laughed, shaking his head with a smile. “We were just close friends. Although, and maybe this is too much detail, there was once…”
His voice trailed off, fading into a fond memory that filled his face with a radiant, nostalgic smile. Once?
“When?” Why did I even want to know about this guy and Soph’s mom? How completely inappropriate and invasive? I should have stopped myself right there. I needed Soph’s money, not the details of her mother’s personal life. Yet, learning more about her mom was like solving a small piece of the mystery that continued to be Sophia.
“Marion and Sophia’s father didn’t get married until after Sophia was born,” Lucas continued, placing the photograph back on his desk and resting against the edge, facing me with hands crossed in his lap. “There was one Thanksgiving. They were broken up because he wanted…Lord, this is so long ago…I think it was because he wanted to move to where her sister lived and Marion refused.”
“Florida?”
“Mmhmm.” He nodded, his body relaxing before me. “I was in town. You can put the rest together. It shouldn’t have happened, but…Marion was beautiful. Stunning.”
“So is her daughter.”
“Absolutely.” He smiled, his face bobbing with approval.
“I shouldn’t have told you that. You don’t need to know that.”
“I get it.” I laughed, running my hands through my hair, reflecting on the beauty I had left in the hotel. She is going to be absolutely livid.
“So.” His palms slapped against his thighs. “Marion and I were really good friends, through everything, and we remained in touch. It was hard for her once her husband passed. She fell into this rut. Her sister was useless, I remember that. She was too passive too…I don’t know. She just didn’t support Marion as she should have. She was too busy in Florida, too busy with her life down there on the beach, I guess. When Marion dated this guy, Michael, and he ended up being a monster, I did everything I could to get her out of that relationship and up here. Everything just shy of physically moving her.”
“But they were leaving? I thought…”
“Oh, finally, they were. Yes,” he divulged. “I was going to go down there, actually, and watch the house while helping Marion sell it. They were supposed to come live here. Jesus, Marion had saved so much money. She was doing everything she could to get her and Sophia out of there…”
“You didn’t know he killed her?”
His head shook, his pale face filling with disappointment. “…I knew. I had never thought Sophia would make it here. I told myself that she was fine, living somewhere else, and that meant I could pretend for a little longer that Marion hadn’t been murdered.”
“But…” I stood, glaring at him while the pieces connected in my mind. “You knew your good friend was murdered, you were supposed to help her escape, and you didn’t do anything to help her daughter after that?”
“I don’t think you understand, Jeremy. I didn’t have a choice. Marion’s sister took Sophia before I had a chance to process the fact Marion had been killed.”
“You didn’t look for her? Don’t you think you owed that to Marion?”
“I tried.” His voice raised, warning me I was stepping on sensitive history. “But there was only so much I could do. There came a point where I had to accept that she had left, Sophia was starting over, and…I hadn’t seen her in over a decade. She isn’t my kid, Jeremy, I had to let her real family take over and support her.”
She isn’t his kid. Well, obviously. Soph could never be related to someone who so easily gives up.
I watched as Lucas stood, his head shaking with regret, and walked around me. He paused in front of the window again, arms crossed behind his back. I followed his pace, glancing around the room at the displayed wealth.
On the wall opposite Lucas, there were scattered photographs framed in crisp mat and glass. Some were of adults, including Lucas, celebrating occasions. Others were old, dated and turning yellow from the bright Vancouver sun. I stepped away from my chair, following the image distracting my mind. Two young children were standing in front of an evergreen, their clothes from another decade. The young boy had a goofy grin lifting to his big brown eyes, and wore tube socks pulled all the way to his knees. His arm was wrapped around the shoulders of a small girl, a little shorter than him. Her hair was what grabbed my attention—long, flowing pieces of golden auburn that reflected the sunset glowing against them. Her eyes were wide, sparkling a deep cerulean.
“Where is this?” I inquired, waiting for Lucas to turn and acknowledge me. He bent to observe the photograph, squinting at the image.
“Olympic National Park. That’s me.” A soft chuckle fell from his mouth. “We went there as kids at least once per year with our family.”
“Your family?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “That’s my sister. Zoe. Gosh, she must have been nine there. Maybe ten. It was the summer our parents divorced.”
My body flew back to Lucas’s desk, grabbing the picture of Sophia and her mom and quickly returning to the photograph against the wall.
“What are you doing?” Lucas inquired, his arms tightly crossing against his chest as his body joined mine near the wall of photos.
Holding the photo of Sophia and her mom against the photo of Lucas and his sister, it clicked for me.
“When did you and Marion fool around?”
“Pardon me?” He scoffed, eyeing me with disdain. I rolled my eyes, nodding to the two pictures.
“Look at Zoe,” I demanded. “She looks nothing like you. Look at Zoe. Look at Sophia.”
“What are you suggesting?” I watched his face pale, draining of all hue and sign of life.
“Thanksgiving, Lucas. About nineteen years ago?”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
Sophia
My eyes slowly unsealed, aching as though I hadn’t even slept. My body was throbbing, painfully reminding me of the violent fight for my existence. I rolled onto my back, sighing while staring at the ceiling. The smooth, white finish was blinding, but allowed my mind to slowly calm. My arms tentatively reached around, searching for Jameson, but the mattress was empty. It hurt to sit up, my body refusing movements that had once been so fluid and simple.
“Jameson,” I called, my voice cracking from sleep.
I waited for an answer, but the room was too quiet. I tried to climb from the bed, but my knees were throbbing. I need to soak in a bath for the next nine years. According to my new identity, I’ll be thirty when that bath is done. Wow.
I called his name twice more, listening for his response. When I was greeted with continued silence, my heart began to quiver, trembling with fear of why he wasn’t there. I stepped from the bed, my ankles cracking, sending a shooting pain into my legs with each step, and walked around the room.
The sun was setting, glowing its radiance against the glass buildings. Under other circumstances, the kind where my heart wasn’t violently stuttering in worry about Jameson, I would have lingered to observe the beauty of the city. Instead, I began gnawing my sore, cracked thumb, filling with worry. There wasn’t anything or anyone here that knew us. Nobody had followed us from our past lives. We weren’t in danger. Yet my heart refused to separate itself from the past.
I was growing angrier by the minute. My body carried me back to the bed and I noticed a note on the nightstand. Squinting through my blurry eyes, I read his handwriting, touching the script to connect myself to Jameson.
Soph,
I’ve stepped out for something. I promise you I’ll be right back. Please don’t worry. Don’t be too mad. I didn’t want to wake you. When I come back, we can talk. I love you.
Love,
Jameson
P.S. You’re adorable when you snore.
I folded the piece of paper, unsure of how I felt. Was I mad that he left? Was I reassured he at least wrote a note? Do I really snore? With a heavy intake of air, I meandered through the room toward the bathroom. The only thing I could think of doing was taking the bath my body so desperately craved.
The bathroom was white, blindingly crisp, with marble everywhere. My fingers traced the plush towels that decorated a wall of shelves, my toes floated along the soft rug in front of the tub. It hurt to kneel, but I began filling the tub with an almost scalding heat. I wiggled my fingers, adjusting to the warmth, and stood from the side before peeling my clothes away. I tried to take off my bra, but moving my arms behind my back was more painful than sitting. I could barely move to struggle out of my pants. Just like my shower in Washington, I sank into the hot bath wearing my underwear. It didn’t matter. I simply needed to soak.
My body shivered, unfamiliar with the heat that cocooned me, pulling me into its safety and protection. Protection. I missed Jameson. I missed him. I didn’t know where he was and all I knew was just how much my heart twitched with need for his presence. The water was so hot that I began to sweat, the evils of this journey dripping from my pores, separating from the new me.
Each movement forced a fresh pain throughout my body, but floating in the water helped me forget. It helped me heal. All I needed was Jameson and I would be complete. I let the bubbles build up to my neck before using my toes to turn off the faucet.
L
etting gravity and the small current within the bath pull me further down, I rested with my chin just above the surface. It was so warm, so formidable of a comfort that I nearly fell asleep. I was getting so warm that I needed to raise my heels from the water, resting them against the knobs adjacent to the faucet. My right wrist hung over the side of the tub, a glowing pink reminder of what happened. Jameson killed Simon. Killed him. The notion of the man I love being a murderer…no. He wasn’t a murderer; Jameson was a protector, a man who would stop at nothing to care for and save the people he loved. I thought about how ravaged with guilt he was about his sister, the same feeling I had for not being able to save my mom. Maybe we were destined to be guilty together, overcompensating for the past with our formidable love for one another.
My toes needed to be painted. I was a prune. My legs were pale, speckled with black and blue memories of Oregon. It once was such a happy place, such a lovely place in my soul. Yet I hated that only one state was between it and me. I snapped from my daze at the sound of the bathroom door inching open.
“Soph?”
“Mmm?” I was so tired, so hot, I could barely compose a sound.
My eyes fluttered open, remembering I was lying in the bubble bath. Bubbles had dissipated, settling into the lukewarm stew around me.
“Can I come in?”
“Whatever,” I mumbled, struggling to sit up against the back of the tub.
I was still sore, but the soak had helped. I could at least move like the twenty-one-year-old I was now supposed to be and not an octogenarian. Jameson’s sharp intake of air pulled me even further from my daze.
“What’s your problem?” I groaned, leaning over the side of the tub, my chest pressing against the wall and my arms dangling over, almost touching the floor. He knelt opposite me, his weight resting against his heels while his hands reached for my cheeks.
“You left me,” I said, avoiding his eyes. I knew they were wild, brightly glowing like the rising sun, tempting to manipulate me. I felt his head hang, the tickle of his hair against my arm.