Stepbrother: Scar Tissue - the Complete Serial (An Alpha Stepbrother Romance)

by Lillian Thorne

  Where am I?

  I’m trying to gather my bearings, trying to remember where I am—how I got here.

  Oh my god! I can’t even remember how I got here.

  I grimace as I turn my head—it’s so painful, but I need to find something familiar, some sort of marker that will tell me where I am. The mildew smell, I determine, is coming from my nightgown.

  When did I get dressed in this? I don’t even own a nightgown.

  The door begins to creak and slowly open. I watch as light begins to fill the room. I can see a bureau, the wrought iron bed I’m lying on, and a bathroom in which the medicine cabinet is open.

  I’m struck by a sense of deja vu:. There’s something tugging on a memory in the corner of my mind, pulling it to the surface.

  When I see the silhouette of a crooked figure coming through the doorway, it hits me. Constance. She fed me something that made me sick and black out. Abigail. The picture of her daughter. And the drugs in the medicine cabinet—the same drugs that were in my stepmother’s body when she died. I remember…

  Silverware and cups and bowls rattle and clank against each other as Constance, no longer a silhouette, carries a long, metal tray through the door. “I’ve got just the thing for you, Abigail.”

  Abigail. She called me Abigail. She thinks I’m her daughter, her dead daughter. But she couldn’t possibly think that, could she? How crazy is she? This is only a dream. This is only a dream. This. Is. Only. A. Dream.

  I repeat the words over and over in my head, but I know when I open my eyes I’ll have to face the reality. This isn’t a dream. This is my life. And it’s slowly slipping away from me.

  The throbbing pain in my head is becoming unbearable and now my stomach is beginning to cramp, along with nearly every muscle in my body. I grimace just as Constance sets down the tray beside me on the nightstand.

  “Oh, my sweet child,” she coos. Her eyes soften as she looks at me. “Mama’s here.” I can see Judith’s locket hanging from her neck as she bends over and strokes my cheek. I twist my head, trying to squirm away from her touch.

  “Now, now.” She says. “Let’s not be difficult.”

  She turns her attention to the tray.

  I don’t know what to do. Do I feed her delusions? Play the part and hope that someone comes for me? Someone will come for me; I’m sure of it. Gretchen! She said she’d be here in a few hours. But, I don’t know how much time has passed since I blacked out—an hour? Three? More? No. She’ll come.

  “Please. Just let me go. I promise I won’t tell anyone. I won’t tell anyone about this. Just please let me go.” I beg. But as soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize how useless they are. Pleading with someone who poisons a girl she believes to be her daughter brought back from the dead? Yeah, that’ll work.

  The spoon in her hand clinks against the cup as she stirs its contents, whistling a soft, mellow tune—a lullaby.

  Hush, little baby, don’t say a word, mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.

  I can feel the heaviness of my limbs disappear, replaced by a tingling sensation that emanates from my fingers and toes and runs through my calves, through my forearms. I try to move again. I twist and turn, writhe and wriggle, but it’s no use. As the tingling subsides, my ankles and wrists feel sore. I look to the right and see a thin, brown leather strap run from the under the covers and disappear underneath the bed. The strap moves as I move my hand. I’m strapped to the bed.

  I’m in a waking nightmare. This can’t be real. How could anyone do this to another person?

  And if that mockingbird won’t sing, mama’s gonna…

  “Now, Abigail, you mustn’t fuss. You need to rest. You’re not well and you need your strength. But don’t worry, Mother will make everything better.”

  She returns to the drink she’s creating on the nightstand, resumes humming her lullaby.

  Forget begging, forget feeding her delusions; there’s no telling what would happen if I went along with her little fantasy.

  “Abigail is dead Constance. You said so yourself. You’re not my mother.” I could feel my skin warm up as the words flowed through me.

  I could detect a slight change in her demeanor. She was agitated, but she was trying hard not to let it show; her right eyelid now twitches every few seconds and her hands shake as she spoons liquid into the cup. But, other than the nervous tic, there’s no response. She continues mixing the drink.

  Anger begins to rise in me; it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before. “I’m not your fucking daughter!” I scream, as I being to flail wildly on the bed, adrenaline pumping through me.

  She drops the glass container and spoon she holds and they clank loudly against the metal tray, causing her concoction to topple over, some of it landing on my face. I taste a bit of it but sputter. It’s disgusting, bitter.

  She turns to me and looks at me with a faint, wistful smile. Her eyelids have sagged, nearly collapsing in on her eyes with age. I can sense sadness and pain in her eyes but also anger. So much anger. She fingers a stray tendril of gray hair away from her cheek, behind her ear. Then she takes the back of her hand and places it against my forehead.

  “You’re feverish, my dear. No wonder you’re putting up such a fuss.”

  “You poisoned me and strapped me to a bed, forcing me to live in your fantasy world. You’re wondering why I’m “putting up such a fuss? Feverish? No, I’m fucking terrified!”

  “Language, Abigail!” Her eyes harden and she slaps me across my cheek. My vision flashes white as a jagged pain courses through my skull. The slap wasn’t very hard, but it forced my head to jerk to the side, exacerbating my already splitting headache. I let out a low wail as tears well in my eyes.

  “Now look what you made me do.” Constance coos as she strokes my tender cheek with the back of her hand.

  “You’re sick,” I whisper, eyes still shut tight. As the pain subsides, I slowly open them. Constance pulls on the locket with her thumb and forefinger, rubs it as she looks down at me with her sad, old eyes.

  “It’s worse than I imagined. You’re really not well, Abigail.” She pats my arm then brushes a stray hair from my face. “No, that medicine just isn’t working. We’re going to need something else to calm you down.” She stands up, wringing her hands in front of her as she looks absently around the room for a moment. She lifts a finger in the air, pivots so she’s facing a large wooden bureau, and says, “And I have just the thing.”

  Hush little baby, don’t say a word…

  Although she has a slight hunch, her movements are swift and precise, graceful even. There’s nothing I can do but watch her as she rifles through the drawers, tossing blankets and empty bottles behind her. But then she stops. She turns slowly around, staring at the two bottles in her hand. One is large, the size and shape of a vinegar bottle but white and opaque. The other is an orange, translucent bottle with a white cap. She lifts her eyes without moving her head and a wicked smile appears on her face before she begins whistling again.

  And if that mockingbird won’t sing…

  She sets the bottles down on the tray before picking it up. She looks down at me and winks. “I’ll be right back, dear.”

  Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring…

  I tug again at the restraints, but it’s no use. I can scream and yell until I’m hoarse, but it won’t do any good. No one’s in my house, and no one has lived in the house next to Constance for years. No one will hear me.

  The skin on my wrists is tender and raw, scarlet I’m sure. It’s painful, but nothing I’m not used to and nothing compared to the splitting, dizzying headache; it keeps getting worse. I’ve grown accustomed to pain in various forms—physical, emotional—and in varying degrees. But there’s still only so much a person can bear, and I think I’ve reached my limit, or I’m at the least looking over the edge.

  I close my eyes and the warm tears that were beginning to pool in my eyes now stream down my cheeks, salty rivulets. I don’t know if it�
�s the drugs coursing through me right now or what but I’m exhausted. Every muscle aches and I just want to sleep. Maybe if I sleep I’ll wake up in my own room; I’ll wake up and this will all be over—never happened, actually—and everything will be okay.

  The doorbell rings.

  Gretchen! It has to be.

  This is my chance. My one and only chance. I yell; I wail and scream as loud as possible in an attempt to let whoever is at the door, Gretchen or not, that someone is in trouble. Who cares about words, just make the loudest noise possible.

  Constance is almost a blur as she swiftly crosses the room, one arm outstretched towards me. There’s something in her hand, but I can’t tell what it is—I don’t have time. I keep yelling and screaming for help, for someone to rescue me.

  I feel a slight prick on my neck,

  “No need to yell. Mama’s here.”

  The already dim light grows dimmer as consciousness fades away.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  LUKE

  “GRETCHEN, WHAT THE HELL is going on?” The question glances off of her as she hops into the driver’s seat. I open the passenger side door and follow suit. “Seriously.” She’s unresponsive. Her grip on the wheel is so tight that her knuckles have turned the same shade of white as her face. Silent tears stream down her face as she turns her head to me.

  “It’s Leah.” Although she’s sitting right next to me, I can hardly hear her. There’s a jagged edge to her voice. Her grip on the steering wheel drops and the rest of her body seems to follow, crumbling in front of me as she breaks down again.

  “Hey… Hey… It’s okay.” I say, pattering on her back and then rubbing it as she continues to sob. Gretchen was strong; in the two years that I’ve worked with her, I’ve seen her handle a workload that would drive a normal person toward a mental breakdown, but not her. Gretchen not only accepted everything that was handed to her, she didn’t even break a sweat completing each and every task efficiently, even enthusiastically.

  An ill feeling rushes over me, covers me—a blanket of discomfort.

  “Leah called me.” She begins, still sniffling. “Said you were in jail and that I needed to call your lawyer.” She leans back and I slide my hand away. Her eyes are glassy, wet with tears, and she’s staring absently in front of her. “So I did. She didn’t give me any specifics, but it seemed like nothing serious. I decided to drive over anyway because I wanted to help.” She rubs her left forearm with her hand, then starts fiddling with her fingers. “So that’s what I did.” She looks at me, then back at her hands. “I went to find Leah, but when I got to her house, no one was there. The lights were still on, and the door was unlocked, so I went inside. It was completely empty, but there was blood… someone’s blood… all over the floor.” Her eyes dart to my bandaged hand and up to my eyes before turning away.

  “I called your phone, but it went straight to voicemail. I used your account to locate your phone. I thought she might have gone to the police station. But when I checked the app, it showed that the phone was next door.” She turns her head and falls sideways against the door.

  Next door? What does Constance have to do with this? The uneasiness within me spreads, increases in intensity until I can no longer ignore it.

  “Gretchen, I need you to tell me what happened to Leah.”

  After a moment of silence, Gretchen looks at me finishes the rest of her story. When she went next door to see if Leah was there, she had no idea that her knocks were going to be answered by cries for help. She called 911 and no more than 5 minutes later the street again lit up with red and blue flashing lights. But it wasn’t quick enough.

  She was wheeled out on a stretcher by one medic while another pumped air into her lungs through a bag valve mask. They didn’t tell her any more than what she saw except that Leah was being life flighted to St. David’s Medical Center in Austin. While she was working on getting more information from one of the officers, she watched as a lady, silver-haired and unimposing, was lead out of the house and into a squad car.

  Constance.

  The only other bit of information the police gave her was about my release. They were dropping charges. I was free to go; no lawyer necessary.

  Given the circumstances there’s only one conclusion to draw, but I still don’t understand it. Why would Constance harm Leah, kill Judith?

  But, that’s where we’re at. Too many questions with even more unsatisfying answers.

  I’M ONLY VAGUELY AWARE of the people around me as I move through the doors to St. David’s and make my way into the waiting room. They all blur into one unintelligible mass of color. Even Gretchen, who follows at my heels, is fading away into the background, everything subordinate to my goal of reaching Leah.

  The nurse behind the desk holds the telephone and speaks into the receiver in a low whisper. I don’t have time to wait.

  “Leah Hammond. Where is she?”

  She looks up at me as though I’m crazy. She points toward a plastic sign sitting on the desk with her free hand then returns to her phone call. The red, bolded text on the sign states that visiting hours are over and then lists the hours.

  I bend over and tilt my head so I’m looking directly at the nurse’s eyes. “I don’t give a fuck about visiting hours. You will tell me where Leah Hammond is or I will open every fucking door in this building until I find her. Your choice.” I can feel Gretchen tugging at my arm.

  “Sir, please step away from the desk. Visiting hours are over. If you don’t need medical attention, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Or I’ll inform security and they can escort you off the premises.” Her response is almost mechanical, as though I’m the tenth person who told her that today.

  “Luke, come on. We need to go or else—“

  “Or else what? I’ll get arrested?” I snarl at Gretchen. Her face turns bright red and appears to shrink as she looks away. I was probably a little too curt, a little too harsh, but nothing else matter but getting to Leah.

  I turn back to the nurse. She’s off the phone now and writing something down on a clipboard.

  “Who’s her doctor. Let me speak with her doctor at least.”

  She looks at me as though I’m boring her. She sighs and asks for Leah’s name again.

  “I’ll see if the doctor’s available. Please take a seat.” She motions to the empty seats along the wall.

  I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR at least half an hour, at least, I think I have. My mind has been a mess of thoughts, both terrible and good, but all involving Leah. It’s hard to believe that Leah’s in the hospital. It wasn’t long ago that she was in my arms, both of us thinking about the future and what I had in store for us. But now it’s all up in the air.

  Everything faded away again while I was lost in thought, so It took a few moments to notice that Gretchen was shaking me. Everything comes back into focus as Gretchen speaks, “Luke! Luke! Dr. Madison is here.”

  “Hello, Mr. Hammond. I’m Dr. Emilie Madison, and I’ve been treating Leah.” She extends a long, slender hand toward me and I shake it. She wears a long, white coat, unbuttoned so that I can see the gray slacks and light blue button she’s wearing underneath. He hair is black and wavy and there are streaks of gray running through it.

  “How is she?” I ask.

  “She doing well, very well in fact considering the circumstances. But her body is extremely stressed. There’s not much else we can do for her except let her rest.”

  “Is she going to be okay?

  “She’ll recover. It will just take some time. She may sleep for a few days, but she’ll recover.” She bends down and places her hand on my shoulder. “I know you want to see her, and I want you to see her too, but I can assure you she’s being taken care of. You should get some rest, and come back tomorrow.” She looks at the bandage on my hand.

  She was right. I haven’t slept in I don’t know how long. Although still agitated about not being able to see Leah, I thank the doctor for everything she’s done and leave.
>
  GRETCHEN DROPPED ME OFF at my apartment, along with my phone. She was able to convince and officer to let her have it. She can work magic sometimes. Miles had called me, told me to stop by the police station; he needed to show me something. I could also pick up my car. I tossed my phone on a chair then crawled into bed.

  I tried to fall asleep, but sleep eluded me. I was restless and my mind raced, thinking about Leah, thinking about Constance and her role in all this.

  The doctor said she was fine; she just needed rest.

  But even with the doctor’s reassurance, I still felt uneasy. I had to see her for myself.

  But first I needed answers; I needed Miles to tell me what happened, what was going on.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  LUKE

  I TAKE A RIDE WITH Gretchen and we head for the police station. She leaves to retrieve Crouton and bring him back to my apartment. I knew the first thing Leah would ask me when she woke up would be if Crouton was safe.

  Miles is already waiting for me when I open the door to the station. I follow him down the fluorescent-lit hallways that snake through the Milton Police Department. It’s quiet. The only sound is the sliding of rubber soles against the dusty floor as we weave through corridor after corridor. We pass a few offices with their doors open—the same scene in each one: an overweight man with shiny bald heads hunched over their desks, working away on paperwork. Both Miles and I are silent the entire way. He walks behind his desk, which is still littered with papers, both crumpled and flat, and motions for me to sit. He sits down after me and clasps his hands in front of him.

  “So.” He says.

  “So.”

  He exhales a deep breath out of his nose. “This isn’t exactly standard protocol, but these are exactly normal circumstances.”