by Emily Reed
Lost Secret
The Kiss Chronicles, Book 1
Emily Reed
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Sneak Peek
A Note From Emily
About the Author
Emily’s Bookshelf
Lost Secret
The Kiss Chronicles, Book 1
Copyright © 2019 by Emily Kimelman
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Chapter One
His hand slipped over my skin, soft but not careful. He was never careful…but always tender.
We’d known each other since the beginning of time. And we would be together until the end.
His lips met mine, nourishing me.
I needed him—loved him. Would never be whole without him.
My body arched, desperate to be closer, to be one.
He smiled against my lips, teasing me with his touch. He whispered my name and I opened my mouth to say his…
I woke twisted in my sheets, my hand between my legs, moaning with hunger. The dream again.
I’d had it almost every night since Megan disappeared two months ago. I was used to the apartment being empty now. When did that start? When did I give up on her coming back?
I climbed out of bed, the dream drifting away as it always did. What was his name? I never knew.
At Megan’s bedroom, I leaned against the doorjamb. Her dark wood dressing table was covered in medication. I'd lined up the pill bottles, and there they sat, like little soldiers, waiting for their mistress to return. Polaroid pictures, squares of color with Megan's red hair the unifying theme, were tucked into the frame of the mirror.
I can still smell her perfume. Crossing the room to her chest of drawers, I picked up the small bottle of Gilt. The smell wafted up, and I closed my eyes, sensing her there.
She'd worn Gilt ever since we moved to Crescent City. Before we had a place to live, before we got our first gig, Megan bought a bottle of Gilt. She paid for it with the money we earned playing on the streets. And I never questioned her. She was a star. Megan knew her path; my only job was to follow.
Flyers from our performances and clippings about our band hung on the wall. Even in the grainy black and white ones, Megan glowed. Leaning over the microphone, her hair falling long to one side, exposing her profile, mouth wide, neck extended, eyes squeezed shut—you could almost hear how powerful her voice was through the page. That was the hardest thing about Megan's illness, listening to the slow and steady erosion of her vocals. Megan sang until there was nothing left.
I was in the photos too, but always in the background, my long dark hair flopped over my face, fingers tense on the strings of my fiddle. There was nothing natural in the way I stood or anything beautiful in my form. Megan was the star, and I was just a lucky moon that got to orbit her.
Replacing the bottle of perfume on the dresser top next to a pair of dangly gold earrings, I sat on the bed, smoothing the quilt. Megan left the bed unmade, and I didn't fix it until days after she disappeared. I couldn't stand walking by the door and seeing it like that, as if she'd just gotten up to go to the bathroom. She was gone.
I fished under the bed and pulled out Megan's other box of clippings. Years ago I'd known this pile by heart, and as I flipped through the paper I realized that I still did. The ones on top, yellow and curled with age, were cut out of the local paper in Michigan. They told the story of the early and tragic death of a much beloved choir instructor, Mr. Man.
He'd led the school to great glory that year, winning the regional championships. Megan Quick, 13, was the star of the show. In his obituary photo, Mr. Man's thick hair was parted to the side; he wore a crisp white shirt and a dark narrow tie. There was a glint in his eye and a tilt to his chin that implied devilish fun.
When he died, only white fluff clung to the sides of his head. The sickness drained him, sucking the skin around his eyes into the hollows. Those once-bright orbs of light became dull and confused in the final months. It took almost a year for Mr. Man to die. At the end, people whispered that death was a blessing.
Later articles, printed off microfiche from the Crescent City library, followed up with the disappearance of two of his foster children. Thirteen-year-old girls, much missed and worried about by his widow. One, Darling Price, suffered from a delusional disorder, the paper informed its readers. Without her medication, she could slip into a psychotic state. They got that wrong. I left those pills behind and hadn’t hallucinated since.
I looked at the date on the article. We left two days before it made the paper. Megan and I were riding trains, headed south to the only place Megan thought would be right for us, Crescent City.
We trundled through a dark and dismal landscape lined with chain-link fence. I started to cry. Megan came over to where I sat, huddled against some burlap sacks filled with grain.
"Darling, you don't have to be afraid." I nodded, but the tears continued. "You're safe now. He can't hurt us anymore."
"But, Megan," I hiccuped. "Won't I go to hell?"
Megan's brow furrowed deeply and her eyes flashed in the dark. "Of course not."
"But it's my fault, Megan."
"No, it isn't. He deserved to die, so he got sick and died. That's what happens to bad people. That's proof that God is watching."
"No, Megan." I took a shuddering breath. "You don't understand, I wanted him to die."
"So. Did. I."
"It was when his chest hair turned gray. I knew that if I didn't stop, he would die. I was offered a sign, a chance, but I kept going."
Megan frowned. “You didn’t do anything, Darling. He was the one doing it. And even if you did kill him—you still wouldn't be going to hell. You saved us both, Darling." My sobs became uncontrollable.
Megan pulled a knife out of her bag. It flashed for a second before she sliced it across her palm. She grabbed mine and did the same. The sharp sensation snapped me out of my tears, and I stared at the blood, not feeling any pain. Megan pressed her bleeding palm to mine.
"Listen to me, Darling." I nodded. "You will be okay. We will stay together forever. This is a blood pact. If you go to hell, I will be there with you. I'll never leave you alone. You are safe with me, and I am safe with you." I nodded. "Say it."
"I am safe with you—"
"And you are safe with me."
"And you are safe with me."
"Forever."
"Forever."
I could almost hear her voice as I sat on the bed looking down at the photograph of Megan in the paper. I recognized the powerful young woman who'd promised me safety. She was all over the walls of this room; she lived in the hearts and minds of fans all over the city. But she left me. She didn't even say goodbye. She didn’t die…she just disappeared.
Tears hit the papers on my lap. I curled up into a ball, crushing them against my chest, and sobbed into her pillow, letting the grief rack through me. How many times had I done this, just curled up on her bed and lost it?
In time, the sobs subsided. My phone beeped in the other room. I ignored it, not ready to pull ou
t of my misery. I should mourn for her. Every day. I should never get used to her being gone.
My phone chimed again. I took a deep breath and opened my swollen eyes to check the time. I was due at the hospital in an hour.
Sniffling and wiping at my face, I sat up and returned the papers to their box, letting my finger run over Megan's face before replacing the lid and slipping it under the bed. I straightened Megan's quilt and went to my room to change.
My room wasn't as big as Megan's, but it faced the back so was quieter. I crossed to my closet and looked in at the crowded shelves.
Opening my chest of drawers, I scanned through my bras, hoping to find a bigger one. None of mine seemed to fit anymore, which didn’t make any sense—I’d lost weight since Megan disappeared. I bit my lip, thinking about Megan's bras. They were sitting in her chest of drawers. Why wouldn't I put one on?
If she were here, she’d loan me a bra.
I stalked back across the hall and pulled open the top drawer of her dresser with such force that the contents on top quivered. Taking a breath, trying to calm down, the scent of Gilt filled my senses, pricking tears at the corners of my eyes.
I uncorked the elegant bottle of perfume again. I pressed the lip of the glass to my wrist. The liquid brushed against my skin. I did the other wrist and then dabbed a small amount onto my middle finger before dipping it between my breasts. The smell enveloped me—if I closed my eyes, I could almost sense her there.
A scratch at the window shot adrenaline through me, and I turned quickly, covering myself. Nothing there. The flowers on the balcony shuddered in a soft breeze, the sun beating down on them. Just my imagination.
Replacing the bottle on the dresser, I opened the top drawer. Bright pink caught my eye— a bra Megan bought right before she got sick. She’d worn it under a white tank top on stage. The combination of fuchsia and her red hair made her look like a Valentine—a gift.
Taking another fortifying breathe, I pulled it out—soft satin and structured support. Closing the drawer gently, I resisted the urge to crumple to the ground, wrap my arms around myself, and cry. I felt dangerously empty.
When I entered the hospital lobby, the smell of it dropped me into my memories, into every walk we’d taken through this place, into every battle Megan and I waged. The bone marrow transplant offices were on the fourth floor. I rode in the elevator with a wheelchair-bound man and a young woman I assumed was his daughter. They shared the same thin noses and full lips. Both looked drawn, their cheeks sunken in and hair limp.
I'd noticed this before. After all the time spent in hospitals, I could spot the primary caretaker. Child, parent, or spouse, you could see the diseased patient's effects in the slump of their shoulders and the bags under their eyes.
I was an exception. As Megan grew gaunt, I'd filled out, my hips and ass growing plumper, my waist narrowing, breasts rising so that now I hardly owned a shirt that contained them. My lips were pink, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. As Megan died, I grew stronger and healthier. It didn’t make sense.
The father and daughter got off the elevator on the third floor, and I finished the ride up alone. The doors opened to an open waiting room, the air heavy with disinfectant.
Tingling along my spine turned my head. A man, his eyes pale blue, watched me with the intensity of a predator tracking its prey. My breath caught in my throat when our eyes locked. His narrowed, as if I somehow confused him.
A deliciously slow smile curled his lips, and a cruel spark came into his gaze. He stalked toward me, the suit he wore moving with him like a second skin.
Heat flushed over me—I felt like a bunny staring into the eyes of a wolf. But the stranger did not attack, instead he pushed into the stairwell door and disappeared.
I stared at the door as it swung shut, my breathing slowly evening out. What the what?
Shaking myself, I headed toward the check-in counter. I recognized Claire and Harriet behind the desk. A similar height and weight, it took several visits for me to tell them apart. The trick was that Harriet had a small scar on her lip.
The nurse’s attention was locked onto the TV mounted in the corner of the waiting room. On the screen, a young white guy with slicked-back blond hair, wearing a gray suit and a serious expression, told the viewing audience, "The victims of the attack were brought to Mercy Hospital at approximately 4 a.m. The first victim had seizures soon after admittance."
The video switched to a bird's-eye view of a city street. Yellow tarps covered two bodies and dark smears stained the cement. "Witnesses say that this woman"—the screen switched to a mug shot: a white woman, spiked bleached blonde hair, chin raised so she looked down her nose at the camera—"Angela Hoppenheimer, who has prior arrests for prostitution and drug possession, attacked the men as they walked home from an evening out with friends."
It cut back to the anchor. He held a finger to his ear for a moment. "Now we are going live to a press conference with the chief of Crescent City Security."
The screen switched to a stout woman in her fifties, hair pulled into a tight bun, standing at a podium. "As you all know, there was another attack yesterday in the early evening. While this incident is still under investigation, we ask for your patience and perseverance. We believe that a newer form of LSD on the market is causing these attacks," she said. "Citizens of Crescent City, if you encounter a person on this drug, acting erratically, violent"—she cleared her throat—"insatiably hungry, call the police. Do not attempt to engage them."
A reporter yelled a question that the audience at home couldn't make out, but the chief answered it. "We are not sure why the victims of these attacks are having seizures and exhibiting other side effects. That is something we are working closely with the doctors over at Mercy to figure out."
Another unintelligible question.
"It is believed to be a drug, not a virus, causing these attacks, so we have not reached out to the CCA."
"Do you plan on canceling the annual zombie run?" a reporter in the front row asked, his mouth close enough to the mic for the audience to hear.
"No," she smiled. "These are not zombies."
"They brought the victims here?" I asked.
The nurses turned, noticing my presence for the first time. "Oh, hi, Darling," Claire said. "Yes," she answered my question, her voice turning grave. "They came in late last night."
"Terrible," I mumbled, casting my eyes to the floor.
"How are you?" Harriet pitched her voice upward, her tone implying that it was almost impossible for me to be doing well. And if I was in good shape, it was a struggle. She expected a sad smile, a brave face.
I looked up at her, making eye contact.
She startled, her eyes slowly growing glassy as I held her gaze. "I'm fine." I shifted my focus back to the floor, looking at my sneakers. “I’ve got an appointment.”
"Yes," Claire said. "I saw that. So brave of you."
I kept my eyes on the ground as I shrugged. "If I can help." This was my fourth bone marrow harvest. When the doctors suggested the treatment for Megan, they tested me, but I wasn't a match for her. However, I matched a lot of other people. In fact, I was a record-breaker. I'd had a surgery every three months since then. This would be my fourth.
Harriet clicked her tongue against her teeth. "Let's get you checked in," she said as she typed. "Oh, you're seeing Dr. Tor," she looked over at Claire. They smiled at each other, their eyes alight with humor. Harriet returned her gaze to her screen. "He's new," she told me, "and I think he's from the Federation of Kingdoms.”
"I thought further east," Claire said. "Either way." She smiled at me. "He's a nice young doctor.” Then she nodded. Got it—I should date the nice new doctor. Too bad I don’t date.
I gave her a tight-lipped smile. They had all my information on file, so it only took a moment before I was seated in the waiting section, leafing through a magazine.
A young man wearing a white lab coat opened the door, looking down at a tablet. "Darling Price?" H
e glanced up.
His hair was jet black and pushed straight off his forehead, as if he ran his fingers through it often. Large, almond-shaped hazel eyes complemented a strong nose.
“Hi,” I said, standing.
The doctor's skin was the color of wheat fields when they glow golden under the light of a setting sun. He smiled when he caught my eye. "I'm Dr. Issa Tor," he said, his accent slight and yet distinctly foreign. "Please, come with me."
The doctor came out to get me. That’s weird.
Glancing over at the nurses station I saw the women smiling at each other as if they had a shared secret.
I followed the doctor through the door and down a hallway. Each door had a plastic pocket on its face, many of which held clipboards. Watercolors hung between the doors. They were quiet landscapes: wetlands, a gentle wind bending the reeds, mountains covered in happy little trees.
The doctor was slender and tall, with impeccable posture and narrow shoulders and hips. He carried himself with confidence…like he saved lives. Dr. Tor opened a door and waved a long arm toward an examination table. "Have a seat."
I climbed onto the padded bed, crinkling the paper that lay across it. Sitting at the edge, I could just rest the tips of my toes on the metal step. Dr. Tor sat on a low-wheeled stool. He started in front of the computer, entering passwords and reading warning boxes that sprang up on the screen. Once he had what he wanted, he addressed me. "I see you've donated before."
"Yes."
"Thank you. Your marrow is very rare." His eyes stayed focused on the screen. "I don't see a family history here." He turned to me, his eyebrows raised. "You were adopted?"
"Something like that."