by K L Clare
No suitable houses for our unique security needs had been on the market when we looked, so I had financially coerced a film producer out of his home. I called in some favors from the sharks he had owed. The fucking wanker hadn’t hired a lawyer, probably fearing he would wind up in court and that his standing in the entertainment industry would fall, nor had he understood that the gambling and drug-related debts I had settled on his behalf were less than the value of the property.
The day I had surprised Elle with her first look at the house, we had held hands as we passed through the gate into the front garden. She’d stepped up to the pair of glossy black doors and dragged her fingertips along the columns at the entrance while the nails of her other hand dug into mine. She’d said nothing at first. Anxiety pounded through her so forcefully that I could almost reach out and touch it, but once Mrs. Bates greeted us inside, Elle found the peace she needed to accept the house as our second home. She understood we weren’t losing Eastridge.
It was Mrs. Bates who had then taken Elle’s hand to parade her through the freshly renovated interior. Their relationship had come on fast and was important to both women. I could see how it filled another void for Elle. I had pretended to take an urgent call to give them some space.
When I had approached my mother and Mrs. Bates about staffing Kensington, both had urged me to provide Elle with the continuity of Mrs. Bates’s presence in both houses. They hired a second housekeeper to oversee operations at Eastridge when Mrs. Bates was in London with Elle and me.
“Send roses,” I snapped—at myself, not at Sean. “And send something to Lissie.” We’d been away from our girl for too long. The adoption had been finalized on the same day Elle had married me. We were Lissie’s parents by law, and we were growing to love her as if she were our own child. But it would take time before Lissie could think of us as more than Uncle Will and Aunt Ellie—and before Elle and I could think of ourselves that way too. We needed more time before becoming a nuclear family. After Lissie settled into the adoption, we would tell her that Ethan was her father.
I entered my office and closed the door after tasking Sean with finding Thomas, who was likely still sleeping in the penthouse above our offices after a night with another woman he’d never see again. Before I could sit and log onto the computer to retrieve my messages, the mobile phone in my desk drawer vibrated. I jerked open the drawer, tapped in the passcode, and read a coded text message.
I was about to receive validation for the knot twisting in the pit of my stomach.
A meeting with the director general of MI5—the National Security Service where my father had served as an intelligence agent before his death—had been secured as requested.
Good. They aren’t screwing round with me.
Angry Broken Hearts
From: Ellie
To: Isobel
You lied . . . and then you left me alone to live with those lies. God, you left me alone to raise Lissie.
Here’s something I know you thought you’d never hear from me: I’m seeing a therapist, something you had pushed me to do after discovering my anxiety. I’m not sure it would have made a difference then any more than it does now. I’m doing it for Will, to make him more comfortable. He has sacrificed so much, given so much of himself to save me—so I will give him this.
I’m angry with you, Isobel. You were all we had, Lissie and me. We trusted you . . . depended on you . . . loved you. I hate that you and I never said those words. I hate that I loved you without owning it before I lost you.
I’m learning to open my heart, learning how to be less selfish. I hope so, anyway.
Lissie was the first to hear me say those three words. I smile now thinking of it, wondering if you are proud of me. It happened the day after we lost you. Even as she cried out for you, her little heart torn to bits, I knew she was part of me. Of course I thought she was my niece that day, with the same blood as mine in her veins. But there was something else. Something telling me that my connection to her wasn’t just a predetermined biological link, that there was more to our story.
This morning, after Will left for work, I pulled out that report again—the one with the paternity results from the test Ethan had initiated before his death.
He’s dead, too, but you know that. Another life lost because of mine. I sometimes wonder if he’s there with you now. Are the two of you finally free to be together?
I’m staring at the photo of you and Ethan. I can see a mutual understanding between your heart and his. I don’t know your story, but I want to know. I met Ethan, and in the short time we had together, he showed me the depth of his generosity and a remarkable love for his family. He’d said that he loved you. Did you and he experience the same kind of love that exists for Will and me?
Will and I are married now. I love him more than I can say, but I’m scared, Isobel, and you aren’t here for me, to calm me, to mother me in your hot-tempered way. He continues to conceal the grief that remains after the loss of his brother, continues to hide the guilt he feels because Ethan isn’t here for his daughter.
I know grief doesn’t end and that it’s the price for loving someone, but it should change—and Will’s doesn’t seem to be changing.
Ethan would have been a good father, and Lissie needed him. You took that from her. But there’s something else you kept from your daughter. You were never truly my sister.
And you are not her mother.
4
Three hours later, I pulled up to the meeting place and cut the ignition only to sit quietly in my car, eyes forward, avoiding the sight of the dilapidated warehouse. I knew in my gut what I was about to hear from the director general, and I didn’t have the strength to face it. It would hurt her.
Elle.
She would give me the strength.
“Call my wife,” I told my phone’s voice-command function after powering the phone back on. Hearing her voice right then was worth the risk of being located.
She picked up on the first ring, and her mood was much brighter than it had been that morning.
“Hi, handsome.”
Her name was all that I could manage in response.
“Will, what is it? What’s wrong?”
Pull your shit together. Don’t upset her.
I cleared my throat and roused a smile so she could hear it in my tone. “Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to hear your voice before my next meeting. I may not have another chance before I see you tonight. How were the academy visits?”
I could see it well without even having to ask. The school children would be delighted to meet her. She had a natural allure that drew kids to her. They were comfortable touching her, clinging to her waist, or holding her hand, even if her attention was directed elsewhere. I’d watched her interact with her art students in the States, and it was something more than lovely to see.
Even Lissie’s affection for Elle was breathtaking, growing into something that was yet to be defined but so fierce it nearly displaced the loss of Isobel.
Our conversation from some time ago came back to me. We’d both been surprised by Elle’s evolving maternal instinct—and my desire to support it, albeit reluctantly. She wanted us to have children of our own. It would be difficult for me to share her attention, to give up the pieces of her that they would take, but the truth was that I wanted our children as much as she did. Just not yet.
At least three, Will, she had said as we lay in bed after making love on our wedding night. Her thoughts had spilled out randomly. Maybe more, if I can manage it physically. You and me . . . it’s on us to grow this family. You know what it means to me to have a big family after not having one, or not much of one, in any case, and I know how important building a legacy different than your father’s is to you.
The exhilaration in her voice pulled me back into the present.
“ . . . and the kids were great. The head teachers were really receptive. I think we ca
n get into these schools sooner than expected. I’m excited for the board to reconnect with the Department for Education to identify the children who most need the program.”
“Do it, Elle. Whatever you need. You have all of my resources at your disposal.”
“I know, and thank you. I think it will help me as much as it will help the kids, will give me focus. Are you going to be late for your meeting? We can talk more tonight.”
“Yeah. I’ll see you tonight. No words, baby.”
“No words,” she repeated before we disconnected. It was our I love you but more. Three common words would never be enough. No words existed to express what we shared.
I turned off the phone once more, stepped out of my car, and headed for the warehouse, where a familiar face greeted me inside.
Director General Randall Martin drew me into his embrace. “Son, it’s been a long time. I’m so sorry about Ethan.”
“Thank you,” I said, pulling back. “I’m sorry for the loss of your wife as well. Mother still talks so fondly about their years together.”
“Ah, the lovely Mary Hastings. You’re taking good care of her?”
“Yes, sir—”
“Let’s get down to it, shall we? We don’t have much time before one or both of us is located. You took out one of my agents several months ago, and I want to know why.”
“The Crown commanded it. He was leaking information.”
Martin’s face grew inflamed with fury. “And what personal advantage did you gain for safeguarding the Crown’s goddamned indiscretions?”
Anger rushed through my own blood. He knew why I had complied with the command—to protect Elle and avenge Ethan. “You know the answer to that. There is nothing I won’t do to keep her alive. Nothing. You know this. You are aware of all that I’ve done.”
He hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Yes, I’ve followed the situation. You’re quite good at what you do. Quite the mercenary when the reward is great enough to please you. You are your father’s son, a man of his making—forever his soldier of fortune.”
I released the tautness in my neck with a slight jerk and flexed my fists to loosen them. There was nothing for me to prove to this man. He wasn’t the enemy—his hard-hitting words were meant to examine my fortitude and evaluate my strength. He was forcing me to earn his trust.
Fucking intelligence agents.
“You know why I’m here, Director. Do you agree to provide the intel I’m seeking, or shall I find another source?”
Martin smiled. I’d passed his test. “I loved your father as if he were my own brother, you know.”
I nodded. “Even when you couldn’t rein him in.”
“Indeed, even when I couldn’t rein him in. You’re right to be concerned, William. What you’ve done by marrying the James girl . . . well, you should have known what would come of it.”
My gut clenched, and I looked to the crumbling cement floor. “I did know.”
Marrying Elle created the assumption that we’d have children. Combining my blood with hers made the old line stronger, no matter that her patrilineal bloodline ended with her.
He reached out and gripped my shoulder with kind regard. “I see.”
The silence between us echoed round the warehouse. It vaulted through rusting metal rafters, disturbed only by the tinny thumping from loose-hanging ventilation ducts.
“You can’t give her children, son,” Martin finally said. “Another extremist is out there lying in wait. He doesn’t care that her claim was formally ceded. He will find followers, and assassins will come for her, come for your children.”
The Order generally wasn’t a family tradition passed down from generation to generation. Once it was eradicated, it ceased to exist—until new extremists found the cause to be relevant.
“Join my team, and I’ll help you find him,” he added.
Wonderful Liar
From: Ellie
To: Isobel
My thoughts are random and unkind today. Dr. Clarke reminds me that this is a symptom of post-traumatic anxiety, though the severity of it is a slight regression for me at this point.
This afternoon she asked me to consider the similarities and distinctions between the two people I have loved most. The resemblances are few, but the difference is remarkable. You are a fraud, and Will is the only person who has been honest with me.
Dr. Clarke believes this perception is temporary and urges me to write more often.
I will try.
Do you remember our promise to Gran? We promised her that, at some point in our adult lives, we would help at least one person in need. More, if possible. You were twenty when we made that pledge, and I was seventeen. We took our oath seriously and decided to start right away by donating blood together.
I was wooed by the Red Cross because I’m a highly desirable universal donor with O-negative blood, but you were not invited as frequently. You had a rare blood type: AB-negative.
Blood never lies.
I overlooked something the day Mary gave me the yellow envelope containing Lissie’s paternity results. My mind was focused on confirming that Ethan was Lissie’s father. I rushed to the end of the report, to the summary that supported the paternal match.
In my haste to confirm the DNA match between Ethan and Lissie, I neglected to review the other documents inside the envelope—until Will’s lawyers requested that I locate it and send it to them to complete our adoption filings with the court.
Another report was in the envelope, and I’m holding it right now.
I don’t know who she is, the woman with the O- blood type shown as the maternal match on the second report, but I intend to find out.
We both know it’s not you, Isobel.
No one else could have known but me.
What a wonderful liar you’ve been.
5
Thomas was seated at the bar in my office with a mug of coffee when I returned to the firm. He was staring at the painting Elle had given me for my thirty-third birthday.
She had painted a memory that she’d said was burned into her mind and needed to be set free. It was a memory of Ethan, Thomas, and me . . . on the night Ethan was killed. The three of us were in the corridor of the hotel where we’d all been staying, our backs to her as we moved towards the exit. It was the night we’d hit the streets to go after the Order. They had come for her, had attacked the hotel with explosives.
I remember looking back at Elle one last time. I remember the horror in her eyes, though she had tried to hide it from me. I remember how desperately I wanted her to love me. And, in the very same space of time, I remember feeling the love I had for my three brothers. I had been in between Ethan and Thomas, shoulder to shoulder with them as we walked away from her . . . and that was the moment she had captured and painted for me. A moment when Ethan had still been by my side.
That stunning, heartrending work of art was the finest gift I had ever received. It held more meaning for me than one could ever know. But Elle knew—she’d taken every bit of emotion she could wring from me and released it onto that canvas. Once upon a time, everything in my life had had a price. But not now. Not her, and not that oil painting.
Thomas set his mug on the bar and stood. “Christ, I’ve been waiting here for over an hour. Sean said you went dark this morning. I know you weren’t with Ellie because she—”
“Keep your reconnaissance to yourself unless she’s in trouble. You know I promised to respect her independence, and if there’s no danger, I’m not going to break my vow.”
Elle searched for information about Isobel, and I had asked my brother to keep tabs on the situation in my stead.
“Yeah. There’s no need to at this point,” he said.
“Before we get on with other matters, I’ll say that Elle wants everyone home for the weekend. John’s taking the train from Loughborough tomorrow. He’ll hit London round noon.”
I had
made a promise to my family after Ethan’s death—more choices, less coercion. John’s passion was football, and he was good, so we agreed to explore it for the remainder of his gap year. Loughborough University offered the best program in the country. I arranged for a midyear admission so John could settle into the athletic program and be prepared to hit the ground running at the start of his first official academic year.
Thomas nodded. “I have a meeting tomorrow evening—real-estate pitches for New York—but I’ll get him from the station and drive home in the afternoon. It’ll be easy enough to video conference into the meeting later. So, where the fuck have you been?”
“I went to see one of Father’s old friends.” I tossed an envelope onto the bar. “Eyes only,” I added. “We’ll discuss it this weekend. Right now, I want to talk about you cleaning up your fucking act straightaway, brother. I don’t want the reputation of my company stained by your whoring, as it was by Ethan’s.”
I promised less strong-arming, not that I wouldn’t be tough to some degree. Ethan and I had both stained the firm’s reputation, each in our different capacities. Our current clients showed little concern for our past behaviors because they were making a lot of money. But the goal was to open up stakes and grow our catalogue of investors, so we needed to clean up for prospective backers who might perceive this kind of shit as a distraction.
Thomas pushed a hand through his hair and dug his fingers into his scalp as he examined the contents of the envelope. “Christ. Jesus Christ. Why didn’t you come to me with this sooner? You know I’m here for you. We can’t allow—”
“I want a commitment now, Thomas,” I said to shut him down. Eastridge was secure, but though I owned the building, I couldn’t be certain about the integrity of the offices or the Kensington house, for that matter. We couldn’t control the countless variables of London’s environment or its people in the same way we could with my country estate.