Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Even with our security tight, I’d suspected one of Glassman’s men would attempt to make a show of it this evening.
A counter-threat.
Which proved he still thought of me as a hazard. I was flattered, to be honest. Knowing he was still scared gave me a warm feeling all over. Like downing a Macallan Old Double Cask Whisky and letting the liquor flow through your bloodstream.
It’s time.
Ridley didn’t need to know the details of what was to happen next.
After this dance, I’d head off to the boathouse to become acquainted with our trespasser.
Anya
Consumed with dread, I stood in Archie’s bedroom staring at his bruised and swollen left eye. “What happened?”
He sat in his swivel chair and turned away from me. Sliding his headphones back on his head. . .
I hated seeing him hurting.
Archie gripped his controller and went back to playing Fortnite. The video game fired-up on his monitor before him—plunging his character into mayhem.
I took a step closer. “Archie, was it Dad? What happened?”
“Leave me alone.”
“Not until you tell me.”
He threw down his controller and yanked off his headphones. “Dad found me in his office.”
“Why were you in there?”
“Go away.”
“Talk to me—”
“Leave me alone!”
I left him for a few minutes to calm down, brought back a bag of frozen peas from the freezer, and placed it over his bruised eye, just like I’d seen in movies. His expression softened as he sat back on the edge of his bed.
I sat beside him. “Please.”
Archie slid the make-shift icepack of frozen peas down his bruised cheek. “Ever wondered why we aren’t allowed in his office?”
“He doesn’t like when we move things.” I shrugged.
“It’s more than that,” he grimaced.
My back stiffened. “What do you mean? Did you find something?”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “I’d have to show you. You won’t believe me otherwise.” He threw the defrosted bag of peas onto his desk.
We left his room.
He led me down the hall, pausing before my parents’ room. His index finger rested on his lips, gesturing for me to remain quiet. They weren’t home, but a stray staff member could see us, and maybe even report back to them that we’d been in here.
Archie turned the handle and went in.
Curiosity made me follow him.
Stopping before a painting—a boring green valley with lush trees that drew little attention—he reached up to remove it from the wall and revealed a safe hidden behind it.
With the ease of someone who’d memorized the code, he punched away at a series of digits on the numbered pad. A beep and a click and it opened.
“I watched Dad,” he answered my unspoken question. “Promise me they’ll never know I showed you this.”
“Promise.” Looking beyond his hand, I watched as he reached into the gaping safe filled with papers.
Archie removed a leather binder and flung it open to the first page.
“What’s this?” I asked nervously.
He rested his hand over one of the photos. “Promise you’ll never ask Mom or Dad about it.”
“Show me.”
Sliding his palm away, Archie pointed at a photo of a small girl about four or so. She could have been me when I was that age. We were similar in that both of us had brown hair and her eyes, like my own, were a deep shade of blue. But she wasn’t me. That birthmark on her wrist proved it.
“Who’s that?”
A deep swallow rolled down Archie’s throat. “Her name was Anya.”
My stomach roiled as though my name was poison, and it was threading its way into my blood and constricting my veins. “That’s not me.”
A wave of emotion flashed over him. “I know.”
My thoughts swirled in confusion as I tried to grasp what he was saying. I struggled to take in a deep breath, but the air failed to reach the bottom of my lungs.
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
“We had a sister?”
The shock was evident in my voice.
Archie flipped over the page and pointed at another photo. “That’s what it looks like.”
With a dry mouth, I managed, “Why didn’t they tell us?”
“Don’t know. When I asked about them having other children before us, Dad took off his belt. . .” His face revealed what he’d done with it.
“They had other children,” I repeated, trying to make sense of it.
He swallowed hard at that.
I frowned at him. “When did you find this out?”
The room was spinning.
He looked full of shame. “A month ago.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Look at the photo with Mom holding a little girl.”
“It could be a friend’s baby.”
“It’s not. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“There’s an adoption certificate.” His face went pale. “Your parents’ names have been removed.”
“My parents?” My fingers felt numb. “Not Mom and Dad?”
“There’s a black strip across all the important details.”
Watching him unfold it, I peered over his arm to read the doctored document that revealed so little—yet so much. Did it really hide my birth mother’s name?