n confusion before recognition settles on it. “You killed Gwen. My sister. She’s gone.”
There is a beat of silence in which both of us take deep, huge breaths, and then before we know it, we are on the floor. I am punching him in the face, feeling his bones crack under my fist. He flails. I throw him across the room and launch at him again. This time he grabs my arm, ready for me, and twists it hard. I feel the pain but can’t bring myself to care. The things that go through my head… They are more important than what I am feeling physically.
Gwen.
Remington.
The past.
The future.
My present. My present is a secret, but not for long, I decide. She craves normalcy. She needs stability. We’d never be normal, but the best things never are. I will be her constant. Her safety net. Someone she will learn to trust and not be afraid to depend on.
Ryan and I are a pile of limbs and blood before I hear my phone buzzing. It is the middle of the night, and there is only one person who could call me at this time.
I right myself, standing up and pushing my foot over his face, standing over him, stepping over his cheek.
“Hello?” I ask, breathing hard. “Remi? Hello? Are you there?”
I hear papers shuffling, the little sucks of air she takes in between. Then the phone goes dead.
Shit.
Even before I open my eyes, I know that I’m alone.
It’s a feeling I’ve grown accustomed to in recent years. The chill of the sheets wrapping around me. I’m not even sure what wakes me up, but once my eyes blink open, I send a hand to the nightstand, feeling around for my phone, but coming up empty-handed.
I look to Pierce’s alarm clock and check the time. Half past two a.m. The Jack and Jill bathroom light is off, the rest of the house dark and quiet. I wait for a while, willing myself to fall back asleep to no avail.
I sigh.
I check the time again. Three minutes past three.
Where the hell is he?
Walking over to his fruitwood walk-in closet, I borrow one of his white tees, inhaling the scent of his manhood, enjoying the soft fabric of the Balmain top caressing my body.
I decide to check his office. This wouldn’t be the first time Pierce wandered down there at unspeakable hours. I walk down the steps and head toward the only other place, besides his kitchen, that I’ve been in this house. My knock is light, but it still makes the cracked door open wider. His brown leather executive chair is empty. The phone on his desk calls for me to use it. The same phone I studied religiously—it’s a vintage rotary dial that probably costs a fortune—while I was bent over it, my face just an inch from the golden numbers that stared back at me.
I plop down in his chair and pick up the phone, dialing the number I memorized by heart long before I ever used it, and wait for him to pick up. I accidentally bump the mouse to his computer—who uses a mouse anymore?—and his monitor lights up, illuminating his desk. He doesn’t answer. Fear gnaws at my gut, tugging an invisible string of panic. I’m about to hang up and recalculate my plan, but then I see something that makes me pause.
A manila envelope, not unlike the one I saw handed to him outside the café after school that day.
I hesitate. As much as I hate secrets—secrets are what threw my life into chaos and turmoil, what got Christian in the hospital—I recognize that it’s not for me to read. At the same time, I think about all the things I’m not privy to. All the stuff Pierce James keeps away from me.
His family.
His sister.
His history.
His story.
To read or not to read—debate this, Mr. James.
My fingers find their way to the envelope. Slowly. Unsurely. They take their time, just like I do as I weigh the consequences. My father thinks I’m a liar. Ryan thinks I’m a slut. And Pierce…who knows what Pierce thinks. That I’m incapable of taking care of myself. Or maybe that I’m too young to fully understand whatever is going on around me.
But I understand it. Crystal clear. And I have a feeling things are only going to feel more real after I open this envelope, marked with the word confidential over it in bold, red letters.