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That thought has me steaming, but it isn’t the source of my panic.
No. That’s because the black book of corruption that my brother left me is missing.
When the plane landed yesterday, I took it from Liam and placed it inside my luggage with the other books my brother had given me. It was still there when I showered before Liam offered me a reminder of who we are that I will most definitely never forget.
I tore apart everything before we left the house, and it’s not there. Either Liam swiped it without telling me. Or my father snatched it. I can’t ask him because if Liam is the thief, I don’t want my dad to know. I assured him I had it. He said he trusted me. It took me less than a day to fail him. To fail Ben.
And my gut says that no matter how much Liam loves me, he and Gage wouldn’t think twice about stealing it out from under my nose. They’d rationalize. Feel entitled. They had already expressed as much on the plane. And truth be told, I would’ve surrendered it, provided they let me tear out that one page.
It feels like I’m in the middle of a war that hasn’t quite begun. Captive on the battlefield. Forget a classic chess match. This is like the one in the Harry Potter books when they smash you to pieces if you make the wrong move.
I could play one side flawlessly.
But if I fight for them both, I’ll lose one way or another.
I have to figure out who has that fucking book.
My mother’s hand slides across my thigh, pulling my attention from the icy snow flurries. This is an Ohio March. A rainstorm hit yesterday, but with dropping temperatures, it’s morphed into sleet. She’s sitting beside Rex, catercorner from me, while my father shares my seat.
“You’re so tense, Cee. Relax. I’m sure he’ll be back soon.” She squeezes my leg before releasing me. “We’ve hardly seen you this last year and a half. This will be a wonderful evening, and it will be nice to have you home.”
A scoff I can’t catch free-falls from the depths of my lungs. “What makes you think I’ll be home for a while? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“I simply said it would be nice to have you home,” she insists in her syrupy end-of-discussion tone.
“It wasn’t simple,” I hiss, to which her brows furrow, aghast that I’d dare back-talk her. But I’m at the end of my damn rope. “The way you said it, like you—”
“Celeste,” my father barks. “Your mother has been worried sick about you. She’s probably hoping Liam takes a while so she can have time with you. That’s all. No need to turn it into something.”
My mother’s beautiful face is heavy. Burdened. Remorseful. Proving my father’s point.
“You’re right. I apologize. I’m just … struggling.” My eyes well with the admission, my throat closing.
I’m rarely this honest with my parents. We don’t really have that type of relationship. Everything has been skin deep since Ben died, but I need them right now.
My father tugs me closer as my mother pulls a tissue from her purse.
“No tears,” she says. “We’ll be there any minute, and you’ll smudge your makeup.”
So, skin deep is still our love language. She tried last night. Three minutes of authenticity is still something. A gift. Not broaching deeper subjects is probably her way of shielding me from her dark world. That ship has long since sailed, but old habits die hard. I’m sure she’s even more exhausted with life than I am.
“Ava,” my father admonishes, “her makeup is the last thing she needs to worry about.” He leans in close to my ear. “To whom much is given, much is required. Don’t fall apart now. This is only the beginning.”
I nod, wordless. I know he’s referring to KORT hierarchy. None of the power is really mine, but I suppose I’m tangled in it, like being zapped by an electric current. Whether I’m the primary source or not, once it touches me, I might still be a conductor. Scott Filmore’s wet and fried form comes to mind.
I did that. Killed a man.
On my own. I’ve survived some pretty horrific shit. I can do this.
My father interrupts my morbid internal pep talk. “I’m so proud of you, Cee.”
Good God. That’s a spearing, a gutting, spilling anything remaining inside me. It’s ironic that the accolade arrives as I’m recounting my brush with murder. In any event, I want to tell him I won’t let him down, but I’m afraid I already have, so I say nothing.
The car rolls to a stop, and a few beats later, Doug, my father’s driver—or Douglas, as my mother insists on calling him—opens the door on my father’s side, two umbrellas in hand. Since the sleet has escalated to a full-on blizzard in our brief drive, Doug passes one umbrella to my father so he can escort my mother while Rex and I shimmy out under the coverage of the other.
We scurry through the ice pellets to reach the awning of the theater, illuminated by twinkling lights, only to be stormed by a swarm of men in suits.
Flashing badges.
