Page 49 of Lovely Darkness

There is no cure. There is only truth and lies.

I came here to feed Wendy lies. Good ones, for sure. Lies so well formulated, she wouldn’t ever question them.

But my earlier internal monologue about lies and truth has me reconsidering.

Because I’m lying to myself too. I’ve got my own blindfold on. I’ve spent the last seven years convincing myself that what I was doing to Wendy was necessary. It was for her own good.

And I still believe that.

But if truth is something you seek, why do I duck away from it every chance I get?

I’m starting to think I should take my own advice. It’s just this tiny nagging feeling that there’s more to what I’m doing here, but I’m too preoccupied to take notice.

I see Donovan, I see Carter, I see Adam, I see Indie, I see Nate, I see Merc…

But you know who I don’t see?

Maggie.

There’s something more to that little girl.

Adam is standing in the living room, looking out the front window.

Is he my brother? Maybe. In a genetic sense, at least. That’s at least possible. I saw the pedigree. We’re from the same line, whatever that means. Right now, I’m not even sure I had a mother. Maybe they grew us in labs?

Who knows?

Who cares, really?

The only thing I know is that Adam wants us to be brothers.

He wants me to be on his side.

I’m willing to do that—as long as he’s on mine.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN - ADAM

I love Old Home. I do.

I love the woods, and the swamp, and the house, and the lake, and the river. But even more than that, I love the darkness, and the danger, and the stifling heat. I love the mysteries of this place and how they wrap around you tight. Like a snake.

Old Home is a cage just like the one Indie was in when she was ten.

But it’s not there to hold me in, it’s there to keep the rest of the world out.

That’s why I brought McKay out here after we spent most of our lives living in the crowded French Quarter. I like the space, I like the freedom, I like the privacy.

But the thing I love most about Old Home is the gardens. They require a lot of work to make them nice and then, once they’re so beautiful they make you want to cry, they require maintenance. Year-round. Some years they look spectacular. But others, they look like shit. Those were the bad years or the too-busy years.

This year they look like something right out of a French fairytale. The beds are blooming, the trees are growing, and the bubbling fountains are the cherries on top.

Even though this is the first summer I’ve spent here in four years, I made the gardens a priority while I was gone. I hired a local company to take care of them and they did… maybe not a great job, but a decent one. A good enough job that when I came back here in the spring, it was easy enough to pick up where I left off and have it turn out like this by summer’s end.

The daphne bushes were all ripped up while we were all gone and, in their place, the gardeners planted boxwood. Easy, traditional, boring, reliable boxwood. They have grown into neatly-trimmed hedges about two feet tall now and I quite like the look. They border the largest fountain in the center of the space.

The floorboards creak behind me and when I turn, I see Nick coming into the living room from the foyer.

“Where’s Wendy?” I ask.