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Turning my attention back to one of the matters at hand, I stare at the email Agatha sent me.
Frank M.
It is an alias used by one of the paparazzi, but nobody knows who he actually is, or if it is a ‘he,’ even. The tabloid agency refused to divulge the name of the writer, and when trying to approach other members of that particular agency, Agatha hit a wall.
However, she warned me that her actions gave the bloodhounds a scent and since they figured out that I am trying to shut this story down, more of them are surrounding my family. Because that is what Eve and Mila are, now: my family.
I am grateful to Agatha that she spun the story as much as she could, keeping it out of the newspapers and entertainment sections of the various media outlets. Keeping it contained to just tabloids gives the story a fake vibe and since she often incites media personnel to cover events, she’s built good relationships with popular magazines and media outlets, and none of them want to cross her by publishing a story about her client till she is willing to divulge the specifics.
But Agatha has no control over tabloids and what they write.
And the next time a picture comes out, even she might not be able to do much damage control.
I close the laptop and put i
t on the table before frowning.
And then there is the matter of my father.
How does Elijah know about Mila?
He refused to give me any details, just wanted to meet Mila.
I was a preteen when Elijah found me.
If I close my eyes. I can still recall that day.
I was curled up in a corner of the room, my mother’s unconscious form a few feet away from mine.
My whole body was covered with bruises, and there was blood on the knife that I held clutched in my hand, blood that wasn’t mine. The same blood was on my face, a wild look in my eyes.
The man who turned towards me, after getting done with my mother, he was laying in front of the door, face up, a blank look in his eyes.
Elijah paused on seeing the body with blood pooling under it, and then carefully stepped over it, probably so as to not to get blood on his expensive leather shoes.
I remember seeing the shoes and the well-dressed stranger in the three-piece suit who crouched in front of me with cold eyes that looked like mine.
He crouched down to my level and studied me with disinterest, his eyes moving over the blood splattered over me. Taking the knife from me wasn’t a difficult task because I was in shock.
When he reached for me, I resisted, still scarred, terrified. However, he handled me in a clinical manner, and when I protested too much, he called me ‘son.’
He told me he was my father and that if I didn’t come with him, the police would lock me away for my whole life.
However, my legs wobbled, undernourished as I was, and after some thought, he took off his suit jacket and draped it around me before picking me up in his arms.
He didn’t spare my unconscious mother a second glance, nor was he bothered at the sight of the man I killed.
No, he walked past the front door, and as I clung to him, I saw the strangers in white overalls and masks enter the room holding bags.
Elijah brought me to a sprawling mansion that he owned in the middle of nowhere, a sign of wealth and status. Doctors prodded me and checked me over, and when they reached for areas that were so private, I snapped out of it and howled, a frightened child who thought he emerged from one hell only to go straight into another.
It was Henrietta, the old housekeeper, who held me down, murmuring soothing words to me, trying to calm me as the doctors understood the extent of damage done to me.
Elijah’s face was tight with anger, fury that he concealed when the doctors murmured their conclusions to him, but it was Henrietta I clung to. She was soft and kind. Sometimes she would wake me up from the nightmares that plagued me and held me to her when I would curl into a whimpering ball, trying to hold in my sobs.
I stayed with him for two months, recovering before I was shipped off to boarding school. Elijah hasn’t ever kept much in contact with me, but he took me aside and told me never to mention him to anybody and never to mention what happened in that room to anybody. Those were the secrets I was told to take to my grave.
And I intend to.
