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Chapter Twenty-Three
I am wide awake.Nate’s words about Ava keep playing on repeat in my head. Hearing about her childhood—besides what my brother had done—made needles prick in the back of my throat. What happened to her?
Nate headed home around nine, after Hank started spamming his phone. My brother had given him contracts to go over so he could get away. Unfortunately, Hank figured out that said contracts had already been reviewed and started angry-texting. When Nate didn't respond immediately, he called. Twelve times.
As we watched Nate pull out of the garage, George excused himself to go to bed. Somehow, I never considered that the man requires sleep. Most of the time, he is so inhuman that it wouldn't have been a surprise to find a secret battery compartment under all his cargo gear.
By midnight, I give up. I swing my legs out of the bed, put on Rhys's old hoodie, and pat down to the second floor to my little computer room. Sitting down behind the desk, I reach for one of the laptops and press the space bar. Besides the missing wall monitors, it’s an almost identical setup as at the vineyard. I love it.
I have no particular goal in mind when I open up the console, but my fingers guide me to the folder my brother mentioned earlier—the one he added after I came to Santa Rosa. It wasn’t hard to find once I knew it existed. I laugh at myself as I briefly glance at the mouse sitting next to my keyboard and then ignore it. Like brother, like sister. Who needs a mouse?
A few commands later, I'm scanning the multitude of documents Nate compiled. He has detailed information on the other four girls, and I find myself reading file after file. He didn’t exaggerate. He pulled up everything down to school records to check how they’re doing. Meredith and Chloe seem to have overcome everything without long-lasting issues—my mind refuses to use the k-word. Both have good grades, play extracurricular sports, and their home life looks...normal. Rose is the youngest and most recent. She sees a therapist regularly, but other than that, she appears to be fine as well. None of the records indicate that her experience traumatized her.
I dip my head and close my eyes, letting the relief wash over me. They’re okay. I seem to be the only one who didn’t make it out of this unscathed, aka lost my memory and was transplanted into a fake family. Maybe by changing his approach?...Tactic?...Routine?... Shit, I can’t even think about it. What kind of person am I for wanting to be completely oblivious to what my brother has done? Audrey's face flashes in front of my eyes, and my throat thickens at the thought of what her loss did to Nate.
When I get to Ava's file, there is not much to see. She dropped off the face of the earth after becoming a legal adult. From the few records there are, her upbringing doesn’t seem to have been a happy one. Her father has several DUIs and one domestic violence charge. Her mother worked one minimum-wage job after another, sometimes several at once. They lived in a rundown one-bedroom apartment in a bad part of town. The guy her mother left her father for was arrested for breaking-and-entering when Ava was eight. No mention of another relationship since.
Where are you, Ava?
I sit at the desk, palms flat on either side of my keyboard, and stare at the wall opposite me. Getting more insight into the girls’ lives has forced me to acknowledge what Nate did. I’m not able to deny or ignore it any longer, nor what the inevitable consequences of his actions would be: Nate will take responsibility and go away.
The selfish side in me doesn’t want him to leave me. The bond we’ve formed over the last few weeks runs as deep as if we had known each other for years. The connection was instant, which is probably why I was never afraid for my life. He’s my big brother.
Pride for him making it right makes my lungs expand. He had started setting everything in motion before I even mentioned him taking responsibility. I tell myself that I’m not going to lose him forever. Having all these thoughts running through my head also brings to the forefront how little I know about my biological father.
Before I can change my mind, I push the chair back and stand up. Nate's reaction to me being in Brooks's office still has me rattled. He appears so...normal all the time that I forget how deep his wounds lie. But he said I can go into any room in the house. Decision made.
This time,I don't hesitate to push the handle down. Flipping the light switch next to me, the room illuminates with several small lamps strategically placed around the space, giving it a warm feel. I hadn't noticed that there's no overhead light when I was in here before.
Suddenly unsure, I turn in a circle. I eye the desk then let my gaze wander to the file cabinet under the shelf closest to me. I doubt the desk holds anything of consequence, and I let my feet carry me the few steps toward the shelf. This is the first place one can see that the house stood empty for years. The cleaning crew did a great job on the surface but neglected cleaning inside the cabinets. The little gap between the doors has let dust in over the years, and the binders are covered in a thin layer. I grab a handful and lay them out in front of me—déjà vu.
Similar to the vineyard, most of the folders are case files. Some contain more financial statements, but they are either—what I deduce—the family account or Payton's personal spending—mortgage and car payments, random expenses. Then I flip a page and pause, my fingers turning into a vise around the paper. Holy—it's the same amount. The same large sum that was deposited into Brooks's account every so often.
He took the money from their family account?
My heart is pounding against my rib cage. This is huge. I fish my phone from the center pocket of my hoodie but remember I can't call my brother. He messaged earlier that Margot is staying at his house tonight.
SHIT!
I could wake up George, but what is he going to do? I slam the paper on the floor. Damn it!
Frustrated, I stand up and move to one of the shelves by his desk, leaving the files where they are. I need to keep myself busy until I can at least call Rhys.
I open the doors to that cabinet and come to a halt once more. Photo albums. Three black leather albums. I pull the top one out, expecting it to contain some Hamlin family pictures, but instead, I stare at myself.
What the hell?
With shaking hands, I skip through the pages faster and faster. It’s me. It’s all me. Holy hell, Brooks has more photos of my childhood—pre-six years old—than Heather and Tristen. Cold sweat starts forming on my forehead. How is this possible? There’s even a picture of Rhys and me as toddlers. We’re sitting together on a blanket in the park, a ball and some snack cups between us, a set of legs on either side of us. I let my index finger glide over the photograph, stopping on Rhys's face. A flutter in my chest replaces my rapid heartbeat. I start inspecting the photo closer when it hits me: this was taken from afar, through a lens. Based on the angle and focus, I'm sure of it. Did Brooks take it, or did he have someone follow me as a kid? And if so, why? He was still seeing Emily—or that's what we've been thinking.
Crap, I need to talk to someone about this.
I tap the screen on my cell phone that I dropped on the floor next to me and mentally add three hours to it. It's 3:47 a.m. in Virginia. My thumb hovers over the call icon until the little clock shows 3:49, and I click the side button, locking the device again. Ugh! If I wake Rhys up now, I’ll just worry him more than he already is.
A yawn slowly builds up, and I press the back of my hand against my mouth, trying to suppress it. My eyes feel heavy, and when the second yawn escapes, I push myself up. There is nothing I can do for at least another couple of hours. Resigned, I leave everything where it is and head to the third floor to give my body what it obviously demands.
Buzz, buzz, buzz.
Buzz, buzz, buzz.
