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PROLOGUE
ALEX
Six Years Ago
London
“The longer youkeep this up, Alex, the longer you’ll need to see me.”
Dr. Schneider leans closer, her short blonde bob curling in against the sides of her pale cheeks. “Your brother is adamant that you need to talk to somebody—”
“I.Don’t. He’s. Wrong.” My waning patience makes my words more clipped than I would like. “I’m fine. He’s fine. We’re allfine. There’s nothing else to say on the matter.”
She watches me closely as my face remains as impassive as always. Images of entering the foyer of my childhood home moments after my mother was killed are playing through my mind, and still, I feel nothing.
I feellessthan nothing.
And I continue to keep my mouth shut, knowing I can’t tell anyoneanythingwithout breaking my silence about life with Lauren DeMarco as my primary caregiver.
No one loves you, Alexander. No one cares.
Her often-spoken, never forgotten words linger in my mind, reminding me of times best left alone.
“What about your life growing up, Alex? Might you tell me what kind of mother she was to you?”
“She was my mother. Nothing more, nothing less.”
My lips twitch when I see Dr. Schneider surreptitiously glance at her wristwatch, clearly hoping the session is almost at an end.
Dropping her notepad onto the desk and interlocking her fingers, she fixes me with a more determined stare than I’ve seen from her thus far.
“Alex, if I may be so frank…”
My interest is sufficiently piqued, and so I give her the smallest nod of assent.
“Your brother will find another therapist, and another, and another, until you eventually give him what he wants. Which is the peace of mind that he helped you grieve the loss of the only parent you had left.”
I heave a deep sigh, knowing full well that she’s right. He’s relentless, and he won’t stop until he gets what he wants. I drop my head back onto the chaise and allow my eyes to drift closed.
What does she want me to say?
That I want to forgive my mother for sexually assaulting my older half-brother, Henry? An act that ultimately saw me left alone with her at age ten?
That I understand her reasoning for kidnapping my best friend, Liv, and my younger half-sister, Mila? That it’s all water under the bridge?
That I deeply miss the woman who would beat my knuckles raw if I missed a note during my piano lessons or slapped me across the face if I conjugated my French verbs incorrectly.
Or perhaps she wants me to say that I grieve the loss of the woman who paid a prostitute to take my virginity on the day of my sixteenth birthday. Her twistedwelcome to manhoodgift that ruined my ability to view sex as anything other than an exchange of pleasure.
But it would all be a lie. Because when I saw her lying there lifeless on the marble foyer floor, all I felt was an overwhelming relief that she was gone and I was finally free.
So what kind of monster does that makeme?
“She wasn’t overly maternal, Dr. Schneider.” I open my eyes, fixing my stare on an obviously pleased therapist, as I repeat the lies that I’ve told for years with far more conviction than the truth would ever sound. “She spent a vast amount of time away from the house, and I had so many extra classes for languages and arts that we didn’t spend much quality time together.”
“And how does that make you feel?”
Ialmostsnort at the ridiculously generic question.
