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Who can I trust? Who can I confide in without risking my life?
Desmond’s face flashes through my mind. I push the thought away, knowing that I can’t rely on him for everything, but the feeling of being watched persists, and I can’t shake the sense of unease.
Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door, and my heart jumps into my throat. I freeze, unsure what to do. The knock comes again, louder this time. With a shaky hand, I flip the covers off and turn to climb out of bed.
As I twist the handle, the door flies open, and a figure comes crashing into me. We tumble to the ground, and the air gets knocked from my lungs. When I look up, I see that it’s Jani. Her makeup is smeared across her face, and her eyes aren’t just red but glassy.
She’s breathing heavily, her eyes wide with panic. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”
I sit up slowly, rubbing my head where it hit the ground. “What are you doing here?”
“I needed to talk to you,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Okay,” I reply and stand up. Offering her a hand that she graciously takes, I haul her up. “Then talk.”
Every single warning bell flares to life in my head. They ring like a gong, reverberating until I have to focus on my breathing and my heartbeat.
“Listen.” She licks her lips and goes to shut my door.
Fear sparks inside me, hot and searing. My feet move before I can tell them to stop, and I grip the door before she can shut it. I wedge a foot between the frame and the door, my hand sliding down the heavy wood. “What’s going on?”
I look at her, really look at her.
Jani isn’t a small woman. Nearly five foot eight, she is the tallest of us all and curvy. Her hair hangs down her back in dirty blonde corkscrew curls. Gone is her costume, and she’s wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. Her feet are bare, and she shifts from foot to foot while wringing her hands.
“You can’t trust them. Any of them,” she whispers urgently. “Brooklyn isn’t as transparent as everyone says and won’t hesitate to kill you if it suits her.”
Her words aren’t surprising, since Tatum said as much earlier. “Thank you for the warning,” I say, trying to give her a soft smile, hoping it eases even an ounce of the panic that Jani is throwing off.
It doesn’t. She reaches out and grips my arm, her nails digging into my flesh. “You aren’t listening to me, Charlotte,” she insists, licking her lips, her eyes darting from side to side. “She will use Desmond to kill you.”
I take a deep breath and peel her hand off me. I know exactly what this is. She’s trying to scare me away from Desmond, away from the family. Grinding my teeth, I struggle to find the words to reply to her.
I can’t let her words consume me, feeding my inner doubt. “Okay,” I tell her, and there must be something in my gaze that communicates my understanding. She takes a step back, her arms dropping to her sides, and lowers her head.
“I can get you out of town. A new ID for both of you.” She glances at the door. “Just tell me if you want to go. You’ll tell me, right?”
“I’ll tell you, Jani.” I glance at the bathroom door that leads to Milo’s room. “I’m going to rest now.”
“Okay,” she says, and I open the door for her. Her head remains down as she steps into the hallway.
I quickly lock up behind her, double bolting the door. Turning around, I lean against the wood and stare at the room. The clock blinks eleven, but it isn’t the green lights that steal my attention. It’s the bottle of wine and the note.
As I get close to the bottle, I grab the note.
Knowledge is power–Harlow
The manila folder. I almost forgot.
I’m not ready, but I know the longer I push this off, the more it’s going to hurt, so I open the wine and pour myself a healthy glass, digging the folder out.
My hands shake as I slide to the floor and lay it in front of me. I only asked my mom about my father once, and although I know she’d never purposely lie to me, I know deep down inside that she’d lie about this. It’s that sixth sense that washes through me as I stare at that folder.
“Just open it,” I tell myself, flipping the folder open and shutting my eyes tightly. Breathing heavily, I peel one eye open, then the other.
On the floor before me is a smiling man in black and white. He’s handsome, yet there is a coldness in his eyes, as though he is haunted. He has a heavy-lidded gaze as he looks past the cameraman, a drink pressed to his lips.
What gets me is the striking resemblance I have to him. There is no denying my parentage to Cameron Casso.
