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It’s been two weeks since I discovered Lavinia was my son. James continues his role as Nina’s caretaker, and I continue my role as hermit writer. The tension in the house is almost unbearable. It has become painfully obvious that our relationship is unsalvageable, and that James will never forgive me for what I’ve done to Nina.
It took a few days for the shock of his return to wear off, but soon after, my emotions began to settle and my practical brain took over—and let’s just say, I havelotsof thoughts on my prodigal son returned. Two of which have kept me up at night.
One, the realization (like a slap in the face) that James did not return into our lives to mend everything he broke when he left. No, James has returned because he needs money. That’s it. My son wants his bestselling-author daddy’s money.
So, don’t pity James. His intentions are purely selfish.
I guess what they say is true. The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, does it?
As for the second thing that keeps me up at night, well, I am going to address it once and for all right now ...
* * *
It is eleven o’clock on a humid night.
I’ve not seen James since around six, when we bumped into each other in the kitchen while he was making Nina’s dinner.
I twirl the amber liquid inside my highball glass and stare into the woods. A crescent moon hangs above the treetops. Above it, a million stars twinkle in an endless black sky.
As I sip, I ask myself the same question that I’ve asked a hundred times since I found out Lavinia is James.
Do I want to know?
The answer has always been no. But tonight, I’ve had just enough to drink to sayyes.
My gaze shifts to the ceiling. I haven’t heard footsteps in over an hour. James is likely curled up with Nina, asleep in our bed.
I down my drink, rise from the armchair, and quietly climb the staircase to the second floor.
The lights are off, the doors securely closed.
Careful to avoid the creaking floorboards, I sneak down the hall, past the library, past the media room.
I glance over my shoulder before pulling a key from my pocket.
The last door on the left creaks as I open it.
My reaction to this room is visceral.
When Nina told me she wanted to build an exact replica of James’s room in the new house, I protested until my throat was raw. But she wouldn’t let it go.
I have only set foot into this room twice. Nina, on the other hand, lived full-time in here until her attempted suicide.
Goose bumps break out on my arms as I scan the dozens of pictures of James that decorate the walls, from infancy to high school. The newspaper articles, interviews, illegible handwritten notes, they all make my head spin and stomach sink.
I shudder and force myself to focus on the reason for the visit. Settling in behind the computer, I power up the system.
Password?
J A M E S
Just like that, I’m in.
It takes me a few minutes to orient myself to the desktop. There are at least two dozen folders, and double that of images and web pages. Nina was not a very organized individual.
I frown, trying to recall the name of the security company Nina paid to install our outdoor cameras. When I come up blank, I bring up the browser and typehome security companies near meinto the search engine. The screen populates, but none of the businesses sound familiar.
I blow out a breath and lean back.
