“Your entire life is a lie and I’m the only person willing to give you the truth,” she says. “And if you want the truth, you’re going to have to stay here in Kentucky, because God knows that your parents won’t tell you. Even if it’ll cost you your life.”
Olivia snatches my hand and shoves the picture into my palm, curling my fingers over it. I twist away from her grasp. “This picture doesn’t mean anything. Maybe we came back for a visit but we obviously didn’t stay.”
“It was no visit. You lived here once and your mother stole you from us.”
“Olivia?” Cyrus calls again.
She walks past me and this consuming anger causes me to lash out before she leaves me alone. “My mother told me that all of you are crazy. This photo is a fake and you’re a liar.”
Olivia smirks. “We both know that’s wrong, don’t we, Emily Star?”
The breath rushes from my body as if I’ve been socked in the stomach. “That’s not my name.”
“Yes,” she says simply. “It is.”
It is...rather it was.
Emily Star is the name on my birth certificate, but when my father adopted me, we changed it to Emily Catherine so that I shared my grandmother’s, Dad’s mom’s, name. “So you know what used to be my middle name. It doesn’t prove anything.”
“It does, and so does that picture.”
“Mom said that the people in Snowflake are the worst kind of evil.” Cruel, I know, and there’s a pang of hurt and guilt, but what she’s doing to me right now is nothing short of agony.
Olivia pauses. Grandmothers are supposed to be maternal. They’re supposed to bake cakes and pies and cookies and pat my hand and tell me not to worry. They aren’t supposed to use curse words or speak in code or try to break me on one of the worst days of my life.
As she studies me, I one hundred percent understand that she’s not the warm fuzzy type. But the way sadness weighs on her face, I discover she’s not immune to caustic words.
“I’m not evil,” she states.
My skin prickles. Well, she sure as hell isn’t nice.
“I’m not,” she repeats. Then she sighs. “Either guest bedroom is yours to use. The one on the left belonged to you. You used to lie in your crib and watch the sunrise with a smile on your face.”
I shut my eyes. She’s lying. Has to be. There’s no other explanation for this. The picture is fake. Her words are lies. This entire scenario is me having a psychotic break after she popped out of the casket.
Without saying a word, I stalk past her into the bathroom and lock her out.
I ENTER THE living room and there’s one major player missing: Emily. “Should I be concerned?”
Olivia rests her head against the couch and closes her eyes. “She’s in the bathroom. The child has had enough to deal with and needs some time alone.”
Because when I want time alone, I think toilets. “She’s not a child.”
Emily’s far from it. That body she has—those curves, the way her hips move when she walks, the way I fantasized about worshipping that flat stomach if we had privacy and she wasn’t Eli’s daughter—that’s no child.
Olivia cracks open an eye, but before she can respond, Cyrus jumps in. “Oz is right. She’s not the two-year-old that used to follow you around in your tomato garden.”
“If I wanted your opinion, I’d ask for it,” Olivia answers. “Both of you.”
Mom offers Olivia a hand. “You need to rest. I’ll wake you when we hear from Eli.”
The strain of the past few hours weighs Olivia down as she accepts. Together, they leave the room. Emily can’t get out of here fast enough, in my opinion. Olivia will use the strength she needs to defeat the cancer in order to maintain appearances for Emily.
When the door to Olivia’s bedroom shuts, I appraise Cyrus as I shift the chess pieces in my head. The board in front of me is complicated and I don’t have many pieces to begin with. “What do you need me to do?”
“Entertain Emily.” Cyrus reaches behind the recliner and brings out his double-gauge shotgun. “Didn’t think I should keep it in sight with her ready to jump out of her skin.”
I chuckle. “Good call. How long has she been in the bathroom?”
“Long enough that someone she trusts should check to see if she slit her wrists.”
My head falls back. Screw me for asking. Cyrus focuses on the television, and keeps his gun in his lap. Suddenly the knife hanging on my hip develops an inferiority complex.
“Remember that she’s scared,” he says.
I flip Cyrus off as I head to check on Emily. Cyrus flips it back. The moment I have a cut on my back, I’m going to have to watch myself with the board members, especially being a prospect. But for now, Cyrus isn’t the president of the club to me—he’s the man who took care of me for the first few years of my life.
My mother’s voice is muffled on the other side of Olivia’s door. Not a good sign. Olivia has to be weaker than I thought to let my mother help her into bed. My neck tightens. Emily’s going to kill Olivia if she stays much longer.
I tap on the bathroom door and when there’s no response, I knock again. Still nothing. Damn, she probably has slit her wrists.
The voices from the other side of Olivia’s door go quiet. The last thing I want is Olivia barging out of her bedroom and taking over again. She needs sleep, not to be babysitting Emily. I brought this trouble into her home and I can handle it for a few more hours.
I try the knob and it doesn’t budge. Grabbing the skeleton key we store on top of the door frame in case Olivia passes out in the bathroom, I wiggle it around in the small hole until I hear the click of the lock giving. I’m slow opening the door, in case Emily is lost in her thoughts on the toilet.
Each push of the door is methodic and gradual. Empty floor. Closed toilet. Curtains blowing in the breeze and a wide-open window. My fingers curl until they form a fist. I’m going to wring Emily’s tiny, delicate, hot little neck.
WITH MY KNEES pulled to my chest, I sit on a wooden bench that rests below a darkened window of the house. According to Olivia, the room belonged to me, which doesn’t make sense on multiple levels. The impulse is to peer into the room to see if the answers I’m searching for are in there, but I don’t. I keep my back to the house and my eyes locked on the approaching sunrise.
I’ve been awake for over twenty-four hours and my brain has disconnected from my emotions. I feel stretched and numb. Cold and hot. Wired and exhausted. I sort of welcome it. I’m officially too tired for fear.
Oz was right earlier. I definitely was sucked into a storm and I’m desperately trying to grab on to anything solid to prevent myself from plummeting into the vortex of the tornado.
There’s a moan in the wooden window frame a few feet down and out pops a jean-clad leg. It’s the same black boot that monopolized my space at the funeral home. Oz slides out of the house with more elegance than me. I ended up on my butt. He lands on both feet. Even with all that muscle, he’s graceful like a cat. Goody for him.
His eyes dart around and he does a double take when he spots me on the bench. He scans the yard and thick surrounding woods, then he strides over as if