Knowing You

  I open mouth to take offense when he says, "I approve of him, Lana. He's good for you. And if you can do what's expected of you until school starts, I'll request that he be allowed to escort you off-campus."

  Hearing him approve of Grant, felt ... fatherly. It definitely didn't sound like my lawyer talking. And now I don't have any words. None. I just stare at him with my mouth gaping open.

  Niall gives me a rare smile.

  "Um," I say, regaining my ability to speak, "have you heard from my mother? I keep missing her. I want to make sure she's okay."

  His eyes shift down solemnly.

  "What?" I hold my breath.

  "She fainted at work the other night. But she's okay. Olivia's arranged to take her to see her doctor next week to follow up."

  I close my eyes and sigh. "So she's not okay."

  "We don't know that for certain. She says she feels fine. Blamed it on not eating."

  "She's lying," I tell him.

  "That's why Olivia is going to make sure she keeps this appointment. I'll let you know if there's anything to be concerned about. For now, do what you have to do. Stop messing up, Lana. There's only so much I can do to save you."

  There's a knock at my door within seconds of hanging up from my nightly security checkin.

  "I'm here to break you out," Brendan says, stepping into my room. I know his timed appearance isn't a coincidence. Our government seriously needs to hire him, before another country's does--because if they get him first, we're screwed.

  "You know?" Then I shake my head at my stupidity. "Of course you do. I can't get caught leaving my room."

  "I won't let that happen."

  As much as I don't trust him, I do believe him. "Where are we going?"

  "My room. Roundtable meeting with the middle Harrison prince."

  "You did not just equate yourself to a knight, did you?"

  "I am rescuing you right now aren't I?"

  "Or kidnapping me."

  "Hey, you don't have to come. You're the one who wants answers." He hesitates a second before adding, "But I have to warn you that this passage is long, narrow and really dark. I have a flashlight, but I'm not sure if it'll be enough."

  I study him. His face doesn't reveal anything, like maybe he's genuinely concerned about me. But the fact that he's warning me about what could happen if I go with him, says enough.

  "You can squeeze the shit out my hand if it'll help. But just don't punch me. You hurt."

  I release a small laugh. He holds out his hand and I take it.

  Brendan pokes his head out of my room, checking the hall in both directions before he pulls me out after him, having taped my latch open so it won't click shut. We walk briskly to the end of the corridor on my side of the grand staircase. In the few seconds it takes for me to check over my shoulder that the hall is still empty and then turn back to him, a section of the wall has swung open.

  "Ready?" Brendan asks, giving my hand a firm squeeze. I nod. He turns on a flashlight and illuminates a steep, narrow stone staircase. I step down to allow him to close the passage; then I grab his hand again. This stairwell is as narrow as the one that led up to the Quiet Room; the wall is so close I can feel my breath bounce back. My chest is heaving by the time we reach the next small landing. "How are you doing?"

  "Distract me," I rasp, my forehead prickling with sweat. "Tell me something about you. Anything, no matter how stupid."

  "I love you how you assume anything about me will be stupid."

  I laugh, or wheeze.

  "Did you," I take in a couple short breaths, "ever leave Nantucket before here?"

  "Save your air, Princess. Don't want you passing out before we get to my room. And to answer your question, yes. I didn't remain trapped on the island like my mother. Mostly went to Boston or New York. Flew to London last summer. My grandmother is protective but trusting. She caught on early enough that I wasn't someone to be contained. So she pressed some morals upon me and hoped they'd stick."

  "They didn't," I mutter.

  He stops and pulls my arm so I'm right up against him. "But I make up for it in morale. I'm very good at everything I do."

  I shove him forward. He releases a menacing chuckle and continues down the steep staircase that turns at sharp angles. I know we have to descend five floors, but it feels like we're entering the bowels of hell the farther we go down. The air becomes colder and feels so heavy, it's like I can taste the decay with each labored breath.

  My body shivers when the frigid temperature collides with my damp skin. "Are you sure you're not going to murder me and leave me down here with your collection?"

  "No. You're too fun to play with," he answers. "Stay close."

  I grip his forearm with my free hand and huddle up against him.

  "Talk to me," I beg, tripping over my feet which refuse to move properly. I want to close my eyes to stop the spinning, but then I know I'll fall. I don't want to be down here anymore. I'm not sure how much more I can take before I'm consumed by the panic again.

  "You're a pretty fascinating person, Lana Peri." I can hardly hear him with my pulse roaring in my ears. My shoulder scrapes against wet, slimy stone and I bite back a scream. "With everything life has thrown at you, you know how to take care of yourself. Hell, I wouldn't want to be trapped in a dark alley with you." He laughs. "Oh, wait. We are."

  I punch his arm.

  "Dammit, woman! Stop punching me. You're a hell of a lot stronger than your little spritely size might indicate."

  "Then stop saying stupid things," I choke out.

  Finally, we start climbing up another set of stairs again. My body is racked with the shakes. I have to stop.

  "Hold," I draw in air, but it's like I'm breathing through a straw, "on." I bend over, trying to inflate my lungs.

  Brendan lifts me up and throws me over his shoulder. "Let's get you out of here." I don't try to resist, even though having his hands on me right now is making my body quake even more. I fight the urge to kick and punch him, even though that's what every instinctive defense is screaming at me to do. So I squeeze my eyes shut, clench my fists and concentrate on the sound of his footsteps.

  He's swift, easily moving up the confined stairway as if I weren't slung over his shoulder. I can feel the sinewy muscles along his back, taught and lean. I have a feeling that's all there is under this shirt. Guess eating like a middle-aged man pays off.

  He sets me down on a cool, supple leather surface. When I open my eyes, black circles float before them. I sway in the seat, afraid I might pass out. Bending forward between my knees, I concentrate on breathing.

  "Here, drink this." Brendan holds out a glass in front of me. I shoot it down and cough instantly. The fiery liquid burns the entire way down.

  "Thanks," I say between coughs. "I didn't need my throat."

  "You going to be okay?"

  I slowly lean back and wait for my pulse to return to normal. My eyes slowly shift up to meet his. He's standing above me, dressed in dark slacks and a grey shirt, looking like he's ready for a GQ photoshoot, not like he just emerged from a dungeon.

  "Yeah.

  "He's dead, you know."

  I don't have to ask who he means.

  I study him, waiting for an explanation that doesn't come. "How do you know what happened?"

  He shrugs casually and leans against the counter, crossing one foot over the other. "Wasn't hard to figure out. The police in Sherling aren't the brightest, are they?" When I only stare at him, he continues. "I read the police report on your grandmother's death. I know you refused to talk to them, never answered a single question. But you did tell everyone what happened."

  I swallow, an acrid taste rising in the back of my throat.

  "Wolfe. Morgan Wolfe. Hell, you pretty much named him in the story you wrote."

  "How did you ..." I croak, unable to finish.

  "It was submitted to Blackwood as part of your admission file, along with your transcript. You're a talented storyteller. A bit
dark and twisted, but good."

  "Why do you care so much about my life?"

  "I told you, the truth is much more interesting than the lies."

  "Do you know this much about Ashton? Or is it just me you're obsessed with?"

  "I wouldn't call it an obsession. That sounds so ... creepy." He grins and I glare at him. "It's intriguing, really. Putting the pieces of a person together, to better understand why they are who they are. Probably has to do with understanding my mother's suicide, but I don't care for psychoanalysis."

  "And Ashton?" I persist.

  "I'm not going to talk to you about her," he says sternly. I see a flash of something hard in his eyes. Is he ... protecting her?

  I decide not to push him about it, even though I'm becoming more concerned for her by the second. "Fine."

  "Aren't you curious?" he asks. I narrow my eyes, not following. "How he died? Your beast." I remain silent. "He was stabbed in a bar fight, about a year and a half ago. Strange, right? That he died just like in your fairytale, by a blade."

  "Why do I get the feeling you know more than you're saying?"

  "Don't I always?" Brendan smirks like he is a vault of secrets, and has swallowed the key. "Is it better, knowing he's dead?"

  I shake my head. "Doesn't bring back my grandmother. Or erase what he did."

  "I'm sorry about your grandmother," he says sincerely.

  "She hated lying, more than anything." My voice is weak when I first speak. I glance up at him quickly, then back down at the floor. "We made a promise to never lie to each other. And she said breaking a promise was worse than a lie, so I never did. Even when I wanted to. It doesn't mean I always told the truth. But I never lied to her."

  I swipe at the tear that snuck out of my eye. "That night ... it was the last time I ever lied, to anyone. I chose to keep the truth to myself instead. And maybe that's worse, I don't know. It's what I do. I either tell the truth or keep it trapped inside. But I never lie."

  "I know," Brendan replies, like this all makes perfect sense. After a weighted silence, he says, "I would have killed him myself if someone else hadn't already."

  I snap my head up and stare at him, questioning if I heard him right. He tilts his mouth into his notorious smirk and I shudder.

  A knock breaks our connection.

  "Here's one of your sworn protectors now," Brendan announces. As he walks to the door, he continues talking. "These Harrison men have all vowed to protect you, haven't they, Lana? It's a little strange if you ask me. You have your own legion of knights, all within one bloodline."

  Before I can react, he swings the door open. "Sir William. Please do come in."

  Joey enters, shooting Brendan a suspicious glance. When he spots me, a gorgeous, dimpled smile ignites. A jolt of electricity stirs in my gut. I know it's a lie. But my body doesn't seem to care.

  I stand, and he walks toward me. "Hi."

  "Hi," I say, looking directly into his brilliant blue eyes. I'm trapped within their gaze, unable to look away.

  Joey brushes a hand along my cheek, and I inhale sharply.

  "It's like you can't resist," Brendan observes in complete fascination. "It's a little disturbing."

  The arrogant lilt of his voice breaks us apart.

  "Uh, so," Joey clears his throat uncomfortably. "What is it you wanted to show me?"

  Brendan retrieves the photograph from a hidden compartment beneath his roll-top desk. He hands it to Joey silently, like he's waiting to see how he'll react. I figure there's a reason for this, but then I remember Brendan has a thing for theatrics.

  Joey examines it for a second. "Um, so, what am I looking at?"

  "You tell me," Brendan insists. I roll my eyes.

  "We don't know who everyone is," I explain. "We were hoping you could tell us."

  Joey scans it again. "Well, you know my dad, my mother, and that's Parker." He points to each of them. "That's my Aunt Cassandra," he indicates the woman we didn't know, the only one who doesn't appear to be pregnant. "Um, I'm not sure who this is next to your mother." Joey looks up at me.

  My gaze switches to Brendan. He nods, granting permission.

  "That's Brendan's mother. She grew up on the island."

  Joey directs his attention to Brendan. "Your mother?"

  Brendan nods. Joey appears confused. Join the club.

  "What about the other two?"

  Joey narrows his eyes, like he's trying to place them. "Um, it's hard to tell who the woman is. The guy ... looks familiar. I've never met him, but ... I know I've seen him before. Maybe in other pictures." He pauses in contemplation. "I can't place him. Sorry."

  "Do you know where this was taken?"

  "Our family estate on Nantucket. My great-grandfather built the main house, and then my grandfather added houses for each of his children, so we could all vacation together."

  "What are you, the Kennedys?" Brendan jeers. "Except your family's compound is on Nantucket instead of the Cape?" There's an undertone of hostility in his voice that draws my attention. Where is this coming from?

  "Brendan," I say in warning, not wanting him to piss Joey off and keep him from cooperating. Brendan walks to the bar and pours himself a shot.

  "Drink?" he offers Joey.

  "No thanks," Joey replies.

  "Do you know who this guy might be, the one cut off, running to get into the picture?"

  Joey presses his lips together in contemplation. "It could be my Uncle Kaden. His house is on that side of the property. And it would make sense considering."

  "Considering what?" Brendan demands impatiently. I shoot him a look, silently questioning his irritation, and he shakes me off. What is going on with him?

  Joey pulls out a folded envelope from his pocket. He smooths it out and removes a small stack of papers, along with a photograph. He hands the photo to me.

  "That's my uncle," he tells me quietly, like he wishes he didn't have to say it.

  In the image, my teenage mother is sitting on a guy's lap. He appears a little older, maybe early twenties. His face is tucked into her neck, kissing her. Her tranquil blue eyes are sparkling and her smile is so bright. She's so ... in love. I've only ever seen her this happy with Nick.

  "My mother was dating your uncle?" I ask, trying to digest this. My eyes widen at the unspoken conclusion. "Is he ..." But I can't say it.

  "Your father?" Of course Brendan can. Joey flinches. I think I might throw up.

  Joey and I stare at each other for a moment. "That can't be right," I gasp, swallowing against the bile in my throat. There's no way I'm related to the Harrisons ... no way.

  "Would explain a lot," Brendan remarks. "Except the incest part."

  I glare at him. He laughs like this is the most amusing thing he's ever witnessed.

  "Maybe not," Joey finally says, but still not sounding all that confident. He spreads out five pages on the coffee table. We bend down to examine them. They're DNA tests, more specifically paternity tests. My eyes flick between them, my brain too freaked to comprehend what I'm looking at.

  "I found these in my father's office. I made copies. They were in a hidden locked drawer, kind of like yours." He looks to Brendan.

  Brendan picks them all up and shifts through them. "There aren't any names. Only patient numbers."

  "And?" I demand, my heart racing and my palms slick with sweat.

  "These three," he stacked them on the table, "all have the same father. And these two, aren't a match to the donor."

  I swallow.

  Brendan lets out a heavy breath, like he's preparing himself. "Was your aunt pregnant at the time this picture was taken?"

  Joey does a quick calculation in his head and nods. "She was like, four months pregnant with Lily."

  "She's Lily's mother?" I gasp. Joey nods again.

  "So, there are five pregnant women in this picture. And five DNA tests. Anyone want to take a guess who the kids are, and more importantly, who their fathers are?" Brendan flips through the pages again. "
The tests were for three boys and two girls." He holds the pages up to the light. "The birthdates have been redacted for some reason. I'll have to search for the originals to tell us when each was born."

  "How?" Joey asks.

  "You don't want to know," I tell him. His mouth rounds in a silent, Oh, understanding it'll be illegal.

  "So the girls are you and Lily. So, unless your aunt was having an affair, we can still assume Lily's your cousin," Brendan says, his eyes shifting to Joey. "And one guy impregnated three women in like, what, six months? What was he thinking not wrapping it up?" Brendan lets out a humorless laugh.

  My brain finally starts connecting everything he's saying.

  "But if my father is Kaden, then that means Cassandra had an affair with this other guy, making me your cousin" I give Joey a quick glance. My throat constricts like it doesn't want me to say the rest out loud as I face Brendan. "If not, then I'm your sister." Even Brendan appears disturbed by this revelation. My knees buckle. I collapse in the chair with a heavy plop.

  "This is fucked up," Joey says, running a hand through his hair.

  "Undeniably," Brendan agrees, finishing another shot. "Good thing you didn't give in to temptation and sleep with me."

  I make a disgusted face at him.

  "Why do you even have this picture," Joey looks at it again, "from Labor Day weekend ... Oh, no." Joey's face pales instantly. He shakes his head like he's hoping whatever it is isn't true. "I didn't recognize him because I never met him. Because he died the weekend this was taken."

  "Who are you talking about?" I demand. Joey stares at me with wide eyes, like he's silently apologizing. "Whatever it is can't be worse than finding out I made out with my cousin, or that I'm ... Brendan's sister." That was so hard to say.

  "I know who that man is. Which means, I know who the third boy is."

  Brendan and I stare at him, willing his mouth to move. But as soon as it does, I wish I had stapled it shut.

  "Vic."

  My journey in creating this story, is much like Lana's discovery of love--I discovered what it was to be a writer again. To live within my words and not want to let them go, even as I typed the last letter. Lana's journey isn't over, and neither is mine.

  I am surrounded by the most wonderful and passionate women. They were there to remind me of just what I'm capable of accomplishing. They never once stopped believing in me. Their love helped me fall in love with writing once again. It was a long four years, but here we are. And I am very much in love.