“Because we don’t age, we couldn’t tell the outsiders that we were your parents. It wouldn’t have fit our cover to have you turn nine, ten, eleven…”—Anne pointed to herself and William— “and the two of us look like we’re forever eighteen. And we didn’t want to move around more than necessary or rouse suspicion. So, we asked my sister Christine to come with us to Ohio to act as our mother.”
The woman she knew as her mother was really her aunt.
Her entire life felt like a lie.
“What you see before you is everything we’ve kept for you. We love you so much and have always been so proud of you,” Anne said, crossing her palms over her heart.
“We love you, Bug.” Her father’s familiar, forgotten term of endearment brought another downpour through Vivienne’s lashes. By the time she composed herself, the video had ended, and the lights had flickered back on.
We love you . . .
Was that even true? If they had lied about so much already, why not lie about that?
Vivienne lifted the cover of the first of five books and realized they were photo albums. Didn’t they have the no-photos rule eighteen years ago?
Inside were pictures of Vivienne as a baby and her mother in the hospital after giving birth. Anne proudly displayed her tiny treasure snuggled in a pink knitted blanket.
There was another one of a newborn Vivienne being cradled by her father; instead of looking at the photographer, he had been caught sharing a secret smile with his daughter as her fingers encircled his thumb.
So many first experiences were preserved within the volumes—her first Christmas, first Easter, and first birthday. She felt removed from the blissful story they told, like she was looking at someone else’s life. As her gloved fingers flipped, the memories became clearer: her third birthday and a cake decorated with ponies, a floppy yarn-haired doll her father had given her, a trip to the lake to feed ducks and sail a yellow wooden boat the three of them had made together.
The final image was from Vivienne’s sixth birthday party.
Anne and William crouched on either side of Vivienne’s balloon-laden chair, crooked party hats on their heads and smiles on their faces, watching their daughter shovel cake into her mouth. Vivienne’s eyes were closed, as though she was relishing every last lick of the purple icing covering her lips.
Her parents’ faces seemed filled with joy and adoration—and love.
What had she been thinking? Of course her parents had loved her.
She had been the center of their world until the day they died.
The rest of the pages were empty, confirming that, without a family, there was a void in Vivienne’s life that would never be filled.
Wanting to see her parents again, she pressed play on the remote. Like before, the lights turned off and the machine awoke. But this time, there was a five-minute video from the hospital on the day Vivienne was born. She watched this and countless other snippets that brought to life the still images from the albums. When the final video played, Vivienne sat in the dark for some time before she felt like moving.
She was exhausted and drained and so weary she barely had the energy to get off the chair. The puffy skin around her eyes throbbed when she gave it one final wipe. Composing herself as best she could, she shoved a few more tissues into her pocket and hoped Martina wouldn’t notice her slip away.
When she opened the door, there was someone waiting for her . . . but it wasn’t Martina.
Leaning on the edge of the desk, Deacon watched her with a wary expression. Without smiling, he stood . . . and opened his arms. And she didn’t have to think about her response. She collapsed against him, and the tears that had barely dried returned with heavy sobs.
“I know you told me not to come,” he said quietly, “but I thought…Well, I didn’t want you to be alone after.”
He had come for her.
“I’m so glad you didn’t listen to me.” She loved the way his arms felt around her. Warm. Strong. Safe. “I’m sorry about earlier. I just got really confused and freaked out.”
Smoothing a hand down her hair, he huffed a laugh. “You confuse the hell out of me too.”
At least they had that in common.
“Did you know about my parents?”
He stiffened. “Do you mind if we discuss this outside? I promised Martina I’d lock up as soon as you finished.” He let her go and offered her his hand.
Together, she and Deacon made their way down the stairs, through the empty reception hall, and out the main door. Next to the forest, one lonely lamppost shared its warm glow with the darkness. Beyond, a narrow path covered in damp leaves led into the heart of the forest.
Once her eyes adjusted, she could make out a faint light from somewhere along the wooded tunnel. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” He led her down the lonely trail, accompanied by the autumn wind and an occasional motion-activated light that fluttered to life a few seconds before they reached it. “Our DNA is too precious for traditional burials and graves,” he said, ducking beneath a low-hanging branch. “When one of us passes away, we’re cremated, and the ashes are scattered in the wind.”
The PAN were expected to live and die in secret. It didn’t seem right. Didn’t seem fair.
He stopped when they reached a dark clearing. One by one, the seven lamps marking the perimeter began to glow. In the center was an even brick patio surrounded by leaf-filled flower beds and gardens hibernating until spring. Somehow, not one fallen leaf had reached the bricks.
Deacon laid his hands on her shoulders and gave them a reassuring squeeze. “This is the closest thing there is to a graveyard in Neverland.”
Vivienne pulled free from his grasp and went to the engraved red squares. It took a few minutes, but she located what served as a headstone dedicated to her parents’ memory.
Her father had been sixty-four when he’d died. Her mother had been fifty-five.
But the dates gave no indication of how much life and vitality had been left in her parents when they had passed. They should have lived for centuries. Lived forever.
She collapsed onto one of the soggy benches and tried to process everything that had happened in the last twelve hours.
“To answer your question from inside,” Deacon said, sinking next to her, “I knew about your parents.”
His confession didn’t surprise her. “So you knew my father grew up at Kensington.”
A nod.
“And that they didn’t want me to do the same.”
“There’s a lot to be said for their decision.” He cleared his throat and adjusted his position so that he was facing her. “I, um…I grew up in the Neverland outside of London—in Harrow.”
Vivienne scooted back so she could see his face more clearly. The shadows suited him. Everything suited him.
“It’s more regimented and far stricter than it is here,” he went on, picking at his nails. “Leadership is based there, and the majority of residents are much older than here at The Academy. My mother was afraid I would let our secrets slip to the wrong person, so I spent most of my youth between my parents’ flat, my grandfather’s home, and campus.” He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. “They loosened up as I got older, when I knew what I could share and what needed to remain secret.