“You’re different,” I tell her, and the moment I say it, I know it’s true. “You look different.”
“I look like I’m working a regular job. At a coffee shop. I’m taking a social media detox, which means no large influencer checks. Thanks so much for noticing.”
It’s not that. I study her more closely as she shakes out the blanket on my couch and lets it waft down over the back. It’s accurate that she has less of an influencer shine on her. She’s not as tan as she looks in her photos when she’s traveling.
London looks good—she always looks good, because she’s beautiful, but she looks comfortable, in a cream-colored sweater that sets off the red mark on her neck.
It looks like beard burn.
As if she’s been with a man. Recently.
“Who is he?”
London’s eyes go wide in a parody of surprise and her hand flutters toward the neck of the sweater. She catches herself just in time. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Two steps closer, and it’s even easier to see the change in her skin. “Did you have a confrontation with a fir tree, London? Is that it? Or did you have some intense private time with a man? Judging from the state of your neck, he has stubble.”
“What I do in my spare time is none of your business.” My throw pillows are her next target. “You should be worried about yourself. I’m definitely worried about you.”
“I’m fine. I’m more worried about your neck.”
“My neck is fine.”
“Who is he?”
She moves past me with a long-suffering energy. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“So he’s not hot.”
A glare from London. “He is hot. And I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You, London Frank, do not even want to talk about the sexy man who’s all over you at night? I don’t believe it. Talking about boys is your favorite thing. You used to talk about ’N Sync like they were your actual boyfriends. Come to think of it, I’m surprised you didn’t become the author instead of me.”
The coffee sloshes from the mug onto my hand. There’s a beat when I don’t feel the burn and then I do. I don’t hate it. And I know that’s not right.
A person shouldn’t enjoy being burned by coffee, and I don’t like it, not exactly. It’s just that I remember so clearly what it felt like to hurt for someone else. For him.
London is staring at me with open concern on her face. “Your hand is turning red.”
I wave my hand through the air, creating a breeze to cool the burn. “Tell me about the guy.”
She looks away, then down. My sister’s in the middle of my living room, shifting her weight from foot to foot, looking for the next thing to clean. It’s been weeks of this habit. Bringing groceries. Picking up takeout containers. Folding my blanket. But it’s the first time I’ve seen her with skin rubbed raw from stubble. London glances at my hand, which is the same shade of red. And then my face, which probably looks animated for the first time in weeks.
“It’s a guy named Adam.”
“Adam. Nice. Did you meet him at the coffee shop?” I laugh, and the sound is off somehow, but at least I’m doing it. At least I’m finding some amusement in talking to my sister, which is an improvement over a robotic existence. “I bet he slipped you his number on a napkin.”
London meets my eyes, but she’s worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, rubbing a hand along the back of her neck. It’s not embarrassing to meet someone in a coffee shop.
Unless she didn’t meet him in the coffee shop.
Unless the expression on her face is about more than a one-night-stand situation with a hot guy from the coffee shop.
“Adam.” The word takes forever to leave my lips. “An Adam we already know?”
“Yeah.”
I…can’t. I can’t process it, can’t let it soak in, can’t even let the information register for what seems like an eternity but is probably more like a minute. So many questions spring to mind.
Like how, and why, and when.
I’m too shocked to ask any of them.
What would the answers be, anyway? I feel an ancient urge to scold her, remind her about the dangers of being with men like Adam, but it would be laughably hypocritical.
London watches me turn into a statue of a woman holding coffee. “Holly.”
“No. It’s fine. Of course you can have sex with whoever you want.”
“Holly.”
“I’m not judging you. Just be careful, you know. Men like that.” My voice breaks. “Men like that have a way of disappearing. As if they were never even real.”
I break down sobbing and she holds me while I cry on her shoulder. Even her smell is different, some kind of masculine shampoo mixed with her own floral scent. I cry until I’m left with only hiccups and a throbbing head.
She kisses me on the forehead and leaves, promising to come back the next day. The door closes behind her. Sometime later I realize the coffee is gone. I drank it. I’m the only one here. There’s nothing left but coffee grounds in the bottom of the cup, swirled into the shape of a fleur de lis. It’s very French. But the coffee grounds aren’t what I’m thinking about.
It’s the beard burn on my sister’s neck that has me transfixed.
That one red mark is proof.
I wasn’t crazy.
If Adam exists, then so did Elijah.
And if he was alive, that means he could still be alive.
Please let him be alive.
If he’s still alive, he needs me.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Holly
It takes a full day to come up with an idea. I decide to put it into motion before lunch. London hasn’t sent a single text since she left, but she did send takeout. As soon as it arrives I abandon it on the coffee table. Who can eat?
I can’t wait any longer to make this phone call.
Google reveals plenty of references to North Security. There are a few images by the Associated Press of high-ranking politicians and celebrities with men wearing suits and dark sunglasses in the background. There are some news articles about new security technology with quotes from Joshua North, co-owner and spokesperson for the company.
There are a few magazine articles about the prodigy violinist Samantha Brooks and her budding romance with her bodyguard, a man who was once her guardian. Liam North. The oldest brother. The founder of North Security.
The call connects after half a ring. “North Security.”
“Hi.” I lean back on the couch, the details of my plan disappearing like a mermaid into deep water. My hands are shaking. This is just a phone call, but my body won’t settle down. “I’m calling to speak with Liam North.”
Despite having lots of references elsewhere, the company website is sparse. A white background, a sleek logo, and an email address. There are no flashy images or little reassurances in text to make a prospective client want to call. I get the impression they’re massively successful both in private security and government contracts, but it must come through referrals.
“He’s not available right now. You can leave a message with—”