Prologue
They were forging a fire between us, as if to make sure we knew our place.
It was the first time in my life that I stood still. Probably because it was the first time that I truly felt the weight of responsibility resting on my shoulders. My last name carried integrity, honor. It was one of the reasons I was the president of the secret society. When they asked me to do something, I did it. I wasn’t compelled by a moral compass that others seemed to have. I only knew facts and calculations and those were the things I used to ensure I could do whatever was asked without getting caught.
It was what the men before me would have done. I followed a lineage of men who had led and fought in revolutions. Skilled workers who made money long before I was born. Plaques, busts, and photographs adorned my homes growing up. Reminders of what I should aspire to be like, of what others who came before me accomplished. Some would say that that in itself was a responsibility. The knowledge that not meeting certain requirements by a certain age meant failure. It was the sum of all of those things that drove me to try harder, to be better, to push myself to beat my twin in all things academia, since my brother had me beat in contact sports and other things.
But, as I stood there, my gaze on the licks of the flame, I realized I didn’t know a thing about responsibility. And worse, I didn’t want it. If being responsible for someone was going to make me feel this helpless, I’d rather not have it, because as she stepped toward the fire and stood still on the other side of it, my heart leaped into my throat. I knew that there were only two things I could do and both ensured the same outcome: we were all doomed.
Chapter One
They say we’re all cut from the same cloth. That, if we examine the photographs that depict our lives, tilt them a certain way, maybe squint hard enough, we can see how similar we all are. People love to analyze every fiber of a person’s existence in an effort to understand them better. As if breaking down our stories and magnifying the faults in their paths will bring us answers as to why we end up the way we do. Maybe they’re on to something. Maybe others should be held accountable for our truths, our faults, and our actions. The problem is when the things we do don’t add up to the person they would like us to be, they stake us.
I was told that my life started in a prison cell, so it should come as no surprise that twenty years later, a prison holding cell is the very place it began to unravel. I’d been brought in two hours ago. No one had even bothered to glance in my direction, regardless of how loudly I demanded answers, because that cloth we’re all cut from shows no similarities in this lighting. I closed my eyes and thought back to two hours prior to this, when I was minding my own business and walking to my car before I was picked up by the police officer. My mind was so foggy, I could barely remember how that even happened. Had I argued with them? Was that why they’d arrested me? At the sound of dress shoes, I sat up straighter, and looked up when I saw the detective come full stop in front of the cage I was in.
“Miss Guerra, I’m Detective Barry, and I have a few questions for you.” He unlocked the door and held it open.
I stood, my joints complaining about the movement after the lack of it for so long, and walked over to him, following him as he led me into a room I knew for a fact was being recorded. It had a glass wall, a table, and two chairs. I may not remember much about last night or the night before, but I remembered watching enough docuseries to know I was being interrogated and I had no idea why. A prickle ran through me.
“Am I in trouble? I didn’t do anything.” I froze at the door. At least I didn’t think I did.
“Really?” His gaze swept to mine quickly, eyebrow arched. “I was told you were resisting an officer.”
“Because the officer had no right to arrest me. I was walking home. I’d done nothing.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
My grip tightened on the doorknob. “I need a lawyer.”
“We’re just talking, Miss Guerra. You won’t need a lawyer for this.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“You’ve been arrested before. Trespassing.” He read off the papers in his hand and looked up at me.
“I was sixteen.” I’d been alone and hungry and temporarily homeless after Karen kicked me out, and yes, I’d squatted in an empty house. I wasn’t proud of it, but the beds were still in there and it was between owners.
“Still on your record.” He waved the papers in his hand.
They seemed endless. I wondered what else he had on me. Did he have my entire life story written on those pages? Was it as hopeless as the real story? As pathetic? I let go of the doorknob and walked inside, taking the side across from him at the table. He pulled out his chair and signaled me to sit in mine. I signaled him to sit first. He shook his head and took a seat. I followed suit. He seemed like the kind of man who let his daughters walk all over him. The kind of father Aisha had—stern but fair, and completely bendable.
“Are you going to tell me what I’m doing here now?”
“How do you know Chris?”
“Who’s Chris?”
“Chris Ryan. You were in his house last night.”
“Oh.” I felt myself frown. I was in someone’s house last night? That must have been before I ended up in The Institute.
“So, Chris Ryan,” Detective Barry prompted.
“I don’t know him.”
“You don’t know him?”
“This is going to sound extremely convenient.” I ran my hands over my face and exhaled. “But I have no memory of what happened last night. I woke up in The Institute this morning and checked myself out and I don’t even know how that happened either.”
“Chris says you met him on Tinder.”
I searched Detective Barry’s clear blue eyes. “Did something happen to Chris?”
“No. He’s fine.”
“So, why are we talking about some random guy I met on Tinder?”
“He called us about you.”
“Why?” I blinked. “Did he also drive me to The Institute?”
“No. He says you left in a Lyft and he didn’t know where you were going.” He flipped through his stack of pages and brought out a picture, sliding it over to me and tapping it twice. “Do you know this woman?”
I picked up the picture and stared at it, then looked at him, and at the picture again. “It’s . . . me.”
“Is it?”
“I mean, it must be.” The girl in the picture had my long, wavy, brown hair, brown eyes, caramel skin. She was wearing makeup, which I rarely wore, and a fancy-looking blouse I’d never seen before, but she looked just like me. I set the photo down. “Is someone trying to frame me for something?”
“Why would they do that?”
“I don’t know. Why does anyone do anything? Why did I wake up in a mental institution this morning with no memory of how my night went?”
“Do you have enemies? Someone who would try to frame you?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Who do you live with, Miss Guerra?”
“Alone and I keep to myself for the most part. My friend Aisha can attest to that.”