Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 99917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
“We’ll see you next Friday,” Mother says, the words carrying the weight of command rather than suggestion. “Eight a.m. Don’t be late.”
“We should go,” Arson murmurs, his hand still on my shoulder. “You look tired.”
It’s an escape route, offered at the perfect time. I nod, playing into the role of the exhausted invalid they’ve cast me as for so long. “Yes, I am. It’s been…a lot to take in.”
“I’ll have your prescriptions filled and sent to your apartment,” Mother says, moving toward the door. Her message is clear: we’re dismissed.
All I can feel is relief that she’s not making me stay here, locking me in my room. Hell, forcing Dr. Winters to sedate me until Friday rolls around. But I think she doesn’t want to push in front of who she thinks is Aries.
We leave without further conversation, the silence between us heavy with unspoken words as we walk through the grand foyer toward the front door. I keep my head down, playing the part of the subdued daughter until we’re safely outside, the door closing behind us with a decisive click.
The gravel crunches beneath our feet as we walk to the car, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the manicured lawn. Neither of us speaks until we’re inside the vehicle, doors locked, a barrier of metal and glass between us and the Hayes mansion.
“Drive,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “Just get us out of here.”
Arson complies without comment, the engine purring to life as we pull away from the house that has never felt like home. My hands are shaking now, the adrenaline crash leaving me jittery and hollow.
“A week,” I say once we’re through the gates, heading back toward the city. “We have a week to figure out what they’re planning.”
“What they’re planning is to use you as some kind of medical experiment,” Arson says, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “The question is why? What’s so special about you that they need this ‘procedure’ now, after all these years of just monitoring and medicating you?”
That question has been circling in my mind since Dr. Winters mentioned donors. What could they possibly want from me that would involve so much money that they need donations?
“I don’t know,” I admit, staring out the window at the passing scenery without really seeing it. “But it has to be connected to whatever’s in those files I found. To the Facility where they kept you.”
Arson is quiet for a moment, considering. Then he asks the question that brings everything to a halt. “What about your father?”
“My father?” I turn to look at him, caught off guard by the sudden change in direction. “What about him?”
“You never mention him,” Arson says, eyes still on the road. “He’s not in the picture, obviously. But why? What happened to him?”
I bite my lip, sorting through the carefully curated story I’ve been told my entire life. “He and my mother divorced when I was very young. My condition was too much for him to handle, apparently. He couldn’t deal with having a sick child. At least, that’s what Mother always told me.”
“And you believe that?”
The question hovers between us, challenging years of accepted narrative.
“I used to,” I say slowly. “But now… I don’t know what to believe anymore. Everything I thought I knew about my life seems to be built on lies.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
I shake my head, trying to recall a face that’s nothing more than a vague impression in my earliest memories. “I was maybe three or four? I barely remember him. Mother has kept all photos of him packed away. Said it was too painful to look at them.”
“Convenient,” Arson mutters, a muscle working in his jaw. “And his name?”
“David Harlowe,” I reply automatically. “Why all these questions about my father?”
Arson’s expression is unreadable, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Because parents are where secrets begin, especially in families like ours. Whatever’s happening now, whatever they’re planning to do to you—I’d bet anything it connects back to him somehow.”
The suggestion sends a ripple of unease through me. I’ve spent so long accepting my father’s absence as a simple fact of life that I’ve never really questioned it, never dug into the circumstances of his departure.
“You think he knows something? That he could help us?”
“I think,” Arson says carefully, “that there’s a reason you don’t know anything about him. A reason your mother has kept him shrouded in mystery all these years. And secrets like that usually exist to protect something important.”
He’s right, of course. In a life built on lies, the biggest omissions often hide the most significant truths.
“We need to find him,” I say, a new determination taking root alongside the fear and betrayal. “If he knows anything about my condition, about what Mother and Dr. Winters are planning...”