“Eliza. She’s fine. She’s just taking a break. You know Tara.”
Eliza sighs. “Okay. Sorry. I just… I mean, we always talk and she’s never gone silent for so long.”
“I’ll let her know you called,” I say politely, and hang up before she can say more.
I stand in the dark, staring at the city, phone heavy in my hand.
For a long time, I don’t move.
How long can we keep this up?
I know it can’t last. I know that someday soon, Daisy will remember everything. She’ll remember that she’s actually Tara Monroe.
I wonder if I’ll survive it when she does.
Because she may never forgive me when she realizes what I’ve done.
13
CHAPTER 13 – THE REVELATION
Daisy
Iwake to the sound of my own pulse. For a moment, I can’t tell if I’m alive or dreaming—just white sheets, blue city, and the memory of a man’s hands everywhere. I drift through the penthouse, the rooms all echo and glass, with that same old ache burning in my chest. The breakfast bar is empty, no Hunter, no bacon, only a hangover from too much wine and the faintest stick of his come on the inside of my thighs. I don’t shower. I want to hold on to his scent, his nearness, until it’s all gone.
There’s a weird ache in my tummy though, and I’m not sure what it is. I feel unsettled and troubled, but I don’t know why.
I wander the main room for a while, touching the cold marble, staring at the skyline, pretending I have nothing better to do. My body is running on two hours of sleep, skin prickling under Hunter’s borrowed shirt, but my mind won’t shut up. The name I heard won’t leave me alone:Tara. The woman whom he claims is his stepsister. Over and over, like a splinter I can’t dig out.
I don’t want to go into the office, but of course I do, drawn like a magnet.
The study’s exactly as before: clean, curated, and warmly minimalist with wooden bookshelves and heavy oak furniture. The shelf of photos is the only real color, a parade of faces that don’t belong to me, and I know I should leave it alone. I don’t.
I pick up the photo from yesterday, staring at it like it has answers. Hunter’s stepsister is blonde, wearing a swimsuit with a with red bows on the shoulders. She’s young, with braces and a sprinkling of freckles on her cheeks, like she’s been in the sun too long. Hunter’s beside her, shirtless, tanned, arm thrown around her shoulders. They both look happy and alive, totally in the moment. I stare at it for a long time, fingers clamped so tight my knuckles go white.
I put it down.
All at once, the air feels wrong. Too thin. Too bright. I lean on the edge of the desk, breathing through my nose, and force myself to count every shelf in the room. One, two, three, four. My heart is climbing up my throat. My hands shake. There’s a sour taste at the back of my tongue, and I know it’s not the wine.
I close my eyes.
I see the blue bowl, the yellow kitchen. I see the angry man, the woman calling for someone in the yard, a girl with a mouth full of braces screaming at her father.
I open my eyes, and the only thing I see is that photo.
She looks just like me.
No. She looks like Daisy.
Or maybe—maybe she looks like Tara, and I’m the one who’s the echo.
I want to puke, or scream, or smash the glass, but I just stand there, nails digging into my palms, jaw set so tight I’m pretty sure it’ll crack.
I don’t hear Hunter come in, but I feel the air change as he enters, the way a room feels with electrical charge when a storm’s about to hit. I turn, photo still in hand, and see him framed in the doorway—barefoot, dressed in gym clothes, hair slicked back and dripping. He stops, eyes locked on mine.
For a long minute, neither of us speaks.
I hold up the photo, my hand trembling so hard the frame rattles.