My brows shot up.
“I get to talk. Then you get to talk.” He didn’t sound angry anymore, but he didn’t exactly sound happy, either. “Then, if I don’t like what you have to say, I’ll do more talking. It’s called a conversation. Realize it might be new to you, seeing as you’re allergic to sharing and your whole M.O. is about keeping everything self-contained.”
“I am not—” I snatched my beer back. “—allergicto sharing.”
“You are.”
“Why would I need to share? You seem to know everything about me already.” My eyes narrowed into a glare. “Graham told me you know about my upbringing. The TV show. All of it. I’m guessing that means you knew about my dead parents, too, even before I told you?”
He flinched.
I’d scored a point. Somehow, it didn’t make me feel any better.
“And that means you know about me. That I’m…” I couldn’t make myself say the words out loud.
His eyes flickered down to my gloves and lingered there for a beat before returning to my face. “Yeah, Imogen. I know you’re a clairvoyant.”
My heart clenched.Hard. “Do you even know what that means?”
“I know it goes beyond parlor tricks and tarot cards.” His stare bored into mine. “I know you don’t wear those gloves 24/7 to make a fashion statement.”
My breath caught.
“What else did Graham tell you?” he asked, eyes scanning my face.
Who you are is not who you were.
That’s what Graham had said. He was wrong, though. I wasn’t on television anymore, but I would always be that girl.
The girl people couldn’t see.
I wasn’t incorporeal. I didn’t have powers of invisibility, or a special cloak, or a genetic quirk that allowed me to mimic the natural camouflage of a chameleon. But, growing up, even when the show was at the pinnacle of its success, when I was signing autographs in the street and smiling for selfies with fans…
People couldn’t see me.
Not the real me, anyway.
The girl they saw on silver screens, on tabloid magazine cover spreads, in viral click-bait articles that circulated whenever a case I’d advised on became national news fodder?
She was a fiction. A fabrication, carefully curated by my uncle. (Along with a team of professional stylists.) And the sad fact was, no one really noticed, or even cared. No one expressed all that much interest in discovering who I was once the cameras stopped rolling and the stage lights dimmed.
To be fair, even if they had, I rarely gave them the opportunity. Back then, the real Imogen was only ever allowed up for air in the brief intervals between filming, when I stepped away from the perfectly orchestrated sets and closed the door on scripted public appearances.
That version of me —RealImogen, the one who didn’t smile like a pageant-winner or dutifully follow orders to perform or wear her hair in those ridiculous American-Girl-Doll-inspired platinum pigtail braids that they hoped would keep me young and fresh in the eyes of viewers for years after I’d outgrown them — had spent so long in the dark, it was hard to let her up into the light.
Real Imogen remained a mystery to me, even now.
Fake Imogen was gone, but not forgotten.
Never forgotten.
Nor was my deep-seated fear that no one, ever, would care enough to look beyond the surface. To find the heart of me beneath.
The true me.
For whatever reason, in that moment, a memory of Cade popped into my head. We’d been standing in his kitchen only a few nights before. He’d asked me what I wanted to drink and insisted I tell him my preferences.
When I ask you what you want, I’m not asking for my health. I actually want to know. And I want to know so I can give it to you.