“Huh?”
He startles at my words, appearing to emerge from a daze, as I repeat my question. “Did you love her a lot? Lia, I mean?”
The name of the woman who’s apparently my real mom feels odd on my tongue.
There’s a long pause, and then Logan nods. “I did,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. Then he snaps shut the box containing the antiseptic. “You look like her. She had that same crazy red hair. Her dad was Italian, but her mom was Irish. She got the red hair from her.”
“Did she wear glasses too?” I say, blinking my eyes with the strain of trying to see without them.
“She wore contact lenses,” says Logan with a tight smile. “She used to fall asleep wearing them, and I’d have to take them out for her. Which reminds me, I need to go get you some newglasses.”
“I’ll go,” I volunteer quickly, because no matter how much I want to trust them… well, up until about seven minutes ago, I was convinced Damien, at the very least, was going to kill me. And he didn’t exactly deny it.
Damien now laughs out loud. “Yeah, right. Logan, I trust you not to let that girl out of your sight.”
“Don’t worry.” Logan jingles his key. “Now, Piper, I don’t want you to think you’re a prisoner. But, uh, Iamgoing to lock you inside this apartment and limit visits to, well…, just myself. Got it?”
“No!” I stand up, huffing. I guess my freeze response is gone, and so is the shock, because I suddenly realize this entire thing makes no fucking sense. “I was hiding so Damien wouldn’t kill me. Now he’s got me, and he’s still not killing me. So enough with this stupid shit, and let me fucking go!”
“You should wash her mouth out with soap,” suggests Damien. “Is that still a thing parents do these days?”
Logan flattens his lips to repress a laugh, then turns back to me with the air of a tolerant, to a limit, father. “Just because we’re not going to kill you, doesn’t mean you’re not still in danger.”
“From what? A fucking soap washing?” I ask in angry confusion. “I don’t get it! I don’t get any of this! Let me go, I won’t swear again. You won’t hear another f-word out of my mouth. Ever. I promise.”
Mainly because I’ll be far fucking away, I add silently to myself.
They’re both back to laughing and I practically stomp with my foot with how frustrated I am. The one thing stopping me is that I donotneed them to see me as any more immature than they clearly have decided I am.
“Let’s go, Logan,” orders Damien, once the laughter at my expense has died down.
“Wait!” I run to the front door, barring their path. “Donotleave me here. I swear to God, I’ll… I’ll jump!”
Damien raises an eyebrow.
“From the fourth floor?”
“Everyone keeps saying I must have a death wish. Well, maybe I fucking do!”
Before I can even get another word out, Damien’s on the phone. “Yeah, Vincent? Have some guys sent over to put bars on the windows. We need to close access to the balcony, too. There,” he adds, turning off his phone. “Problem solved. We’ll lock her in the entrance hall in the meantime. No windows there. Unless you think your stepdaughter would try to bash her head against the mirrors and use the shards to—”
“Come on, Damien, be serious for a second,” protests Logan, as I listen to Damien, my eyes wide. “She’s been through a lot. Maybe I should give my therapist a call.”
“I’m not suicidal!” I cry out hastily. “I’m fine! But you can’t just fucking tell someone that everything they’ve ever known is a lie, and then go waltz away as if it’s nothing!”
“She has a point,” concedes Damien. “Well, what do you want to know? I’ll let you ask one question.”
“What the fuck?”
“Was that your question?” he asks, reaching behind me to put his hand on the doorknob.
“No! Wait! Uhm…”
I frown, trying to think of something to ask. The crazy thing is, even though this entire mystery feels even more confusing than ever, I can’t think of a single thing that would clear it up. There’s no string I could tug on to even begin to unravel it. The whole thing is a knot and my thoughts are so jumbled I barely remember what the mysteryis.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask more about my apparent birth mother, Lia. What did she look like? What were herhobbies? Did she treat me well? What the hell does Damien mean, she was a mafia princess?
But at the same time, I know that shouldnotbe my main concern. And as I look at Damien, I realize his patience is all but worn out. He’s waiting, his jaw ticking, and he clearly isn’t going to allow me to ask anything but the one question he’s promised me.