Val, on the other hand, appeared sweet and happy and was always standing at Dakota’s side in every picture, hanging onto his arm. In some of them, he was smiling up at him, and in one picture I came across, where Val looked about eight and Dakota a young teenager, he was tickling him. The photographer had caught him mid-laugh.
Dakota looked almost happy in that picture. Genuinely happy. No hollow eyes, no thousand-yard stare. Just a regular teenager teasing his younger brother.
In most of the pictures, though, there was a sadness in his dark eyes; a discontent that no young child should have. Hisbrother Everett, on the other hand, always looked arrogant. Confident. Smug.
Seeing them juxtaposed like this, it was clear they were nothing alike. Dakota was warm where Everett was cool, soft where he was hard, and kind where he was cruel.
None of these pictures helped assuage any of my guilt or clear up my confusion surrounding Dakota; no, they did the opposite. I now had even less of an idea of who he was.
There was nothing to indicate that Dakota had some kind of sordid, fucked-up past. He seemed like the perfectly proper son of a wealthy, successful man that exuded benevolence.
The only indicator thatsomethinghad happened was the gap in time.
Roughly seven years ago, there was an entire year where there were no photos of Dakota.
What the hell had happened? Had he gone somewhere?
I found a photo of him where he had a long pink gash across the entirety of his face. It looked like it was in the process of healing, but I wasn’t an expert on wounds, and a big one like that? Who knew how long it actually took to heal.
He wasn’t smiling in that photograph or looking at the camera. There was an emptiness in his expression, one I’d come to recognize but not understand. It was disquieting, seeing him and so young and so…lifeless.
He said he’d done that to himself, but I found it hard to believe. I really didn’t know what to believe when it came to Dakota, though.
I sifted through countless articles about Albert Voss; apparently he’d always been a prominent figure in New York society. His wealth had come from a great-grandfather that had been some highly successful oil baron.
I didn’t care how Dean Voss got his money.
I kept scrolling and scrolling, then stopped at an article from seven years ago.
Child Violin Prodigy Dakota Voss, Renowned Adopted Son of the Voss Family, Slashes His Own Face After Psychological Breakdown
Holy fucking shit.
A picture of a younger version of Dakota playing the violin on a stage somewhere was pasted below the headline.
The website was some sleazy tabloid site, so how much of that was believable?
I scanned the article, which claimed that Dakota had some kind of mental breakdown when he was fifteen, that he’d been playing on stage in front of hundreds of people in some prestigious opera hall when he suddenly smashed his violin and walked out mid-song. The article went on to say that he later cut his own face and spent time in a behavioral health facility.
What.
The.
Fuck.
Dakota was telling the truth? Or was this tabloid full of shit?
Hold on…
I stared at the picture under the headline, at a fifteen-year-old Dakota who looked utterly done with life. And right next to it was Dakota as a smiling eight-year-old with a missing front tooth.
All the blood in my body went cold as realization sank into me.
I knew that face.
I’d known that face since I was nine. That was the face that had made me want to play violin. That was the face I used to watch when I was a sad, angry fourth-grader.
I’d known that face for an eternity, it felt like.
