Except nothing was normal.
There was still a woman in the basement. My stepbrother was somehow my husband. And my mother had shot my stepfather.
“What happened then?” My voice felt distant, detached. I continued looking out the window, staring at nothing.
“Hudson came back to the Breakers first thing the next morning and found your mom and me in the library. Somehow, during the night, she must have dumped his body in the ocean. It was gone when Hudson arrived. He saw the blood, saw our bruised faces, and just...understood. Instead of calling the police, he started cleaning. Got rid of the blood. Cleaned the scene. He and your mom decided it was best if she hid in the basement. He dumped one of the cars into the ocean and told everyone that my father and your mother had fought again and left together that night.”
He rubbed his temples.
“The police found the car in the ocean and concluded that my parents drowned during that horrific storm. Everyone felt sorry for me. They called it a tragedy. Not what it really was: abuse, murder, trauma. And that was better. For your mom. And for me. If my family had known the truth, they would’ve shipped me off to a home for ‘troubled’ kids and locked her away in one of those nightmare psych hospitals to make her pay. Those with ice baths and electric shock torture. Times were different then. Abusers were tolerated. Women who fought back weren’t defended. They were destroyed. A tragic story wins pity. A murder wins punishment. They would’ve painted her the villain and made my father an innocent victim. That’s how those stories went back then.”
A tale as old as time.
“Why did she never leave?” I asked.
“She never wanted to. After a few weeks, Hudson offered to drive her up to Canada. Told her she could start over. But she refused. Insisted on staying in the basement.”
“Why?”
Daniel took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I think she wanted to be close to you.”
It felt like someone had shoved a blade through my chest, twisted it, and then done it again.
“She stayed for me?”
“She also killed him for you,” he said. “To save you. That’s why we covered it all up. To protect her. She didn’t deserve the life my father gave her. And she definitely didn’t deserve what would’ve come after. My family would have made sure she died in prison or a psych ward. Sooner rather than later.”
He shifted in his seat. The chair creaked beneath him.
“Days turned to weeks. Weeks to months. Then years. And she never left.”
“Why the locks? If it was voluntary?” I already knew the answer. After tonight, I didn’t need him to say it, but I asked anyway.
“Her mind started slipping. She began seeing things. Hearing things. I paid a fortune for discreet psychiatrists. Slipped them thick envelopes of cash. But eventually, all we could do was keep her comfortable and make sure she wasn’t a danger to herself or anyone else. And she isn’t always in the basement. Hudson would walk in the garden with her when Tara left and on her off days.”
“What about me? I mean, what happened to me after the storm?”
Daniel’s expression softened. “Apparently, you beat every damn odd, Emily. You made it across that road during the storm. It’s unbelievable. And not only that, but somehow you made it all the way to Boston. Nobody knows how you got there, but a police car found you alone on a beach outside the city. Your records with the foster agency start there. Do you remember how you got there? Anything at all?”
I shook my head. “I have no idea.” And I didn’t. Had I walked for days? Hitched rides along the way? I had absolutely no memory.
“Did you know you were adopted?”
I nodded. “Technically, they never adopted me. Just fostered. But I always thought it was from birth. I don’t have any memories from early childhood. Nothing until I was around thirteen or so. And my parents always told me my real parents were dead. That I should be grateful they took me in.” My voice dropped. “Looking back now, I’m pretty sure they only did it for the state money.”
Daniel’s thumb moved softly over my hand. “I think now that the past resurfaced, I mean, the event that triggered yourPTSD and memory loss, things will come back to you. Bit by bit. Fast.”
I tried to remember, pressing hard into the fog inside my head. Something seemed to flicker. A brief memory. My mother’s hand in mine on a windy beach. The first time I saw Daniel’s father, him handing me a doll. It was faint, but it was something. For the first time in a long time, I felt the quiet hope that I’d remember who I was again, even if those memories hurt.
But two things still gnawed at me.
I pulled my hand away from Daniel’s. I looked at him, searching his face. “Why did you never tell me anything?”
He let out a long, heavy sigh, like he’d been carrying it inside him for years.
“I know it feels like betrayal.” He stood. “And I know you might never forgive me. But, Emily, when I saw you that day in Boston, pulling those huge dogs off the road, I thought I was losing my mind. It was the craziest thing. I knew it was you the second I saw that scar on your neck.”
He paused. When he spoke again, his voice cracked.
