A sob rips out of me, sharp enough that my teeth knock together. I shake until my jaw aches. I wrap my arms tighter, like I’m trying to squeeze all the feelings into a ball and swallow it.
The first thing I do is try to remember if my mother ever lied to me.
I know the answer before I even start. She lied all the time.
We moved every year, sometimes twice. I never had a birthday in the same city. My name changed on the forms at every new school, but she always called me Eve. She’d whisper it in the dark, like a secret password: “You’re my Eve, my whole world.” She never let me out of her sight in public. She’d grab my hand so tight it left marks, then apologize with a thousand kisses.
When I was seven, she met my dad and they got married. He didn’t like me much and anytime I asked who my real dad was, she ducked the question.
When I was ten, she burned a pile of mail in the backyard. I watched the flames eat through magazines, credit card offers, a few letters from people I didn’t recognize. She told me it was spring cleaning.
When I was thirteen, she made me memorize a phone number and a code word. “If anything happens,” she said, “find a phone and call. Someone will come for you.”
Then she disappeared and my dad said she’d found another family. My sister went to live with my aunt and I stayed.
I always thought she was paranoid. Now I know she was right.
The urge to call her is so strong it makes my hands shake. I want to hear her voice, just once. I want to ask her if she’s proud of me. I want to ask her if any of this was worth it.
Was leaving with me worth it?
Am I worth it?
I don’t know how long I sit there, hugging myself and trying to breathe. Eventually the tears stop, but my head hurts and my hands are shaking so bad I have to tuck them under my thighs to keep them still.
My body is empty. Like someone scraped out all the organs and left the shell behind.
I need to do something. Anything.
I get up, because the alternative is to never get up again.
The kitchenette is the size of a postage stamp, but it has a kettle and a single mug that used to be white, now stained gray from hundreds of cups of cheap coffee. I fill the kettle, flick the switch, and stand there watching the water go from still to furious. The bubbles remind me of the boardroom, the way every word popped through the air and left a slick film behind.
I dig through the cabinet for the chamomile tea I’ve been saving. It’s a luxury, a gift from the girl down the hall when I helped her with chemistry. I pull it out and smell the bag, let the sweetness fill my head for a second.
When the kettle screams, I jump. I nearly drop the mug.
I pour the water, watching the steam curl up and vanish. I stand there, both hands wrapped around the mug, breathing in the smell. It’s too hot to drink, but I want the pain. I sip, and burn my tongue.
The pain pushes my anxiety away and gives me a new purpose. A new focus.
I drink half the cup in three gulps, even though the heat makes my eyes water. My whole body is shaking. I can’t tell if it’s the cold or something else.
I sit at the tiny desk and open my laptop, but I don’t have the energy to turn it on. I just stare at the blank screen, watching my reflection in the black glass.
My hair is a mess. My eyes are red. There’s a crust of sweat on my cheeks and trails from the tears.
I look like someone who got punched in the face by the truth.
Sleep calls me, but I know I won’t.
My eyes as I think about the Board’s words. The Hunt. The “legacy.” Vivienne. The bloodline.
Did somehow Vivienne find out that we’re sisters? I wonder if she’s known all along, if every torment was some twisted form of sibling rivalry.
Her face, sharp and bright, eyes like knives, classically beautiful. Nothing at all like me. I want to hate her, but I can’t. I can only hate myself for not seeing it sooner.
I rest my head on the desk and let the mug slip out of my hands. It rolls, but doesn’t break.
