“‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,’” I murmured. “I used to say that to my teammates at the coffee shop when things got busy. How do you know that?”
“Not one of the Bard’s most widely read plays,” he noted, avoiding my question. “But it’s always been one of my favorites. To hear a beautiful woman quoting it like that… I was utterly captivated. I came back after my meeting—”
I shook my head. “Stop it, Whit.”
“—and we talked about literature until your boss kicked me out.” He smiled wistfully. “But I came back the next day.”
“That’s not true,” I insisted, my throat going tight, a sharp pain growing behind my eyes. Something in my memory rustled, trying to break free.
The sincerity in his eyes was unmistakable as he continued, “Zellie, I loved you so very much. And you loved me. For a year. We were together for a year. The best year of my very long life—until now.”
I shot to my feet. “No!”
“Eventually, I told you everything,” he said. “All of this. Every single ugly truth about my life, my family, who I was. And you still loved me. But we got carried away one night, weren’t careful.”
“No!” I said, stabbing my index finger at him. “That’s not true. It’s not possible.”
“When I realized what I’d done, the danger I’d put you in, I panicked,” he admitted. “I took your memories of us for your safety. All I left was a vague impression of what we’d had that night, what we’d shared so many nights.”
I was speechless, could only stare at him, my entire body shaking with fear, rage, sorrow… Finally, I managed a very quiet, “How?”
“It’s just another part of who we are,” he said. “I don’t know—”
“That’s not what I mean,” I snapped. “How could you do that to me? If it’s true—how dare you take something so personal from me?”
“To save your life,” Whit said simply. “And the life of our son.”
My breath caught in my chest. “That’s not true. You’renotHenry’s father. I don’t care what kind of bullshit you’re trying to feed me about stealing my memories and somesecret lifewe had.”
“I wasn’t sure either,” he admitted. “Not at first. But then I learned about Henry’s anemia, the same condition that plagued the family’s children. And I saw how he improved when June and Pearlie started feeding him our blood.”
“Yourblood? What the fuck are you talking about!?” I screeched, then glanced toward the hall, relieved to see Henry was still playing in his room. This was the last damned thing he needed to hear.
“Our blood has certain healing properties,” he told me. “That part of the folklore is true.”
“Prove it,” I ordered through clenched teeth. “Prove any of this rightfuckingnow!”
“I took my own memories as well,” Whit told me, standing to fish his phone out of his pocket. “To keep my father from finding out about you. He couldn’t make me tell him what I didn’t know. I didn’t even leave myself an impression like I had with you. But I left a breadcrumb.”
He turned the phone around to show me. On the screen was a photo of Whit and a younger me with his arm around me, an ocean sunset behind us. We were smiling, happy.
My hand shook as I reached out and took the phone. Holding it with both hands, I stared at the image, trying to figure out where it had been edited, how he had faked it. But it was real. And dated about two months before I found out I was pregnant with Henry.
But,how? How could this be true? And if it wasn’t, why in the hell would Whit create such a cruel story to try to make me think he was Henry’s father?
“I didn’t know who you were,” he said, edging closer, “but I still felt longing, sadness, whenever I looked at the photo. And despite everything I’d done to shield you, my father still found you, insinuated himself into your life, insisted I bring you to Dawes House.”
I lifted my eyes to his, frowning. “What the hell are you talking about? Your father died before you decided to evict me.”
Whit ran his hands through his hair, then dragged his hand down his face. “No, he didn’t. He went through his renewal and moved to New England.”
“His renewal,” I repeated. “A sacrifice.”
Whit gave me a curt, solemn nod. “I don’t know who.”
“The woman who lived here?” I squeaked, my heart breaking into so many pieces as I had to face the truth that my hero, my guardian angel, had been a murderer.
Whit shook his head. “I don’t know. I wasn’t part of the ceremony. I was brought in after to take over my father’s business affairs, be his puppet for a few years until he could resurface and take it back over. It was only after I saw you that first night here at Dawes House that I realized you were the same woman in the photo. That somehow, he had found you and would expect me to honor my obligation.”
