Page 21 of The Rook’s Obsession

But in the low light, with her guard down, I can almost see it. The girl underneath the weapon. The Laura underneath the Ivy.

Almost.

Dr. Feld said the triggers have to be emotional, not just intellectual. It’s not enough to tell her facts about her past. She has to feel something. A taste that brings back a kitchen. A song that brings back a car ride. A face that brings back a feeling she can’t explain.

My face hasn’t done it yet. Hours together, and she looks at me like a stranger.

Maybe Liam will be different. Maybe seeing her brother will shake something loose. Maybe being at the cabin, the smell of the air, will do what I couldn’t.

Or maybe she was right, and Laura Knight is gone, and I’ve just kidnapped a woman who will hate me for the rest of her life.

Either way, we’re committed now. The wheels are in motion. Vincenzo will find out she’s gone, if he hasn’t already. The handler she ignored will report it. And then we’ll have a whole new set of problems that make a fear of flying look like a minor inconvenience.

But that’s tomorrow’s problem. Today, somewhere over the Atlantic, I watch the woman I love sleep in a cream leather seat on a jet she didn’t want to board, wearing clothes she didn’t want to wear, heading toward a life she doesn’t remember.

I hope like hell we’re doing the right thing.

IVY

Nobody asked me if I wanted this.

That’s the thought that keeps looping through my head as the limo rolls through miles of nothing. Trees and more trees, broken up by the occasional gas station or rusted mailbox marking a turnoff to somewhere even more remote. We left the highway a while ago, and now the road is narrower, winding through dense forest that blocks out most of the afternoon light. It would be beautiful if I were in the mood to appreciate it.

Which is why it’s a shame I’m nowhere close to that mood.

Nick is sitting across from me, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, scrolling through his phone like we’re on a casual Sunday drive instead of whatever the hell this actually is. A kidnapping dressed up in ugly clothes and a private jet.

I stare out the window and list my resentments, because it’s better than feeling helpless.

Three days ago, I had a life. It wasn’t a warm, fuzzy life. It wasn’t the kind of life you’d put on a greeting card. But it was mine. I had an apartment in the city, one of many that were not necessarily homey but were private. I had work. I had a routine that kept me alive and sharp, and I understood the rules of the world I moved through.

Now I’m in the backseat of a limo I didn’t choose, wearing clothes I didn’t pick, heading toward a place I’ve never been, to meet a man I had no idea existed but supposedly shares my blood.

And nobody—not once—asked me if any of this was what I wanted.

Nick would say he’s doing this for me. He’d say it with that steady, patient voice of his, the one that somehow never wavers no matter how many times I shoot him or spray chemicals in his eyes. He’d tell me this is about bringing me home, reconnecting me with a family I lost, giving me back the life that was stolen from me.

What he can’t seem to understand is he can’t give back something I don’t remember having.

“How much longer?” I ask, without looking at him.

“Twenty minutes, maybe. The cabin is off the main road.”

“Of course it is.” Because why would anything about this situation be accessible or easy to escape from? I’ve been mentally mapping the route since we left the airstrip. Counting turns, estimating distances, noting landmarks. Force of habit. It’s also practical, because when the opportunity to run comes, and it will come, I’ll need to know the terrain.

“The cabin belonged to your parents,” Nick says, pocketing his phone. “Your family used to come out here when you and Liam were kids. Summers, mostly. Holidays sometimes. It’s…” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “It’s a place with a lot of memories.”

“For you, maybe.”

He doesn’t argue. That’s one of the more frustrating things about him. He doesn’t fight me when I push back. He just absorbs it and keeps going. It’s almost impossible to stay angry at someone who refuses to give you anything to push against.

The trees thin out after another ten minutes, and the road dips toward lower ground. I catch glimpses of water through the gaps—a lake, wide and flat, reflecting the blue sky like a mirror. Then the trees open up, and the cabin comes into view.

It’s not what I expected. When he said cabin, I pictured something rough. Rustic. Log walls and a tin roof, and an outhouse around back. This is something else entirely. It’s a real home, dark wood, with a wide porch that wraps around the front and a stone chimney climbing the side wall. The porch overlooks the lake through a break in the pines, and there’s a dock stretching out over the water. Across the lake, I can see other cabins dotted along the far shore, half-hidden in the trees.

It’s idyllic. The kind of place you’d see in a magazine article about escaping from the real world. I hate that it’s beautiful, because I don’t want to feel anything about it.

The limo pulls up to the front of the cabin and stops. Nick gets out first, then holds the door for me like this is a date instead of a hostage delivery. I ignore his hand and step out on my own, my sneakers crunching on the gravel drive. The air hits me immediately—clean, cold, carrying the smell of pine and water and something earthy underneath. It’s different from European air. Different from the cities I’ve lived in, the cramped apartments and rooftops, and alleyways that make up the geography of my life.