Page 33 of Gold Mine (The Diamond Trilogy 2)
She clasps me close again. “Holly. What on earth? Why aren’t we calling the cops?”
“It’s a long story,” I say, the same thing I told my dad.
The look she gives me is knowing and infinitely patient. “Then let’s go sit down in the bedroom. I need a pillow to hold while you tell me this.”
I expect her to lead me to my old bedroom upstairs but instead she takes me to the master bedroom. If walking into the house was like stepping into my childhood, climbing onto the California king bed is like reverting to my toddler state. I feel warm and safe. As if a thunderstorm is outside the house, but it can never touch me here on this embroidered bedspread. She hands me a velvety throw pillow, and I wrap my arms around it. Then she sits close, close enough that I can feel her warmth.
Something that had been strong for the past year, competent and cool, that part of me cracks. The comfort of the room is a hairline fracture. The compassion in her touch is what breaks me into a million pieces. I begin to cry, dropping large, hot tears onto the pillow.
“Oh, Mama,” I say on a sigh. I haven’t called her that in over a decade.
She takes my hand in hers. “You know you can tell me anything.”
It’s something a lot of parents say, and I know that it’s true for my mother. I could tell her about liking a boy or even smoking pot. But this will be pushing the edges of any parent’s understanding. It’s already pushing the edges of my own.
I take a deep breath. “A year ago, I was kidnapped.”
Her hand squeezes mine, and I see her take a deep breath. After a moment her hold relaxes. “The police can be here in a matter of minutes. They can do tests, take evidence—”
“It’s… harder than that,” I say, unable to meet her eyes. “There was a man in the cell with me. His name is Elijah. He helped me escape. I think… I think I may have fallen in love with him.”
Her blue eyes turn glossy with tears. “Oh, baby.”
“I know what you’re thinking, that it can’t be real love in a situation like that.”
“There are things I’ve never told you about my relationship with your father, about the way we met. Maybe I should tell you soon, but for right now I need to hear your story.”
“Well, he had enemies. They wanted to use me against him. And he was so determined…” My chest heaves, and for maybe the first time in the transatlantic flight I register that he’s really gone. I’m alone now. “So determined to protect me that I felt like maybe he loved me, too. That was just an illusion, though.”
“Are you sure about that?” she asks, her voice gentle.
“No,” I say with a watery laugh. “I’m not sure of much these days.”
“And London? She looks thin.”
“She’s sick, Mama.” The words come out as a whisper. “That’s what started this mess. She needed money to pay back debts, because she’s… she’s addicted to cocaine. I’ve been trying to help her myself, but it’s so much, it’s so scary, and I just—”
“Shhh,” my mother says, squeezing my hand. “You have help now.”
Yes. I have help now. For all that Elijah was determined to protect me, it was a very specific form of help. My own personal bodyguard. But I’ve needed a different kind of help, and my mother can provide that. “I think she needs rehab.”
“We’ll worry about that,” she says. “Did you think you needed to carry it all on your shoulders? London is my baby. She’ll always be my baby. I love that you care for your sister, but she’s not your responsibility. You know that, right?”
My brain understands, but my heart rebels. It wants to fix everything and everyone that I love. Including London. Including Elijah. “That’s why I left. Because I was a danger to Elijah. As long as I was around, he’d just keep protecting me and protecting me. It was toxic, that form of protection. He didn’t even want to let me leave the house.”
She hesitates. “Holly, you know how your father and I met?”
“You were on your road trip. You met him at a diner. He bought you dinner.”
“Yes,” she says, drawing out the word. Her hands fidget, tugging at the embroidered fabric of the bedspread. “The truth is he was… pushy. He was in a bad place, and he did bad things.”
I stare at her. “Mama, what are you saying?”
“I never thought I’d share this with you, but—” She gives a small, helpless laugh. “I suppose you definitely are my daughter.”
It’s strange, the pride I feel at that sentence. London was always like my mother. Always beautiful and delicate and vulnerable. Everywhere we go, people know they’re related instantly. I’m the odd daughter. The different one, but I can’t mistake the rueful possession in her voice. The certainty that we are alike in some deep, ineffable way.
