Page 11 of Love and Lies

Eli sighed. “Yeah, maybe. I don’t know why it’s still happening. It was so long ago. I should really be over it by now.”

“There’s no should for this kind of thing, little guy.”

“No? Because it was such an awful trauma?” He snorted and shot me a look. “Other people go through much worse, and they’re fine. Just not me.”

My eyes narrowed, but not at him. “Is that what you really think? Or is it what other people tell you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he mumbled, and went back to drawing in earnest.

It seemed so long ago, the moment it had all begun—and yet, at the same time, it felt like yesterday. Eli had been nine years old when he was kidnapped. We still lived in Lower Manhattan back then, and he was being driven home from school when the chauffeur suddenly turned into a side street and stopped. Several men had dragged Eli out of the car, put a bag over his head, and packed him off to somewhere in Harlem, where he endured almost ten days of constant threats and mistreatment in a pitch-dark cellar before he was eventually found.

I’d never been more scared than the moment we discovered that the car that should have brought Eli home from school had been found abandoned. Trish and Henry were completely beside themselves and ready to pay any amount of ransom money, but the demand never came. Even the NYPD were at a loss. Eli’s eventual rescue was solely thanks to a private investigator who was able to track him down through her criminal contacts, but by the time she got to the kidnappers’ hideout, they’d long since cleared out. Even after Eli was returned safely home, Trish and Henry spared no cost to find the men responsible, but to no avail, and after a year of fruitless investigation, the case was closed, and filed away as unsolved.

To this day, Eli didn’t know who his kidnappers were or why they’d done it, and since then, fear had been his constant companion. For the first year after it happened, he’d barely wanted to leave the apartment, and he had a panic attack every time he went out in public. At some point, along with his therapist, Adam and I managed to teach him how to cope with the attacks better, and for a couple of years things seemed okay. That was why I’d left. But then our mother and Henry got divorced, Adam died just six months later, and Eli fell back into his old habits again. Whenever he was at school, or outside, or every time he got in a car, he was terrified something else would happen. We now had a driver who was an ex-marine and so well paid that he could never be bought, but Eli’s trust was broken. So it was even more important for me to stay in New York City, within his reach. I was the only person in his life who placed no expectations on him, the only buffer between him and his parents’ ambition.

“What are you drawing?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Oh, it’s just a sketch, something that just came to me.” Eli held the tablet out toward me. I made out a building, easily twenty stories high, with a modern, angular design and staggered sections lined with plants.

“What’s that?” I pointed.

“Vertical greening. I saw it on a building in Australia and thought New York City could use it, too. There’s Central Park, of course, but more plant life would be good for the air quality.”

“Looks really cool.” These kinds of ideas were why my mother was so adamant that Eli should function. He was kind of a genius. He had a feel for planning and design that was far beyond his years, which was why he was Trish’s hope for the future of the firm. Adam had been a numbers freak—rational and strategic, just like her—but Eli was an artist, someday maybe even a visionary. But only if he wasn’t put under pressure. I could see that, but clearly our mother couldn’t.

“There’s something else I wanted to show you.” Eli scrolled through the files on his tablet. “Just a sec, it’s in here somewhere.”

“Jess?” My mother appeared suddenly in the doorway. “You should change—we have to go in fifteen minutes.” She disappeared again.

“That’s my cue, I guess.” I got up and gave my brother an apologetic look. “I’ll see you next week, little guy. And you can show me your other designs, okay?”

Eli gave a smile and a nod, but it hurt to see the look he gave me—as if he wished I wouldn’t leave him here in the Fortress of Solitude. I felt the weight of it on my chest.

“Jessiah!” Trish called firmly from somewhere down the hall.

I sighed, heading for the door. “Coming already.”

A last, encouraging smile in Eli’s direction, then he picked up his headphones and I pulled the door shut, leaving us both just as alone as we had been before.

5 Helena

The apartment was empty when I got home. My visit with Malia had ended somewhat abruptly when her coworkers had picked up a group of guerrilla taggers who thought it’d be a good idea to give the Eighty-Sixth Street subway a full makeover. The station filled up quickly, so I said goodbye and continued on my way around the city. A couple hours later I was home—but my mother clearly wasn’t, or I’d have a missed call from her asking what I was up to. It was going to be tough, getting used to this round-the-clock surveillance after having my independence in Cambridge, but at least I knew what I was doing this for.

Once again I stood at the foot of the staircase leading to the upper floor, but this time I braved it, taking my suitcase in hand and carrying it up the stairs. My bedroom was right at the back, on the left, and as I stepped inside, I was engulfed by a cloud of nostalgia and faded memories. The decor hadn’t changed: light-colored furniture in grays and whites, accented with curtains, rugs, and linens in various shades of berry, pink, and lilac. I stood on the threshold for a few moments, trying to reconcile myself with this room, but I couldn’t do it. Here, now, at almost twenty, I knew I wasn’t the seventeen-year-old girl who had lived here before. How could I be, after everything that had happened?

I went in, put down my luggage, and crossed to the vanity near the window. I’d begged my parents to buy it for me when I was thirteen, even though they didn’t approve of my wearing makeup at that age. But I’d gotten my way, and that vanity had meant the world to me. I wasn’t sure why—even now, I didn’t wear makeup every day, and if I did, often it was hardly noticeable. But back then, I’d thought the white lacquered table with its oval mirror signified that I wasn’t a little girl anymore. Or perhaps the only reason I’d wanted it was because Valerie had had one too.

At the thought of Valerie, my gaze turned to the photos stuck to the mirror, searching for one with her in it—but I couldn’t find any. Instead, there were gaps between the photos of me with my friends from back then and a couple of snapshots of Ian. My heart began to thump in alarm as I realized that someone had gotten rid of the photos of Valerie—only the ones of her. Then I was struck by a thought that set my pulse racing even harder:

What else have they taken?

Some internal sixth sense led me out of my room and over to the door opposite, the one I’d been afraid to open all day. But now, I just did it—turned the handle and pushed it open.

And froze.

In front of me was a room I’d never seen before.

There was nothing left. Nothing of Valerie’s borderline-tacky four-poster bed, her pictures, her overflowing pinboard with its ornamental gold frame, her desk. The couch by the window had vanished, as had the ratty old stuffed hippo that usually sat there, from which she’d been inseparable. All her shelves and books were gone as well. In their place stood only a mahogany bureau with an old-fashioned chair, and a strange bed with a neatly tucked-in bedspread. As though my sister had never lived here. As though she’d never existed.