“Justin Prior is my biological father.” I’ve been repeating the phrase in my head all night, but that doesn’t make it feel anymore real. Instead, it floats through my mind like a nightmare, like that night in the woods with the needle in my neck … “Why would your captor care about something like that?” The question is virtually rhetorical. I’ve already figured out the who part of this equation.
What I haven’t figured out is the why. Most especially, I haven’t been able to figure out the where.
Where are you, Parrish? Where, where, where?
Footsteps precede a male figure, dressed in a black sweater and slacks … and a black stag mask with what I’m pretty sure are real antlers attached. The man pulls a chair up in front of Parrish, blocking him from view.
“Hello princess,” he says as I swallow hard and try to remember how to breathe. “You must have a lot of questions.”
I just stare at the man, trying to place the sound of his voice. I’ve heard that voice before, I swear. But I’m either too addled to place it or it’s a voice that I’ve only heard in passing.
“You’re Justin,” I say, because even if that isn’t the case, I’m pretty sure that’s what this man wants me to think. “You’re my … bio dad.”
The man simply folds his hands in his lap, watching me through the macabre shape of the stag mask. There must be some symbolism to it that I’m not getting, but I’ll figure it out. Give me time, and I swear I will.
“That’s true,” he starts, his voice unflappable, almost eerily calm. Behind him, Parrish groans in pain, shifting so that I can hear the chair creak. “You’re a smart girl. Not a surprise considering we share DNA.”
There’s that stupid fucking word again. DNA. The bane of my existence. Unfortunately, at this point, I can’t run from it. I can’t hide. It is what it is. The only real question here is if this man is telling the truth about who he is.
“What do you want from me?” I ask, trying to bait this guy into giving me something that I can use against him. If I tell the police that Parrish is with Justin Prior, my bio dad, could they look him up? Could they find him before it’s too late? Then again, how do I know this really is Justin Prior? Could be a crazed fan, some psycho off the streets that’s obsessed with Tess’ work.
“You’ve done well so far,” he continues, as if I haven’t spoken. “You follow instructions, but you aren’t a slave to specificity. You know how to interpret things in their own way. That sort of initiative will serve you well in life; I can only hope that your trust in Kwang-seon McKenna isn’t misplaced.”
My blood chills, and goose bumps cover my arms and legs. How does Parrish’s captor know that Chasm knows? What the actual fuck? My eyes flick to the camera at the top of my phone. It’s possible, if this guy is even a remotely capable hacker, that he could’ve hacked in to watch me. The thought is almost too terrifying to consider.
“Why are you doing this?” I continue, because the longer I keep him talking, the more information I can absorb. The mask he’s wearing is so unique; could I trace it to its maker? What about his sweater or his pants, his shoes? Could I find them online, pinpoint them to a specific store?
“Mia, let me take a moment to explain the rules, just so we know that we’re on the same page. It’s important for parents to keep open lines of communication between themselves and their children.” He looks right at me, stares straight through that screen and into my eyes. There’s no recognition in me, no spark of long-forgotten memory, like with Tess’ perfume.
He may as well be any stranger off the street.
“You’re deranged,” I whisper, my hand shaking as I squeeze the phone so tight that my fingers start to cramp. “If you really are my father, why kidnap Parrish and not me?”
The man doesn’t seem perturbed by my insult. Instead, he smiles.
“I always keep my promises and honor my vows. I expect you to do the same. I will never lie to you, Mia. In exchange, all I ask is that you never lie to me either.” He relaxes back in the chair, crossing his legs and folding his hands over his knee. He’s wearing gloves, so I can’t see his hands. Unfortunate. A tattoo or a scar might’ve helped offer clues as to his true identity.
“Well then, how is this for honesty? I hate you.” It’s a childish thing to say, but I can’t help it. He wants the truth? There it is. Besides, if I piss him off enough, maybe I can trick him into giving more away.
