Antitype (7 page)

I can't look at her anymore. My heartbeat floods my ears, drowning out the sounds of passing conversations and boot steps. “And?”

“I'm sorry,” she whispers, then takes my hand. Her fingers are warm where they apply pressure. “They've diagnosed her with dissociative identity disorder. It's extremely rare.”

I give her a blank stare, trying to understand, while my heart begins a stuttered pound. “Dissa-what?”

“Multiple personality disorder.”

The compression building behind my eyes and throbbing at my temples is almost too much. “Oh my God.”

“It explains her lapses in memory. Why she'd be fine one minute and confused the next. Easily distracted. Daydreaming, even.” She squeezes my hand. “The prognosis isn't good.”

A tall figure stops beside us. Nate Updike stares at Sonya. “You told him?”

She nods. “What can I do?” she asks me.

She's sweet, and I wish I had an answer to that. To Nate, I ask, “Is there a way to get her out? Somewhere where I can make the decisions for her medical care? I don't want my dad in charge.”

“I can make some calls,” Sonya tells Nate. “With the right documents and signatures, we can get her moved fairly quickly.”

Updike nods. “Do it.”

With one last smile at me, Sonya leaves us alone.

“Thank you,” I tell Nate.

He frowns. “I wish I could do more. I'm sorry.” He claps my shoulder. “You look like you could use a drink. Come on.”

I follow him to his office, where he closes us inside a plain room with gray metal furnishings. Most are pretty battered and used. Hand-me-downs from however many generations. A single personal item hangs in a frame on the wall. A photo of a young woman holding a young girl. Both have dark hair and olive-toned skin.

Nate hands me a glass with a shot of clear alcohol. Vodka, according to the sharp smell. “I'm going to tell you something I don't share with a lot of people,” he says, then props a hip on the front of his desk. He nods at the photo. “I do this for them.”

“Wife and daughter?” I guess.

He nods. “Angela and Whitney. Whit was only three when that was taken.” A black cloud passes over his eyes and seeps down into his body, turning him rigid. “A couple months after I took that picture, they were killed fighting men hired to capture fertile women and return them to the east for breeding.” His eyes pinch shut. “I wasn't there, and I can only imagine how hard Angela fought back after seeing—” His chin lowers; his lips pout. “Anyway. I joined up right after that.”

He looks up to where I stand in stunned silence. “Joining the resistance wasn't casual dinner conversation. It isn't for a lot of us. We're all driven by the same intense need to protect. To do something good. To do something that matters. We just have different stories. Some worse than others.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you're one of us, whether you choose to believe that or not. But I was wrong to try pushing you into this. I need you in the game one hundred percent, and you won't be if you're still hung up on family obligations. So take all the time you need.” He taps his glass to mine and swallows his shot. “We'll still be here for you when you're ready.”

Declan

Dad claps and shakes my shoulder. “Happy birthday, son.”

The living room and outside patio fill with raised glasses and birthday wishes. My cheeks warm, but I nod and smile. “Thanks, Dad.”

The party resumes, conversations picking up where they left off.

“Do you like your present?” Dad asks.

I look at the set of sculptures. An abstract family carved into stone. Granite from the look of it. One is a husband, the other a mother with child. They're extremely heavy, and not exactly the trip to Italy I'd hoped he'd sanction today. I've done everything he's asked and more.

I lift the mother half of the sculpture and turn her over in my hands. “They're gr—”

The bottom-heavy rock falls from my hands and shatters the glass table, startling the room. Shards scatter all over the carpet. I bend quickly to pick up the sculpture and nick my middle finger.

Dad retrieves and inspects the stone, while I apply pressure to my small cut with my thumb. With the lift of his brows, lines crease from one temple to the other. “Well, that was money well spent. Not a scratch.”

“Sorry about the table,” I say, moving for the housekeeper.

“Doesn't matter.” Dad pulls me aside and sets the stone on another table. A waitress passes by with champagne flutes and he takes two. “To you, and the performance you gave me over the summer.”

Tension flowers open in my chest and breathes in relief. I smile. “Thank you.”

“I have to admit, I didn't expect you to do so well.”

“Despite what you think, I've actually paid attention over the years.”

He holds up a hand, palm facing me, his mouth set in a line. “I didn't expect Jacob to do so well either.”

It's as if I've dropped the second sculpture right into my stomach. “You're actually considering . . . Dad,” I gust out on a breath.

What am I doing? Fighting for a company I don't want? Because this no longer feels like fighting to keep Jacob out of it. I killed myself this summer to prove my worth. For my father. A man lost his restaurant. Jacob and I sacrificed what little of our friendship there was to lose.

Dad sighs and glances around. He lowers his voice to say, “You're the man I wanted. But Jacob's the man I want. I'm sorry, son.”

He pats my arm and shoulders past me.

I can't move. Can't breathe. I'm an iceberg breaking from a centuries-old home in a calm sea. My arm falls and my fingers let loose the full glass of champagne. The flute
thunks
on the carpet.

I lost everything.

Mitch appears to my right, thick brows pinched. “He didn't choose you, did he?”

I shake my head, my jaw clenched too tight to respond any other way. My body temperature rises and my tense muscles vibrate more with every passing second. I need to sink my fist into something solid.

Mitch glances around the room. “You know what would make you feel better?”

“Jacob,” I say, following his train of thought. I have frustrations like I've never experienced before, and I know just where they should land. That motherfucker played dirty. Why shouldn't I, now that I have nothing left to protect? “Where is he?”

Ella appears behind Mitch, apparently having heard every word. “I saw him go upstairs right before the toast.”

Mitch slaps my shoulder and nods toward the staircase. “Give him a good welcome-to-the-company greeting for both of us. Unless you want some help?”

“Fuck no. He's mine.”

He nods. “Want us to pack you a bag or anything? You'll need to leave right after. You can stay with us.”

“No, but I might take you up on that offer. Dad's going to kick me out for this.”

Ella smiles. “You're welcome to stay as long as you need.”

“Go,” Mitch says. “Enjoy.”

Several guests try stopping me with birthday wishes as I walk past, but my rage is too focused. I can't hear anything other than the heartbeat thrumming past my ears. I think Dad calls my name, but I can't be sure.

I don't remember making it up the stairs, or how many steps I take down the hallway until sounds finally start to register. Familiar sounds. It's the ball all over again. Muffled cries. Sobbed pleas. Cursed threats.

Each step forward lengthens in stride until I'm running into
my
home office.
My
personal space. The last thing I expect to ever see behind that door is a woman bent over
my
desk. She's one of the waitresses from downstairs, her little red dress hiked up to her waist. Black eyeliner smudges her tear-stained cheeks. Blood leaks from the corner of her mouth.

And Jacob . . . He's raping her.

I'm too late this time.

“Help me,” she cries, waking me up.

The rage burning inside me doubles. Triples. The room blurs as my attention zeroes in on the bastard whom I can't allow into
my
company. I won't let him tarnish
my
name.
My
reputation.

Jacob doesn't see me until it's too late. I yank him away from the girl by the hair. She yelps and I'm vaguely aware that I'm yelling at her to get out. To find Mitch. He'll take care of her. He's the only one I trust.

Jacob fumbles with his pants. His freckled skin flushes.

“What the fuck do you think you're doing?” I say through clenched teeth.

“Just having a little fun.” He laughs, but he's incapable of fully smiling. His gaze flicks between my fist and my face. “Come on, Dec. You aren't that mad, are you?”

His victim's expression throbs in my mind, and her cries already haunt this room. A little fun. I inch closer to him, and he takes equal steps away. “You have no idea the damage you've done, do you? The damage you're capable of doing long after you've finished yourself off.”

“What are you—?”

“I warned you.” The calm in my tone sends an icy layer of warning around the room. “I warned you not to fuck with my family name.”

My fingers wrap around the nearest thing. The snow globe is one of the few things Jacob didn't manage to throw off the desk in his pursuit of the waitress. My mother gave it to me when I was very young and used to tell me stories of the family who lived in the glass house on the side of the mountain buried in snow. Then we'd shake it and watch the flakes float like wishes.

Jacob holds up his hands in defense. “Come on, Dec. Those girls know what to—”

“I hate that nickname,” I grit out.

Realization clicks on behind his eyes. “Oh, I get it. This isn't about the whore. You're pissed about losing your place next to Daddy's side.” He belts out a laugh. “Don't worry. You won't have to go too far from home. I'll need a cook in my kitchen.”

I swing and the globe smacks him in the temple. He falls with a
thump
and I go after him, swinging again and again and again. I swing for every girl he's defiled. For every life he's screwed over on his way to the top. For stealing what is mine. I swing until pooling blood and broken bone turn him into an unrecognizable mass. I swing until my face is dotted red. I swing until . . .

He's dead.

The thought penetrates the haze of rage driving my arm. Mitch's yells break through my subconscious. Ella sobs in the doorway. I blink at them and the room sways back into a dizzying focus. I look at the bloody remains of Jacob Donnelly and choke on the bile burning the back of my throat.

“What did you do?” Mitch yells, his eyes wide. He stands over the body, gripping the hair at his temples. “What the hell did you do?”

I feel both sick and outside myself. The last two minutes reel through my mind like a choppy 2-D movie, begging me to declare it unreal. To pretend it away. But Jacob's body won't allow it. His last act of defiance.

I clear my throat. “He was . . . He was . . .”

“Does it matter?” Mitch fists my shirt and forces me to my feet. He shakes me once before setting me loose. “You killed him!”

He spins and points at his wife. “Go home. Now. Don't say a word to anyone.”

She flees as if scared for her life. As if I would harm a single hair on her head.

Of course she's scared. She's a witness.

I jam the heels of my hands into my eyes until white spots appear. Mitch and Ella are witnesses to a murder. A murder I committed. I'll go to prison.

What have I done?

I grab Mitch by his black leather jacket. “You have to help me. I didn't mean—”

“Are you insane? You killed Jacob. You can't ask me to help you cover that up.” He leans away, eyes narrow and glaring. He shoves me off. Takes two steps away. “I don't even know who you are anymore.”

I throw the globe at the wall. The glass shatters and water floods the carpet. “You didn't see what he was doing, Mitch.”

“Rape isn't justification for murder.”

“Is that what you'll tell your future clients, or will you follow in Abel's footsteps? You can't make these judgments about me. You'll spend every day defending men worse than me.”

He stumbles back as if my words have punched him. “I've yet to be tested. I can still get in, get what I need, and get out unscathed. I can get out with my soul intact and be a man my son can be proud of. Can you say the same?” He shakes his head. “It's too late for you.”

Dad appears in the doorway. “What's going—?”

Mitch turns. “Call a lawyer. He's going to need it.”

He shoulders past my speechless dad, who lifts his gaze from the body on the floor to me.

Panic tightens my chest. He'll never help me out of this, will he? I killed the one man he wanted for the job. “Dad, he was raping a waitress. He would have made you look like a fool. You can't let me go down for this. I was protecting our company. Our reputation. Our name.”

I'm still stuttering over reasons why he has to help me when he walks in and closes the door. “Declan. Son, calm down. Who else saw this?”

“Just Mitch and Ella.”

He nods and stares at the spot where the remains of the snow globe lie in pieces. “We can fix this.”

“You can't hurt them,” I say instantly, my heart jumping at the idea. No matter what Mitch said, I still love him like a brother.

Dad waves a hand. “I'll just offer him a nice sum of money to keep quiet.” He watches me from the corner of his eye. He's eerily calm, and now I understand the lengths my father has gone to in the past. The lengths he'll continue to go to.

I want to be sick. I drop to the floor in front of the desk.

“You think he'll accept?” he asks.

“Yes,” I respond in a gravelly voice.

Mitch will definitely accept if it means he won't have to depend on his father's generosity after law school. He'll take the money if it's the only dishonest thing he has to do in order to provide for his family. And maybe, just maybe, a small part of him will do it to protect me.

“I'm going to make a couple calls,” Dad says. “Go wash up and return to the party before anyone starts asking questions.” He points to the door. “And lock up tight. No one gets in.”

He pauses just outside the door and smiles in at me. “I'm proud of you, boy. Damn proud.”

He walks out, leaving me alone with what I've done. A sob chokes my throat. I wanted his approval, but not at this expense.

What have I done?

 • • • 

Dad hands me a glass. “Bourbon. For the nerves.”

I look up from the patio chair and accept the glass. It's full dark now. The guests have gone, and the “cleaner” Dad hired . . . Well, he cleaned. Jacob will disappear and no one will ever know how or why.

Dad sits beside me and nods at the cell phone I tap against my thigh. “Planning to call someone?”

He wonders if I plan to turn myself in, but I'm not that stupid. I've gotten away with murdering the man worming his way into my life. I just don't know if the price was worth it. “Mitch won't accept my calls.”

“The money transferred hands hours ago. He and his wife have signed an agreement saying they won't talk.”

I swallow the bourbon in one gulp, then lean forward, bracing against my knees. “He was my best friend. He'll never talk to me again.”

“A small sacrifice.”

I scowl at him. “Not a small one. Not by any means.”

He stares back with that calm expression from before, and I realize he's calculating. He's good at it. “What will you do now?”

I sit back with a sigh, dragging my hand through my hair. “Accept the consequences.” I throw my phone beside my empty glass on the table. The alcohol is already burning through my stomach. “Thank you for what you did.”

“You're my son.”

I tap my fingers on the arm of the chair. “Am I? Or did you go through with the disinheritance while speaking with your lawyer today?”

“Why?”

I look at him. “I want in. If you'll have me. I think I even wanted it before this afternoon happened. I killed Jacob because he threatened to taint the legacy you've been trying to hand down to me. I was selfish to think I could want anything less.”

Dad smiles and reaches a hand out for me to shake. “I knew you'd pass the test.”

I shake his hand on automatic, but cold dread seeps into my bones. A few hours ago, I thought I understood the lengths he'd go to.

I was wrong.

 • • • 

I pace the patio and dial Mitch for the hundredth time. The day is too hot, and I could go inside, but Dad's in there somewhere. I want to speak to Mitch in private. Tell him how my dad played me. How he planned for me to go after Jacob. How Dad probably picked the girl out for him, using very precise words to make Jacob think raping the girl was what men like us do.
It's what these girls expect. What they're paid for.
The timing was just too perfect.