Blackbird (A Stepbrother Romance #1)(12)

A sob chokes out of my throat.

There’s a few other pictures. Victor took a picture of me with my first roommate. Brennan, that was her name. Jennifer Brennan. I run my finger over the plastic covering the photo and wonder whatever happened to her. We were cordial, never friends. Jennifer was a strange one, even more shy and awkward than I was and she had a terrible phobia of anyone seeing her naked that made living in a small rectangular room with her rather difficult at times.

There’s a picture of her boyfriend in here, too. What as his name? Francis, I think. It started with an F. Nice guy. I never kept in touch with Jennifer. If I called her tonight, would she have any idea who I am? Probably not. Nor would my second year roommate. I remember her; Christine Moore. I can’t remember his name, but her boyfriend was pre-med and they were inseparable. I tap the picture of Christine a few times. I know what happened to her, I remember seeing it on the news, now. She went missing in Las Vegas a few years ago. I remember her mother weeping on the news.

Christine was a sweet girl. A little weird, but very kind. She didn’t deserve whatever happened to her.

Another turn of the page. I roomed alone in my last year, at least officially.

Unofficially, Vic was living with me.

If my father found this album, he’d burn it. Thankfully he doesn’t bother to go through my things.

One of the last pictures shows me sleeping. I’m lying on my side, and if my bare shoulder isn’t hint enough, I know I’m naked under the blankets. There’s a small, secret smile on my face. A hand reaches from behind the camera. It’s Victor’s soft touch on my cheek that makes me smile in my sleep. I remember that night.

How did it come to this?

I slam the book closed, surge over to the shelf and shove it back in its space. Quickly, I dress in pajamas and storm out of the room. The house is dark, empty. I don’t know where I’m going except that I can’t stay in that room anymore. I pace up and down the hall, and the portraits on the walls stare at me. The Amsels are an old family. It was their custom to have a portrait painted of the family patriarch in the prime of his life. The last one is Victor’s father. I can’t meet his eyes, even if they’re only canvas. As I pace back the eyes weigh on my neck, cracked painted gazes burning me with recrimination. This is not my place. I do not belong here.

I don’t belong anywhere.

The office. The door swings open. Not my office, the old one. It’s huge, and has the highest ceiling of any room on the second floor, almost twelve feet. It actually pokes up into the attic. A ladder from the floor leads up to a walk around, just wide enough for one person. The entire top half of the room is bookcases, except for a door that heads up to the huge cupola that sits in the center of the roof. There’s a widow’s walk up there, too. Victor showed me once when he still lived here, and during the summers we would use it as a place to sneak away for a while and hide. The office itself is beautiful, with a real person carpet and a massive battleship of a mahogany desk, so long and wide it would make a fine bed if someone wanted to sleep on it.

For the most part, the room is untouched. After Victor’s father died, his mother essentially kept it as a shrine to him, right down to the stack of papers he was working on the day he was killed. Victor treated this like a holy place. He used to come in here and brood, never touch anything, just sit in his father’s chair and stare at the desk as if it held some kind of an answer for him. I never asked him what he was thinking about.

I think I know.

The shelves feel like they’re going to topple in, dump their contents on my head and crush me. I rush back out into the hall, down to the stairs and though to the foyer. I could run outside but I hate those f*cking dogs.

I end up in the kitchen, fixing myself a sandwich. Then Alicia walks in.

I blink a few times.

“What are you doing here?”

She flinches, and immediately turns to leave.

“Wait. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Oh. Your father caught me as I was leaving and told me to make sure….” She trails off. “Oh my God. What happened?”

It’s like an electric shock.

“Nothing. I fell down. Slipped in the shower. Tired.”

She eyes me with a neutral expression.

“If you say so.”

“What time is it?”

“Nine thirty.”

“You should be home by now. Your kids.”

She looks genuinely confused. I can see the response even if she’s terrified to say it. What do you care?

“Have you eaten?”

Alicia eyes me. “No, I haven’t.”

“Want something?”

She looks at me like I just sprouted a second head.

“I…” she looks around, and actually hugs herself.

“I could stay for a minute,” she says, quickly.

She moves to the fridge, but I shoo her away. I put the sandwich I was fixing myself in front of her and make my own, sit down at the table and take a small bite. I don’t make very good sandwiches. I probably should have put some mayonnaise on the bread or something, but I can’t find it.

“Are you alright?”

Her question startles me. Her reaction is instantaneous. Her mouth clicks shut and she looks down.

“No. I’m not.”

“You were upset this afternoon.”