Echo (Black Lotus #2)(13)

It was in that moment, with that elderly lady who seemed to have answers to questions I had yet to discover, where I made a choice. I thought I had nothing left to lose, but that wasn’t fact. You see, somewhere deep inside of me was that five-year-old girl. She held the identity I lost so long ago, and I wanted it back.

“Elizabeth,” I tell her. “And I’m not quite sure how long I’ll be staying.”

“Well, Elizabeth, it’s nice to have you here. I won’t take up any more of your time. If you need anything, please let me know, okay?”

“Thank you.”

I take my tea and head upstairs to my room to unpack and freshen up. After I’m dressed and have settled my belongings in their proper places, I look at myself in the easel mirror that’s set in the corner of the room. Ivory slacks, taupe cashmere sweater, nude pumps. Clothes I acquired while living my con. They scream Nina, but I’m at a loss as to what is Elizabeth. Who is she really? It’s been so long since I’ve been her. I feel like I left her that fated day when my father was arrested. I’ve lived most of my life in a tomb, hiding from the afflictions of this world, until I became Nina.

And now, I’m a hollow illusion—a druxy dressed in gossamer.

I tuck a lock of my wavy red hair behind my ear before grabbing my keys.

With the address to Brunswickhill punched into the car’s navigation, I follow the highlighted route that weaves me through the narrow streets up a winding hill. It doesn’t take long to hit Abbotsford Road, and I know I’m close.

But not to him, only to his ghost.

My eyes sting with unshed tears as I round the bend and see the green sign on the stone gate wall that reads Brunswickhill. I’m locked on the sign as my chin trembles and my soul bleeds from the inside, filling me with the poison I feed from.

It’s real.

This place—the place he wanted to give me—it’s really real.

Pulling the car off the side of the road, I don’t realize how tightly my fingers are wrapped around the steering wheel until I let go and feel the ache. When I step out of the car in front of the wrought iron gate that hides my could-have-been palace, the phantom of death hangs over me.

Loss is consuming.

Emptiness is overwhelming.

Sadness is everlasting.

My feet move on their own—closer. I breathe deeply, praying for the scent of him to fill my lungs that don’t deserve it, but crave it. It’s nothing but sharp ice though. Frigid as my hands grip the cold metal of the gate, tears begin to fall from my already-swollen eyes.

The fissures of my heart begin to rip and shred—burning, stinging, piercing agony erupting. My knuckles whiten as my grip strengthens, and the misery and regret explode in a vile rage. Jerking my hands, shaking the gates, I lose myself in a maniacal outburst. I scream into the bleak clouds, scream so hard it feels like razors slicing through my larynx, and I welcome the pain, pleading for it to cut more deeply.

Slamming the gate back and forth, metal clanging, ice severing my flesh, I sob. I make it hurt coming out. Bitterly cold tears stain my face as my body takes on a life of its own.

I want him back.

How hard do I have to cry to get him back?

Why did this happen to me? To him? To us?

I just want him back.

“Come back!” My voice, shrilling in the air. “Please! Just come back!”

Thrashing around, drowning in wails, my body tires. My hands are frozen, continuing to cling to the bars of the gate as I fall to my knees. I feel my core chipping away while my body heaves. Desperate to catch my breath against my pounding heart, I close my eyes and lean against the wrought iron. Soon, my deep gasps turn into childlike, desolate whimpers.

I just want someone to hold me. To touch me and tell me it’s going to be okay. That I’m going to be okay. I want my brother, my daddy, my love—I’ll take anyone just to get some relief. So I sit here on the cold concrete and cry—alone.

Snow drifts down, weightlessly, falling over me as time passes. The whistling wind through the trees awakens me to the dropping temperatures, and I don’t even know how long I’ve been sitting here when I look up and through the gates. Wiping my tears, I stammer to my feet and try to get a better look at the property, but it’s hidden behind the trees. On the other side of the gate, the drive winds up a hill and through a mass of snow-covered trees, and beyond that is a mystery.

But I know.

He told me all about the house, the grounds, the flowers, the glass conservatory.

I look around to find a way in, but the gates and stone wall are nearly nine feet high, and there’s no way of climbing over.

What’s the point anyway? It’s not like anything’s waiting for me on the other side. I’m not even sure why I’m still here, and when I look down at my reddened, almost maroon hands, bloodied from the ice cuts, I know it’s time to go.



“DEAR, ARE YOU all right?”

“Just slipped on some ice while shopping,” I lie as Isla notices my dirty, wet slacks from where I spent most of the day sitting on the snowy ground. I know I look ghastly, and the part of me that’s trained itself well wants to poise up, but the weakness in me begs to slump its shoulders and take the embrace I know Isla would be willing to give. I don’t know which way to go.

“You’re a terrible liar, lassie,” she says as she takes my hand and leads me over to the dining room table and sits me down.