Exposed (Madame X, #2)(86)

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The memory is so visceral that I can smell the eggs, and her perfume, the salt of the sea, hear the seagulls and the boat horn. Tears slide down my cheek, and I hide them by ducking over the bowl as I finish whipping the eggs. I pour the beaten eggs into the pan, and the bubbling hiss makes the memory roar through me, making me feel as if making these eggs somehow connects me to my mother. A simple but powerful thing.

I add a generous amount of cheese as I fold and stir the eggs, soaking in the memory of Mama, eggs, and a breakfast by the sea.

The toast pops, and I spread butter thickly onto the squares of toasted bread. When the eggs are cooked, I slide them onto a plate, pile the toast onto the plate, retrieve the still-steaming mug of tea from the table, and take my breakfast to the couch. I am careful to make sure the sheet remains tucked around me, keeping me covered.

You watch from the kitchen, anger boiling in your gaze. I ignore you and eat my breakfast.

As I eat, I remember the note I saw beside Logan’s laptop.

When I finish, I set the plate on the coffee table and lean back on the couch, sipping at the tea. “Caleb?”

You saunter toward me. Take a seat on the Louis XIV armchair, cross one ankle over your knee, drum fingertips against the armrests. “Yes, X?”

You are trying to rile me, and it won’t work. “Who is Jakob Kasparek?”

You pale, your eyes widen, your lips thin. You cease breathing. “Where—where did you hear that name?”

“Who is Jakob Kasparek?” I repeat.

A hesitation. “No one. I’ve never heard of him.”

I eye you across the rim of my teacup. “Liar.”

“X—”

“Tell me the truth, Caleb.” I am proud of how even my voice is.

“I told you—”

“Lies, you bastard! You’ve told me nothing but f*cking lies!” I lean forward, shouting. “TELL ME THE TRUTH!”

You seem rocked by my spittle-spraying scream.

I feel feral. Violent. “Just tell me the goddamn truth. Tell me what happened to me. Tell me who you are. Tell me how long I was in the coma. Tell me what year the accident happened. Admit there was no mugger. Tell me—just—just f*cking tell me, Caleb!” I sob the last part. “I need to know. Why do you feel like you own me? Why can’t you let me go? Where is Logan?”

You shoot to your feet. “You sit there demanding answers. But I owe you nothing. Nothing!” You stalk toward the door.

I hurl the teacup at you, tea dregs spraying across the room. The delicate porcelain smashes against the door beside your face, and you halt, spinning in place.

“Are you crazy? You could have hit me!”

“I was aiming for you, you f*cking *.” I clutch the sheet to my chest. Stand behind you, seething. “Who . . . the f*ck . . . is Jakob Kasparek? Because Caleb? That’s who signed me out of the hospital, not Caleb Indigo.”

Your shoulders slump. “Fine. I’ll tell you.” A glance at me. “But go put on some clothing.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Start talking.” I fear that if I leave for a moment, you’ll be gone and the door will be locked and I’ll be a prisoner all over again.

You perhaps understand me better than I thought. You vanish into my room—my former room—and return with underwear and a matching bra, a dress, and heels. You hand it to me and wait expectantly.

I stare at you. “Turn around. I’m not changing in front of you.”

You just blink at me. “Seriously? After all we’ve—”

“After all you’ve done to me, you mean? Yes. Seriously. I’m not yours. You don’t get to watch me dress anymore.”

With a sigh, as if to protest the ridiculousness of the situation, you turn in place. I dress quickly, hating the uncomfortable, confining lingerie and the modest, formal dress. I ignore the high heels. Grip the front of the dress at the bodice and rip it open down the center an inch or two, so it gapes open, revealing a bit more cleavage. And then grip the sleeve on one side and rip. The delicate seam parts easily, leaving my arm bare. I do the same to the other side. I smile. Much better.

You turn around. “What the hell did you do? That was a ten-thousand-dollar dress custom made for you.”

“I do not care, Caleb. I will not dress in your clothing, I will no longer look how you wish me to look.”

“And your hair—”

“You don’t get a say.”

You sigh. “Fine.” You sit once more in the Louis XIV chair. Hook a knee over the other. “What do you want to know?”

“Who is Jakob Kasparek?”

A silence. You stare past me. Your expression softens; your gaze goes distant.

“Me.”