The Golden Hour Page 7

  It was always supposed to be Callisto.

  “That’s why you dropped your last name,” muses Molly, pulling me from my thoughts. “You’ve been angling for this for a long time, haven’t you?”

  Definitely a witch.

  “Yes,” I admit.

  To the world of high-end fashion photography, I’m known by my first and middle names: Finn Reid. Very few people know my real last name; outside of family members, I can count them on one hand. Callisto is now included in that number, but I can’t dwell on it. I have to believe she wants the same thing I do. The end of the Avellinos.

  If she doesn’t? whispers my inner pessimist.

  I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

  “Don’t hurt her, Finn,” Molly says softly. “She’s on our side.”

  “I’ll try.” Giving her hands a final squeeze, I stand. “I need to head to the motel and pack. I’ll see you in the morning. Around seven?”

  She nods. “Sounds good.”

  I hesitate at the front door, looking back. “We’re not telling Mom, are we?”

  Molly’s eyes shimmer with conflict, but she shakes her head. “She won’t understand.”

  I smile wryly. “No, she won’t. Goodnight, Aunt Mol.”

  “Goodnight, Finn.”

  The air outside is frigid and still. With the lack of light pollution, the stars above show their true faces, multicolored and shimmering behind the gauze of Earth’s atmosphere.

  My mom loved astronomy and Greek mythology.

  Although I don’t know much about astronomy or mythology, I can still easily spot what I’m looking for.

  Ursa Major. More commonly known as the Big Dipper. But to the Greeks, it wasn’t a big-ass cup that kids imagined a giant hand wielding. It was the Great Bear. And before it was the Great Bear, it was a woman named Callisto.

  A virginal nymph sworn to Artemis, Callisto caught the eye of randy Zeus. The god tricked her, seduced her, impregnated her, then wiped his hands of the crime. For her trouble, Callisto was turned into a bear. For years, she roamed alone in the wilderness, but one day her grown son came upon her while hunting. Before the son could kill his mother-turned-bear or vice versa, some benevolent deity acted and placed Callisto in the sky.

  There she remains, safe from the vile deeds of men and god alike, untarnished by time or fear.

  And utterly alone.

  15

  I hear familiar voices inside the kitchen. My heart swells with the need to race inside to see my sisters, but some instinct makes me pause outside. As I listen to the conversation, nerves tickle my throat and shorten my breath.

  Six years is a long time, and the kids I remember are women now, twenty-two and nineteen years old. Vivian said Ellie is at UCLA, and Lizzie would have graduated high school last year.

  “It’s weird, is all.” Ellie’s voice, drawling and dismissive.

  “Who cares?” asks a higher, smoother voice. Lizzie. “I can’t wait to see her. I wonder if she’s changed. Does she look different, Mom?”

  “Not especially,” Vivian answers, sounding as bored as Ellie. “And given her lateness for breakfast, she hasn’t changed much, either.”

  Back from the dead and nothing’s changed. The insult is so familiar it triggers nostalgia. I’ve never been a morning person, and Vivian has never wasted a chance to demean me for it.

  A maid leaves the kitchen, turning the corner with quick steps, and yelps when we nearly collide.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say quickly, stepping out of her way.

  Selina, wide-eyed, whispers, “Forgive me.”

  Before I can tell her that’s ridiculous, that it was my fault, Vivian’s voice rings out, “Callisto, is that you?”

  “Here goes nothing,” I whisper, then call out, “Yes, coming!”

  Selina mouths, “Good luck,” and scurries past me.

  I glance after her, bemused, and when I turn back around, a slender form barrels into me.

  “Holy shit, I’m so glad you’re alive,” Lizzie cries with a half sob, half laugh.

  “Language!” snaps Vivian.

  I hug Lizzie back, pressing my face into her honey-blond hair. She smells the same—like the fruity lotion she loves. Tears prick like hot needles behind my eyelids as memories race through me. All the happy times with my siblings I’ve worked so hard to forget. Mud pies, skinned knees, and hide-and-go-seek. And later, staying up to all hours braiding each other’s hair, painting our nails, and cutting up magazines to make dream boards.

  Opening my eyes, I look over Lizzie’s shoulder and meet Ellie’s hard, sea-green gaze. Standing next to her mother with her arms crossed, she looks about as happy to see me as a hangnail.

  As the closest in age, we’ve always had a complex relationship. But it changed at puberty when Ellie decided I wasn’t her friend but her competition—a betrayal of our bond I never understood. She was always brighter, bolder, and more beautiful. The crown jewel of the family, while I was ever on the outside, the sister who didn’t belong. While we’ve enjoyed periods of renewed closeness—especially when her first boyfriend broke her heart in high school—a thread of tension lives between us that doesn’t exist between me and Lizzie.

  Still, when Lizzie releases me, I walk to Ellie and hug her hard. Slowly, her body loses tension and her arms lift to return my embrace. It’s lackluster compared to Lizzie’s, but it’s something.

  “It’s so good to see you,” I tell her, leaning back to see that her eyes have somewhat thawed.

  “You too,” she says, then sniffs and looks at Vivian. “Like I said earlier, I can’t stay. I have a paper to write.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but Vivian speaks first. “Very well. Will you be here for Thursday dinner?”

  “I have to check my schedule—”

  “Eleanor.”

  Lizzie snorts, which earns her a sharp glance from Vivian.

  Ellie rolls her eyes. “Fine, I’ll be here.”

  “And don’t forget about the garden party on Saturday.”

  “How could I,” she mutters, then swipes her cell phone and purse from the counter, leaving her half-eaten breakfast on the table. With the barest glance in my direction and a tight smile, she rushes from the room.

  As I watch her go, Lizzie slips her arm around my waist.

  “She hates surprises, same as always,” she murmurs.

  I nod, smiling for her benefit even though there’s an ache in my chest.

  “Eat something, Callisto,” Vivian tells me, “then come to my office, please.”

  I nod, and she leaves.

  Lizzie giggles, her hazel eyes sparkling. “At least she said ‘please,’ right? She says it more nowadays. I think the whole I want to be governor thing has been good for her. There’s this lady who comes once a week. Super posh but so nice. She’s giving Mom lessons on how to be more appealing to voters.”

  Lizzie chatters on as she finishes her breakfast and I eat mine, filling me in on a host of mundane facts about her life, Ellie’s life, and Vivian’s new venture. She lets me finish my oatmeal before asking about the elephant in the room.

  “So, what happened?”

  I set down my spoon, acknowledging that it was only a matter of time. Lizzie has never been one to beat around the bush.

  “I don’t know who took me,” I start, careful to keep my face neutral and my eyes guileless. “One minute I was asleep in my dorm, and the next thing I knew, I was blindfolded in the trunk of a car. After that, it’s kind of a blur. They must have sedated me, because I don’t remember much of the next few weeks other than being in an empty basement that was locked from the outside.”

  “They?” She swallows. “Was it two men?”

  At the horror on her face, I say quickly, “Nothing bad happened to me—not like that, anyway. And I think it was two. Honestly, it’s such a mess in my head. I heard different voices, but sometimes I thought it was one person trying to trick me.”

  “You must have been terrif
ied.”

  Thinking of nights I spent on the street when I ran out of money the first year, and the shock of suddenly being no one with nothing, I nod.

  “Then you escaped.” Lizzie says it proudly, with a gleam that tells me she expected nothing less. I quell a surge of guilt.

  “Not exactly. I don’t know what changed, but one night they blindfolded me again and drove me somewhere. They dragged me out of the car and made me kneel, then there was nothing. Just blackness. I woke up the next day in a field with blood on the back of my head and no memory.”

  “Oh my God! What did you do?”

  “I walked until I found a house. A shack, really. The woman who lived there didn’t speak English, but she was kind to me. She patched me up and fed me, then gave me money for a bus ticket to Sacramento. That was over five years ago.”

  Lizzie blinks huge eyes. “That’s insane.”

  You have no idea.

  “I know. I’m still a bit in shock, honestly. The last six years seem surreal, like they happened to someone else. I can’t believe I’m back.”

  Her mouth hangs open. “You didn’t remember anything at all? Why didn’t you go to the hospital? The police? Did you ever think someone might be looking for you or want you to come home?”

  The rapid-fire questions are underlaid with hurt. But she wants an answer I can’t give—one that could make her hate me. That I chose to stay away. That I abandoned her willingly.

  Shifting in my seat, I look out the nearby window at the groomed backyard. “I don’t really know, Lizzie,” I say at length. “All I remembered was that I had to hide because people were after me.”

  “But… but what did you do? How did you live?”

  I’m struck suddenly by how young she is. How young I was when I left. Raised in the lap of luxury, the notion of being homeless and penniless is as foreign to Lizzie as flying to Bora Bora in a private jet is to the general population. Echoes of my old self, the limitations of my pampered mindset, hit me anew.

  “I scraped by,” I tell her honestly. “Worked odd jobs for people who didn’t care about taxes or valid ID. And I kept moving, every few months. Eventually I had enough saved to rent a room from a coworker near Seattle. I saved more, and a few years ago, bought a car.” My lips tilt sardonically. “You’d be surprised by how much you can do as a young white woman, past or no past.”

  She shakes her head. “I can’t imagine.”

  “I know.” Reaching across the table, I grab her hand. “And I hope to God you’ll never find out.”

  Lizzie shudders, a shadow crossing her face. My shadow. That of my presumed death, long absence, and return. For better or worse, the shadow of my choices—present, past, and future—stains us all.

  16

  “You always were one for tall tales, Callisto, but this is beyond the pale.”

  Vivian doesn’t look at me as she speaks, her gaze trained on a sleek computer monitor. The three-carat diamond studs in her ears wink in the sunlight streaming through the windows behind her.

  She looks exactly the same. Better, even, thanks to surgical magic. I’m pretty sure she used to have a few wrinkles, especially around her mouth from all the scowling she did. Now her skin is pillowy and pore-less, radiant with purchased youth.

  “It’s not a tall tale,” I say, my exhaustion unfeigned. “Far-fetched, I’ll admit that. But it’s true.”

  Sharp green eyes avert from the screen and affix to my face. “You expect me to believe you had amnesia for close to five years, then poof, three months ago, you started remembering your life? Then, instead of giving me a damn phone call, you stayed away because you were afraid of how your return would affect the girls?”

  The less you say, the easier the lie.

  I nod placidly, confirming the version of events I’ve tailored specifically to her. I want her to believe protecting my sisters is my highest priority—not hard, because it’s true. I didn’t mention Ellie or Lizzie to the detective, of course. Vivian would consider that a violation of the family’s privacy.

  “Suppose I do believe you… then tell me, what made you come back? And why the hell did you go to the police instead of coming here?”

  I swallow a sigh. “The short answer is I missed my family. The long answer…” I pause, meeting her gaze directly. “I saw that you were running for governor and realized I could help you. That my story could. Maybe I finally remembered the last piece of myself—the legacy of my father. Ambition and service to the family.”

  Vivian watches me, motionless and expressionless. Expecting me to balk, maybe, or change my story. But right now, I’m not afraid of her. I have something she wants—a connection to voters she’ll never have. I read the news on my phone this morning. I’m all over it, an innocent victim of tragedy risen from the ashes. A princess who forgot herself and spent years as a penniless pauper.

  God, I hate the press. Especially since the family’s desired spin on the story is already apparent. But if they want me to be a bridge between the classes, that’s fine by me. I’m going to make Vivian jump off the highest point.

  The thought crosses my mind that the game I’m playing might consume me right along with her, that I’m swimming in morally ambiguous waters, but potential victory outweighs the costs.

  Maybe this is what Finn has felt for years, this single-minded focus on an end goal.

  I can’t think of my sisters. Won’t.

  Eventually Vivian relaxes in her chair, though her gaze cuts as it rakes me from head to toe. Then she reaches for her cell phone.

  “You’re going shopping,” she tells me as she types out a text message. “Casual, accessible style, but quality. A full formal wardrobe as well.” She glances up. “Please tell me you don’t have tattoos or have forgotten how to walk in heels.”

  “I don’t. And haven’t.”

  “Good.” She puts down the phone. “My stylist will be here in two hours. He’ll schedule private fittings so the bloodhounds won’t pick up your scent. You heard me mention a garden party?”

  I nod, nerves glimmering inside me. I hadn’t expected my first public appearance—and test—to be so soon.

  “Saturday at two. You’ll be expected to make an impression. Can you handle that?”

  “Of course. Will I be briefed on the attendees prior? I’d like to be given priority targets.”

  Her surprise is swiftly concealed. “That can be arranged.”

  I nod. “Is that all?”

  “Family dinner tomorrow at six sharp. I’ve told your uncles to give you space until then. I figured you’d want some time to reacclimate before the reunion.”

  Caught off guard by the unexpected thoughtfulness, I stand. “I appreciate that. And thank you, Vivian.”

  This time, surprise lifts her brows. “For what?”

  I smile even as my insides kick with revulsion. “For being a mother to me.”

  She freezes, hand halfway extended to her phone. Sparing her the effort of a reply, I head for the door.

  “Callisto.”

  Pausing, I turn. “Yes?”

  With a small smile and tilt of her head, she says, “I rather like this new version of you.”

  In the hallway, my wide smile disintegrates, and my body ripples with disquiet.

  But there’s satisfaction, too.

  She won’t know what hits her.

  Seven hours later, exhausted more from Vivian’s hyperactive stylist than trying on a million outfits, I fall onto the guest room bed and decide I’m not moving until morning.

  I’m on the edge of sleep when there’s a soft knock on the door.

  “Yes?” I croak.

  “Miss?” comes Selina’s soft voice. “There’s a phone call for you.”

  I whip upright, my sleepy mind sloshing against my temples. “A phone call?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  I run through a short list of who it could be—a family member or Hugo.

  “Can you take a message?” I ask after a moment. “Unle
ss it’s one of my sisters. Is it?”

  “No, miss. It’s a woman. She, um, goes by the name Rabbit? She’s called many times today. Mrs. Avellino just now gave me leave to tell you.” By the tone of her last words, I know Vivian used more colorful words.

  I’m already halfway to the door, a grin on my face and unexpected joy lifting my heart.

  Rabbit.

  I’m the only one who ever called her that. Her name is Jessica, and she’s been my best friend since she moved to Los Angeles our sophomore year of high school. She was my ride or die. Almost literally, as it turned out. Missing her has been a toothache with no cure—a persistent pain, only tolerable when I accepted its permanence.

  In the hallway, Selina greets me with a nod, then leads me into a small library at the back of the house. I rush to the side table with an antique rotary phone, the receiver sitting beside it.

  “Jessica?” I gasp.

  There’s a two-second pause.

  Then my best friend—and the only person who, up until a few days ago, knew I faked my death—snarls, “What the fuck is going on!”

  “Hold on.” After a quick glance at the door, thankfully closed, I whisper, “I can’t talk about it.”

  Well versed in my paranoia about surveillance in the house, she says, “Meet me at our usual place in an hour?”

  I almost agree, then realize my car is MIA. For a minute, I consider asking Vivian for a driver, but discard the idea. It’s too soon for her to trust me, and more importantly, it’s too soon for me to trust any of the staff.

  “I, uh, might be on lockdown.”

  She sighs. “Okay. I guess I’ll see you when I see you.”

  The old code makes me smile. “Sooner rather than later.”

  “You got it.”

  I gently replace the receiver. Now wide awake, I need to kill a few hours. I consider seeking out Lizzie, maybe chatting for a bit before she goes to sleep, but my guilt for abandoning her rears its head. My empty stomach eventually decides for me, and I head for the kitchen.

  The house is a mausoleum, spotless and lifeless, but when I pass Vivian’s office there’s a sliver of light beneath the door. Her voice, low and indistinct, reaches my ears. I suppress a shiver and walk faster.