Chapter 5 - THE WORD MY MOTHER FEARED
I did not scream when I saw Noah with my mother’s notebook.
I wish I had.
Screaming would have been honest.
Instead, I said, “You went through my things.”
He looked down at the photograph.
“Yeah.”
“That was the one thing I asked you not to touch.”
“I know.”
“You promised.”
“I know.”
I hated how calm he sounded.
I walked into the attic and took the notebook from him.
He didn’t fight me for it.
“Who is Adrian Voss?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
Noah laughed once.
Not mean. Worse. Tired.
“Try again.”
I clutched the notebook against my chest.
“My mother knew him.”
“And Euryale?”
The room tilted.
“What did you say?”
He repeated it.
My mother’s last rule had not been about love. Not really.
It had been about that word.
If anyone says Euryale, run.
Do not ask how they know it.
Do not try to be polite.
Run.
I backed toward the stairs.
Noah stood. “Mara.”
“Pack a bag.”
“What?”
“We’re leaving.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not a plan.”
“It’s more of a plan than standing here.”
He reached for my arm.
I flinched.
His hand stopped in midair.
Something passed over his face.
Hurt. Anger. Maybe both.
“Mara, I need you to tell me what is happening.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“No. I actually can’t.”
“Because you don’t trust me?”
Because I love you.
The sentence stayed behind my teeth.
He had no idea how dangerous love made him.
A car door slammed outside.
We both looked toward the small attic window.
A black sedan had stopped at the curb.
Adrian Voss stepped out carrying no umbrella.
Rain silvered his coat.
He looked up.
Straight at the attic window.
Straight at me.
Then he raised one hand and waved.
Noah whispered, “That’s him.”
“I know.”
Adrian walked to our front porch.
The doorbell rang.
Noah moved toward the stairs.
I caught his shirt.
“Don’t open it.”
“He knows we’re home.”
“Let him know.”
The bell rang again.
Then Adrian spoke through the door.
His voice carried surprisingly well.
“Mara, I have something that belonged to your mother.”
My fingers went numb.
Noah looked at me.
Adrian continued.
“And if you want to know why she died, you should come downstairs.”
I had spent fifteen years believing my mother died in a car accident.
For fifteen years, I had never questioned the closed casket.
That was the moment I finally did.
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