I check my phone to make sure I didn’t miss a call from him saying where to meet, and I see a text from Mirai, instead.
Just giving you a heads up… The coroner will confirm the cause of death by the end of the week. It will make the news. If you need to talk, I’m here. Always.
I inhale a deep breath, but I forget to let it go as I slip my phone in my back pocket. Cause of death. We know how they died. All the religious nutcases on Twitter are presently condemning my parents as sinners for taking their own lives, and I couldn’t look at it. While I could say whatever I wanted about my problems with Hannes and Amelia de Haas, I didn’t want to hear bullshit from strangers who didn’t know them.
I should turn off my phone. I should…
I pinch my eyebrows together. I should go home.
I don’t know this guy, and I don’t like the people I do know.
But last night, nothing sounded better than getting out of there.
The carousel starts to spin, snapping me out of my head, and I watch as the bags start appearing. One of my black suitcases moves toward me, and I reach down to grab it, but another hand suddenly appears, lifting it for me, instead. I shoot up, coming face to face with a man.
Well, not face to face exactly. He stares down at me, and I open my mouth to speak, but I can’t remember…anything. His eyes are almost frozen, and he doesn’t blink as we stand there, locked.
Is this him?
I know my father’s step-brother is of Dutch descent, same as my dad, and this guy’s certainly got the whole six-foot-two, athletic look with short-cropped, dark blond hair and blue eyes whose slight amusement betrays his stern set jaw and intimidating presence.
“You’re Jake?” I ask.
“Hi.”
Hi? His gaze doesn’t leave me, and for a moment I can’t pull away, either. I knew he and my father weren’t blood, but for some reason, I thought they’d look similar. I don’t know why.
My expectation was completely off, though, and it didn’t occur to me that there was an age difference between them. Jake has to be at least ten years younger than Hannes. Late thirties, maybe early forties?
Perhaps that had something to do with them not getting along. In two totally differently places, so not much in common growing up?
We stand there for a moment, and I feel like this is the point where most people would hug or something, but I take a step back—and away from him—just in case.
He doesn’t come in for an embrace, though. Instead, his eyes flash to the side, and he gestures. “This one, too?”
His voice is deep but soft, like he’s a little bit scared of me but not scared of anything else. My heart speeds up.
What did he ask me?
Oh, the luggage.
I look over my shoulder, seeing my other black case trailing this way.
I nod once, waiting for it to come down the line to us.
“How did you know it was me?” I asked him, remembering how he just grabbed my suitcase without a word to confirm my identity.
But he laughs to himself.
I close my eyes for a moment, remembering he’s probably seen pictures of me somewhere, so it wasn’t hard to figure out. “Right,” I murmur.
“Excuse me,” he says, reaching past me to grab the second case. I stumble back a step, his body brushing into mine.
He pulls it off the belt and adds, “And you’re the only one here with Louis Vuitton luggage, so…”
I shoot him a look, noticing the jeans with dirt-stained knees and the seven-dollar gray T-shirt he wears. “You know Louis?” I ask.
“More than I care to,” he replies and then fixes me with a look. “I grew up in that life, too, remember?”
That life. He says it as if labels and luxury negate any substance. People may live different realities, but the truth is always the same.
I clear my throat, reaching out for one of the cases. “I can take something.”
“It’s okay.” He shakes his head. “We’re good.”
I carry my pack on my back and hold the handle of my carry-on, while he grips my two rolling suitcases.
I’m ready to move, but he’s looking down at me, something timid but also amazed in his eyes.
“What?” I ask.
“No, sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “You just look like your mother.”
I drop my eyes. It’s not the first time I’ve heard that, and it’s a compliment, to be sure. My mother was beautiful. Charismatic, statuesque…
It just never makes me feel good, though. As if everyone sees her first.