They are.
Zeke doesn’t technically live here, but most of his time is spent at the estate. My father prefers to keep his inner circle as close as possible, which is why it doesn’t extend far beyond his actual family and a few of his closest associates. Fortunately, the mansion is over ten thousand square feet, one of the nicest properties in Kinland and has plenty of room for me to disappear entirely without much fanfare.
Me and people don’t really get along.
I walk down the small hallway off the back of the main kitchen and leave the house through a side door, making sure to pull my hoodie tighter and keep to the edges of the premises, out of the line of sight of the numerous security cameras installed.
Eventually, I make it to the trees protecting the property and head into the thick of them, fallen leaves crunching beneath my feet. I’ve never been much for summer—something about the cool weather and the smell of autumn brings a type of peace that I sink into, and as the September breeze whips across my face, making my nose tingle and my ears burn, a sense of contentment warms the center of my chest. For the first time since talking to my sister, the anger fades away, focus dropping into its place as I hit the clearing in the trees. I make my way to the small cottage sitting in the center, walking down the faded and chipped yellow brick pathway, half overrun with vegetation and weeds, until I reach the wooden porch. Reaching into my pocket, the metal prongs of a key dig into my fingers and I pull it out, unlocking the front door and moving inside.
There’s a tiny living room with a green velvet couch, a small oak coffee table that rarely gets used, and just off to the side is a kitchenette with a white stove and a mini-fridge.
It’s nothing special. But it’s mine.
I walk straight by it all, heading to the back bedroom and flinging open the door to the walk-in closet.
With a deep breath, I push apart the racks of clothing and sink to my knees, brushing my hand over the small indent in the drywall. It’s faint, made specifically to blend in with the scuffed-up paint. You’d hardly notice it’s there unless you knew where to look.
My fingers fit beneath the small notch and pull, allowing the hidden door to unlatch and swing open, revealing the dark room and concrete steps that lead deep underground. My knees crack when I stand, sending a dull throb of pain through my leg, and I wince as I walk into the blackened space, pulling on the string light before spinning around and closing up the secret entrance behind me.
I make my way down the steps and along the narrow concrete hallway. Goose bumps prickle along the back of my neck and scatter across my arms. I quicken my pace, the sounds of each step ricocheting off the walls and bouncing back into my ears.
There’s a certain chill that happens when you’re beneath sea level and surrounded by cement. The kind that soaks into your bones and sends a shiver ghosting up your spine, and no matter how many times I make this trek, I never quite get used to it.
Finally, I hit the end of the hall, stopping in front of a large steel door with an illuminated screen to its left. Lifting up my fingers, I press my hand to it, watching as it scans my prints and triggers the lock to unlatch.
I pull the door open, hundreds of metal halide lights shining so brightly they make my eyes flinch. There’s a faint click of the lock reengaging behind me, but I’m already allowing my gaze to focus on what’s in front of me.
Satisfaction settles deep in my chest as I make my way down the long rows of garden beds, heading toward the center of the room where the digital thermostat sits, then leaning over to look at the numbers.
Seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit. Perfect.
I note the time. Two hours until it adjusts to thirty degrees, just after the sun drops beneath the horizon.
These plants are a temperamental breed.
This isn’t the only thermostat I’ll need to check. This underground area spans across two acres and is separated into smaller rooms for easier containment. Smiling to myself, I imagine what Nessa would think about the enhancements our father made to the cottage she gifted me.
Warmth spreads through my limbs and I shrug out of my hoodie before placing my hands on my hips and soaking in the sight. Out of all the places I’ve been in my life, right here is where I truly feel at home. Maybe it’s because this is the only time I’m not constantly looking over my shoulder as I sink into my favorite pastime.
Solitude.
And botany, of course, although that isn’t really a passion as much as it’s a means to an end.
My eyes flicker to the thousands of pods growing beautifully, almost ready for lancing.
Another day… maybe two.
See, what Dorothy doesn’t realize—what nobody else knows—is while our father may be the face of the family business, he’s not the brains.
He needs me for that.
So she may have his attention and get showered in his love, but she doesn’t truly have his favor.
I do.
And it starts right here, in my greenhouse full of poppies.
5
NICHOLAS
I’ve never spent so much time looking at shiny rocks.
The past month has been spent in isolation, distancing myself from “Nick Woodsworth” and becoming “Brayden Walsh, thief extraordinaire” while subsequently learning the ins and outs of rare jewels. I’ve been hiding away in my new apartment smack-dab in the center of Kinland; courtesy of the DEA. The only people I’ve talked to are Cap, Seth, and Desmond Dillam, the top jeweler in the tristate area. I’ve been living and breathing cuts, clarity, colors, and everything in between until my eyes bleed and I dream of sparkles.
When I’m not learning that, I’m drowning in all I can about Farrell Westerly and his influence, although, there isn’t too much I can find out. While Farrell clearly runs the streets of Kinland, the city itself is tight lipped, and the inner workings of their operation are locked up better than Fort Knox. All I have to go on are grainy surveillance photos that prove nothing, and “a hunch.”
Add to the fact that Farrell is apparently a modern-day Robin Hood who shares his wealth with the community, and it makes gaining insight like ripping out a tooth with no Novocain.
He has two living daughters, but it’s clear his older one, Dorothy, is who likes to live in the spotlight. My files have dozens of photos; walking around town, going to brunches with friends, sitting in the cart with her father while they play rounds of golf with his “business associates.”
His other daughter, Eveline, seems to be more reclusive. There are a few photos, but always taken from a distance. I know she’s incredibly intelligent, graduating early as valedictorian of Kinland High at the tender age of sixteen, but the clearest photo we have on file is old. Light-brown hair, dark-brown eyes, and a face that hadn’t lost the roundness that comes with youth. The newer photos are all surveillance.
I tense my fingers while Seth blabbers in my ear. He’s my point of contact—the one I’m assigned to check in with every week. Other than that, there will be no outside interaction with my real life.
“Shame we didn’t go out one last time,” Seth sighs.
“We did,” I reply, closing the old and weathered book in my hand.
It’s a book of poems; the only thing I have left of my mother, and while I can’t stand to so much as think about her these days, for some reason, even when I’m pretending to be someone else, I hold on to it. Maybe because it reminds me of why I do what I do. Some of the only sober moments we had were when she’d lain down in my bed and read these poems until I fell asleep.