Pretty Nightmare (Creeping Beautiful Book 2), page 7
I didn’t plan this session and she’s right. She’s not under at all. I think I was just going through the motions, not expecting much. I let her slip in and out of her relaxed state when I should’ve been making her concentrate on being there. In the moment. Trying to get her to turn her past into the present.
Even that’s a little weird. I’m not careless with people’s minds. Not anymore. I learned my lesson. So this lapse in judgment pisses me off. Even more so because it’s her. I know better. I really fucking know better. And I let that happen anyway.
Again.
And then Nick Tate? That was totally unexpected.
“What’s going on?” Indie says. “Why are you so freaked out?”
“I don’t know. Something about that is wrong, Indie.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it doesn’t make sense.” I leave out the part about my lackadaisical attitude about this session, because I need to think about that alone before I admit to it out loud. “Nick was after you. Remember? Adam had that meeting with him the day the Company fell.”
“The day I tried to kill him, you mean?”
“Whatever. Nick threatened him. Nick wanted to kill you, Indie.”
“Yeah, I know. He got Angelica. Not Wendy, though. Or me.”
“So why the fuck would he be dropping you off on the island for the auction when you were ten? Why didn’t he just kill you then?”
“I dunno.” She laughs and swings her feet over the side of the couch. “Maybe he wanted me to be bought by someone. Or maybe he was just tired of me? I really was a brat back then.”
“OK, hold on. Hold on.” I close my eyes and think for a moment, trying to recall what exactly I told Adam that night of the auction. “I thought you got dropped off because your house mother was tired of you.”
“What’s a house mother?”
“You know, those… those fucking ladies who run the little girls before they sell them.”
She shakes her head at me. “I don’t remember a house mother.”
I scrub both hands down my face. This isn’t right. “Just…” I hold up a hand. “Don’t say anything for a minute. I need to think.”
She flops back into the couch cushions and blows out some air.
House mothers. I get it. Indie was only ten when she showed up on the island. But I remember plenty of things from when I was ten. And so should she. She would’ve lived with the house mother her entire life. There would’ve been other girls there too. Maybe half a dozen from what I remember of that part of the program. So it’s just not possible that she doesn’t remember a house mother.
“OK, I think we’re done for today, Indie.”
“Why?”
“Because this could be something we call a transformative moment.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a moment when you use old information to see things in a new way and it brings understanding.”
“I don’t get it. What does this have to do with Nick Tate? And I’m definitely not transformed. Nothing about this was helpful. I don’t understand anything.”
“I don’t know about Nick Tate yet. He might not be real. I mean, he’s real. Was. Whatever. But he might not be real to you.”
“You think I made him up?” Her voice is loud and incredulous.
“I’m not saying that. I’m just saying I can’t fathom a reason why Nick Tate would be dropping you off on that island when I was under the impression that your house mother abandoned you there.”
“Maybe you got it wrong?”
“Maybe I did. That’s entirely possible.”
“Why would you be under that impression?”
“I don’t know. That’s the problem. We have a disconnect here. Remember when I said memories are unreliable?”
“Yeah.”
“Well”—I laugh—“there you go. We can’t both be right.”
“Does it really matter? Maybe you were just jumping to conclusions?”
“Maybe. Or maybe someone told me that lie about your house mother. If so, I need to figure out who said it. There are no coincidences here, Indie. Not when you’re born into the Company. Everything comes with a plan. Everything.”
“Hm. I see the point. So. Who would want to lie about that?”
“No, that’s jumping ahead. First, we need to figure out if it was real on your end. Then we can ask questions like that.”
“OK.” She huffs out a long sigh.
“But we’re done for today. You need to settle before we do another session.”
She slaps her legs and stands up. “Fine with me, I guess. Can I have that?” She points to the recorder.
I pick it up and I’m just about to give it to her when I pull my hand back. “Let me keep it for one night. Listen to it again and make some notes. I’ll make a report for you.”
“Whatever you want, Donovan. You’re the psychiatrist.”
I cringe at that. “I’m not really a psychiatrist, Indie. But if we’re gonna do this, we should do it right. Turn it into a proper case study.”
She gives me a weird look. “Number one, you absolutely are a psychiatrist. When people learn as much shit about brains as you have, and they have a medical degree to go with it, they are psychiatrists. Even if they’re not practicing. And number two—case study? No. I don’t want to be your fucking case study.”
“It’s more credible that way.”
“Who will be reading this report that we care if it’s credible?”
“Us,” I say. “It matters. That’s all. It’s procedure. We should remain objective. The truth requires it. And if we’re only doing this to prove we’re fine, if we’re just trying to prove that everything’s OK and it’s really not…” I blow out a long breath. “If we’re missing things and we allow ourselves to succumb to cognitive dissonance, then what is the fucking point?”
“Well, that’s a long, serious sentence there, Donovan. I’m not sure what cognitive whatever is—”
“It’s when you see the truth with your own eyes and still you refuse to accept it. That’s what it is.”
“Oh.” She pauses for a moment. “Well, yeah. That’s… scary. But—”
“We’re doing this my way or we’re not doing it at all. I’m not gonna go inside your head again without thinking the whole thing through first and recording the results at the end. I’m not. I won’t fucking do it!”
Her head juts back in surprise at the tone and volume of my protest. But then she huffs and says, “Fine. I get it. What’s the point of investing all this effort into the truth if we’re not going to accept it? I agree. We need to figure this out or it’s going to follow us. I have way too much recent baggage to let the old stuff get me in the end.”
I nod. Sigh. “Yeah.”
Her and me both.
CHAPTER SIX - ADAM
When that card showed up with Carter’s signature on Maggie’s sixth birthday I was prepared.
I’m not saying I predicted it and I’m not saying it was expected. But I knew something was coming because someone is always coming for you. Always.
I side-eye McKay as we watch TV with Maggie. She likes it out here in the pavilion just like Indie did all those years ago. She took over Indie’s bed swing and every now and then I see Indie watching her out of the corner of her eye.
I watch Indie closely. Very. Closely.
And even though she has a right to be jealous—I literally replaced her with her own daughter—I don’t think that look on her face when she sees Maggie ride the swing that is rightly hers is envy.
I’m not sure what that emotion is yet—Indie has been trained so well, she could be hiding a severe case of raging jealousy and I’d never know it. But I don’t get that gut feeling when I look at her. That feeling that says, She’s dangerous. Be careful, Adam. She’s dangerous.
So I’m gonna sit on this for a while and concentrate on other, more immediate, problems.
Not McKay. He’s ignoring me today. And that’s fine. He can kiss whoever he wants.
No, there are more important things to worry about today than kissing.
Like… things that don’t add up about this current holding pattern we’re in.
For instance—where the fuck is this Carter dude? Like where does he live? What does he do? Who does he run?
Not my men. That’s for sure. And that’s a lot of eyeballs all over the world if you count them all up. So how does he stay hidden?
This makes me think I’ve missed something. Something very critical. There are people out there, ex-Company, probably, who do not report to me.
I get a little rage-y when I think about this.
My first reaction is, How fucking dare they? How fucking dare they work without my permission? Do they even know who I am?
Which is kinda funny. And says a lot about my ego. But it’s also true.
Do they have any fucking idea who I am these days?
Of course they do.
Everyone knows who I am. And I do get it. I’m not the actual Company king or whatever you call it. The next in line of succession would’ve been James Fenici. He’s the real king. But he’s not interested in running the leftovers and I am. The only other person who could make a claim above mine would be Harper Tate, James’s wife and Nick Tate’s twin sister. And if James isn’t gonna run things—and he’s not, he’s told me so himself—then she sure as shit isn’t the one working men behind my back.
So who’s left? Who is this Untouchable with a claim in the hierarchy?
Carter is a Couture. Like Donovan. But they are not leaders. That family has never been in charge. Not even close. I’m not saying they’re insignificant, they hold a very high position in the old Company line of succession. But the Coutures are not above the Bouchers. A lot of Untouchable families would have to be eradicated for a Couture to proclaim himself king.
Not that something as simple as rules would stop Carter. Obviously.
So it’s him. He’s the one running things. He’s got a team. Maybe several teams. Hell, maybe hundreds. I don’t really know. I have hundreds, myself. But I didn’t inherit the fucking genealogy documents after Gerald Couture killed himself when the CIA raided his island.
Donovan did. Which means… maybe Carter did too.
I should ask Donovan about this. But he’s been so removed from the Company for so long, I don’t expect a helpful answer. Donovan made it very clear that he was gonna do his own thing after Nick and Sasha took the Company down nine years ago. And he did. He went to LA, started a new life, and began a whole new profession.
I will need to talk to him about that, though. Reconstructive surgery only means one thing. He’s making doubles for people.
Well. That’s probably not true. Yet.
He’s been in school this whole time. I don’t care how fucking smart you are, you don’t just wake up one day and say, I think I will become a skillful reconstructive surgeon and make copies of people using a knife.
It takes time. Lots of time.
In fact, Donovan kinda chose to walk away from all that too, didn’t he? I mean, if he really wanted to make copies of people, he’d be in LA working hard on making that happen. Not here, kissing Core McKay in the kitchen last night.
Just to be clear, I’m not thinking about McKay. I don’t care who he kisses.
Again, I feel like I’m missing something.
Think, Adam. Think. You have lots of things at your disposal. There is an answer to this out there. And it’s probably available to you. If you know where to look.
That’s the problem. I don’t know where to look.
I checked all my father’s documents after he died. The ones he bequeathed to me and the ones he didn’t. I hired a fucking munitions guy to blow open the hidden safe in his office at the New Orleans house. Dude did a damn good job, too. Didn’t burn a single thing inside.
And I did find a lot of things in there. Lots of very helpful things. But certainly not everything.
There was enough there to make contact with about forty teams. Which I did. Right on the spot. I called them up and told them to move on. Get on with their life. I was setting them free.
Of course, that’s not how it ended up. After Indie tried to kill me that first time, and after I recovered, I got back in touch. A lot of them were already dead or missing. They figured out how to get new names and identities and disappeared.
I didn’t think that was strange back then. Only people like me, and McKay, and Indie stick around after the jailer leaves you a get-out-of-jail-free key. Hell, even Donovan moved on. Mostly. He came back regularly. A lot, actually. But he was building something real out in LA. And when Indie went missing, he just slipped into that other life like a cottonmouth sliding into the Old Pearl River.
Never even looked back until Indie reappeared in McKay’s driveway.
But there has to be more. And Carter has this information. And if he had access to it, my father had access to it too.
So where could he be hiding secrets after his death?
Could be just about anywhere, I suppose. On some island somewhere. Some house I never knew about. Maybe he had a mistress and she’s holding on to the secrets I need? Hell, that shit could be buried at the bottom of the ocean.
This thought exercise is nearly futile. Nearly. But not completely.
Because of course, I am hiding things as well. Lots of things. And while I do tuck them away in nice safe places, none of them have been left with a mistress, or in a secret house, or at the bottom of the ocean. They are somewhere I can get to them. Easily. Quickly. And without much fuss.
And if I died today no one would know about that secret place. Not even Maggie, and I tell her almost everything.
So if I think about where I hide my secrets, and then apply that to my father, who taught me most everything I know, then that means he’s hidden these things somewhere personal.
But where?
A place that’s not in danger of being sold, that’s where. So not some random house with a mistress inside it who might decide she’d like a different life and start over by selling everything.
Not a bank. That’s too risky. Even the secret ones.
Not with a trusted friend. When you’re the king, or hell, even a couple rungs down from the king, you don’t trust people with secrets like that. Not anyone. Not even your Maggie. Not even your McKay.
And my father didn’t have a Maggie. That I know of. Or a McKay. That I know of.
But there must be a place and this place has to be in New Orleans. It has to be. My father was partial to that city. And that old French-Quarter house too. It is his one true home.
But I scoured that house. I spent months—hell, nearly a year—after he died, looking for secret places. And I found plenty of them. But they were mostly hiding money. Or gold. A few files filled with incriminating evidence on people he had been blackmailing over the years, but who were all dead now. Shit like that. Which might have been lucrative secrets at one point in time, but not anymore.
They were not the secret.
Not the one I’m looking for.
So now I start there.
What am I looking for?
It took me a while to figure this out. And I’ve changed my mind several times over the years. But the secret I’m looking for has something to do with power.
Not little power, like that blackmailing shit.
Not little power like fifty million dollars in gold.
Power on a grand scale.
Power that upsets the balance of everything we know to be true.
Power that spells out who is actually running this show.
Because while I do have a pretty big ego—it’s actually quite massive—I’m am not under any illusion that I run the entire world.
And yes, I have been pretty much controlling my own destiny for nearly a decade now—thank you, Nick Tate. I truly owe you one—but everyone has a boss. I just don’t know who mine is at the moment.
It feels like we rearranged the power structure several times since I was born. That Santa Barbara incident did it. That FBI shit that went down while I was recovering from Indie’s candlestick hit did it too.
James, and Nick, and Sasha were all behind those. The kings and queen of the Company.
And then, of course, Indie going missing—that was another rearrangement as well.
But that was me. When she left I picked things right back up. She freaked me out. I’m not gonna lie. When your little assassin turns on you like that, you circle the fucking wagons and reassess all your life choices. So that rearrangement was me.
But here’s the thing that keeps me looking… Indie coming back? That wasn’t Nick. He’s possibly dead. Maybe not, but if he really did fake his own death, then he’s out. For good. You don’t put that much effort into an escape plan to just come back and start it all up again.
And it wasn’t James. He and I talked about it just before Indie went missing.
And it wasn’t Harper. She’s stuck to James’s hip like glue.
And it wasn’t Sasha. Because I found out one little secret no one wanted to tell me about. And that’s that Nick Tate had a daughter. A little girl very much like my Maggie. And he dropped that little girl off with Sasha to keep her safe. So Sasha is most definitely out.
Who’s left? Who sent Indie back?
Of course it was Carter.
But how the fuck is he pulling these strings? Who is on his secret team? Where the fuck is he and how does he stay hidden?
“It’s a goddamned circle.”
“What’s a circle?”
Oops. Said that out loud.
“What’s a circle?” McKay asks again.
I bump my head back in the direction of Maggie so McKay will take a hint and drop it. “Nothing.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket and when I take it out and look at the screen, I get that feeling again.
I sigh and get up, then walk away down towards the duck lake without saying a word.
When I’m nearly at the edge, and the phone is buzzing for the sixth time, I press accept.
“What is it?”
“Adam?”
“You know it’s me, Wendy. Just fucking spit it out.”
