Out of Secrets (The Twin Dare #3)

Prologue

Sixteen Years Ago

Gravestone Estate, Connecticut

The vase hit the marble floor with a crack that echoed like a gunshot through the Gravestone mansion’s cavernous hall.

Enimton froze, his small hands clutching the book he’d been reading, a dog-eared copy of Treasure Island.

Shards of porcelain skittered across the polished stone.

The maid, a wiry woman with gray streaks in her bun, gasped and dropped to her knees, her apron catching the light like a surrender flag.

“I-I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she scrambled to gather the pieces. Her eyes darted toward the grand staircase, where heavy footsteps already thundered. “I’m going to lose my job over this.”

“It’s just a vase,” Enimton responded in a hushed tone.

“An old one,” she said frantically. “They could dock my pay, but I wouldn’t make enough in a lifetime to pay for it.”

Enimton’s heart thudded, a wild thing caged in his eight-year-old chest. He didn’t think, just acted.

Dropping his book, he knelt beside her, his fingers closing around a jagged shard.

The ceramic bit into his palm, sharp and cold, but he barely felt it.

“It’s okay,” he mumbled, piling fragments into his sweater. “I’ll say it was me.”

Her gaze snapped to his, wide and wet. “Enimton, no—”

Too late. His older brother, Roland, appeared in a doorway, with a twelve-year-old cocky smirk. “Father!” he called, voice dripping with glee. “Enimton’s broken something again.”

The air thickened, heavy as the velvet drapes that swallowed the hall’s light.

Whitaker Gravestone’s shadow loomed over them before he did, his tailored suit crisp, his face a storm of controlled fury.

“How many times have I told you to be more careful?” he demanded, his voice low, slicing through the silence.

Enimton stood, clutching the shard-filled sweater, his knees wobbling but his chin high. “I tripped,” he lied, the words coming out rushed but earnest. “It was an accident.”

The maid’s breath caught, but she stayed silent, as she rose to her feet. Whitaker’s eyes narrowed, cold and dark as the marble beneath them. “An accident,” he repeated, stepping closer. “Yes, Enimton, that’s what you are, but you’ll never break this family.”

Before Enimton could blink, Whitaker’s hand cracked across his cheek, the sting blooming hot and bright. Tears pricked his eyes, unbidden, and he bit his lip to trap them. Don’t. Don’t cry. Boys don’t cry.

It wasn’t enough to stop the tears from running down.

“Whit, really, not in front of the help,” Beatrix Gravestone’s voice cut in, sharp as her heels clicking across the floor. She stood beside her husband, her silk dress pristine, her expression a mirror of his disdain. “Now look what you’ve done. He’s crying again. So emotional. Always has been.”

Enimton’s throat tightened, the shard in his hand digging deeper.

Too emotional. Too clumsy. Too much. Never enough.

He wanted to shout that he was protecting someone, he wasn’t the one who broke the vase, but he couldn’t.

The maid had never been anything but nice to him.

She snuck him sandwiches on the nights he was sent to bed without dinner. And never told a soul.

He would keep her secret.

“Get to your room,” Whitaker snapped. “And don’t show your face for the rest of the day.”

Enimton turned, head down, the maid’s whispered, “Thank you, Enim,” trailing him like a ghost. He climbed the stairs, each step heavier than the last, his cheek still burning. At the landing, he paused, hidden by the banister’s shadow, as his parents’ voices drifted up.

“Clean up this mess and get back to whatever you were doing,” Beatrix snapped at the maid.

Roland asked if he could have a few friends around.

Beatrix’s voice softened, “Of course, dear. It’s such a beautiful day, why don’t you invite them to swim?”

“No one wants to swim, Mother. They can do that at their houses. Did you buy the game I asked you for? Hellsmouth?”

“I told you it’s not out yet.”

“And I told you I want it,” Roland growled. “You think Preston’s parents wait for stuff to hit stores? No. They pick up the phone and games arrive before they’re even fully tested. Are you even trying?”

“Settle down, Roland, we’ll get the game,” Whitaker said.

“Today?” Roland persisted. “Can I tell my friends it’ll be here today?”

Whitaker sighed. “If it’s that important to you, then yes.”

“It is,” Roland said smugly. “I knew you could do it. I’ll tell everyone to come around later this afternoon.”

There was a pause.

An eerie quiet after Roland stomped away.

Enimton stood frozen in the shadows of the stairs.

In a much quieter tone, his mother asked, “Has Simmons contacted you again?”

“No, I don’t expect him to until he needs something again,” Whitaker growled.

“Can’t you just stand up to him?”

“You know that’s not an option.”

“I hate that he has this power over us.”

“Me too.”

After another pause, Beatrix asked, “Do you think we could send Enimton away? Just for a while? There must be a school Simmons would approve of.”

The words landed like a second slap, colder, deeper. Enimton’s small hand gripped the banister.

Send me away?

And who is Simmons?