Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
“The roads are impassable.”
Hardly the news that Melody wanted to hear.
“The snowstorm hit much harder than anyone expected,” Hatterson continued blithely as he puttered around the kitchen table.
“The storm’s force caught everyone by surprise.
But, hopefully, now that the snowfall has finally stopped, the plows can get on the roads, and the guests may be able to leave by nightfall. ”
Nightfall was a very, very long time off.
“Here.” Hatterson put a plate of pancakes in front of her. “Made your favorite for you. Blueberry pancakes. Syrup is on the side.”
She stared down at the light, fluffy pancakes. Apparently, Hatterson truly was a jack of all trades. She’d thought he was Sebastian Mage’s butler and guard, but the man certainly seemed skilled in the kitchen, too.
She hadn’t gone back to sleep after the shooting.
And the mad dash after Victor in the snow.
She’d been chilled to the bone, and two very hot showers had finally resulted in her feeling semi-normal again.
If she’d been that cold, how had Victor felt?
He’d been out in the snow far longer than she had.
He’d checked and double-checked the house. Searched all the rooms. Made sure the windows were covered. The doors locked. The man had been shot—grazed—and he hadn’t seemed to care about his injury.
He’d been pissed, though. She’d definitely picked up on that rage.
The others had eventually gone back to bed. Olivia and Dario were still sleeping. Melody didn’t know where Sebastian was. My father. She just had such a hard time thinking of him that way. The people in the house were utter strangers to her.
She’d hoped that, once she crossed the threshold of the home, more memories would come to her.
That hadn’t happened. Not yet.
“The pancakes are going to get cold,” Hatterson muttered. He pulled up a chair beside her. “They are your favorite.”
He’d said that before.
She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but eating was the last thing she felt like doing. If Victor was right and the shots had been meant for her, then someone had tried to kill her…her first night home. “I don’t think I have much of an appetite, I’m sorry.”
“Come on. I went to a lot of trouble. And you’re skin and bones as it is.” He sent her a frown. “Whatever you were doing the last year, there must not have been any damn good food where you were.”
No, the hospital food hadn’t been a culinary masterpiece. And after she’d finally gotten out of the hospital, there hadn’t exactly been a lot of money. Not until she’d gotten her waitressing job. Gosh, she’d been a colossal failure as a waitress. So clumsy. Always spilling the trays.
At first.
By the end of the second week, she’d sailed through the diner with a heavy tray perched on three fingers. And the meals at Stan’s Diner had actually been good. Breakfast and lunch. Though, she couldn’t say that she’d ever tried the blueberry pancakes there. She’d never actually wanted to try them.
“Your father missed you, you know.”
She didn’t know. Hello, story of my life.
“Pick up the fork and the knife, Melody.” A long sigh from Hatterson.
“He’s…worse.” Maybe if she ate some of the pancakes, Hatterson would keep talking. Hatterson could help her fill in some of the many blank spaces in her mind. “My father seems like he’s just gotten worse over the last year.” A safe enough statement to make.
“He tried lots of different medicines and therapies, but, yeah, he’s worse. Don’t think you should count on him getting a whole lot better.” Another sigh. Sadder. “He has good days. Bad days. But don’t we all?”
She cut into a blueberry pancake. Lifted it to her mouth.
Hatterson watched her with his dark brown eyes. “He missed you.”
She put the pancake in her mouth. Almost immediately spit it out.
“There a problem?” Hatterson asked with raised brows.
She chewed, quickly, the taste of the blueberries flooding through her mouth. For some reason, revulsion filled her, but she didn’t want to spit out the pancake right in front of Hatterson. Talk about rude. She choked down the bite of pancake, then she grabbed the glass of milk—
“What in the hell are you eating?” Victor demanded as he stormed into the kitchen. He frowned at the pancakes. “Are those blueberries? Melody, you hate blueberries.”
That would be why she had needed to choke down her lone bite. She hated blueberries. Check. Her accusing eyes swept toward Hatterson. What kind of game was he playing?
“Oh, did I say they were your favorite?” He rose, all falsely apologetic. “My mistake. But then, shouldn’t you know which foods you like? And which ones you’ve hated since you were three years old?” Disgust twisted his lips. “That DNA test can’t come fast enough. You might look the part but—”
“She doesn’t have her damn memory, Hatterson,” Victor snarled. “Back off. Now.”
Hatterson blinked.
So did Melody because…what, he was just going to tell everyone? So much for keeping that secret, but, then again, her best laid plans were currently going to shit. She was also exceedingly terrified because, deep down, she suspected Victor was right. The gunshots had been meant for her.
She was in over her head. She needed help.
Her gaze crept back to Victor. Big, bold, dangerous Victor. He’d rushed out to confront the gunman in the darkness. He’d protected her.
Yeah, okay, she needed him.
But would he help her?
“What do you mean she doesn’t have her memory?” Hatterson’s sharp voice drew her gaze. His bushy brows beetled. “What kind of bullshit is that?”
“It’s the kind of bullshit that’s my life,” Melody replied.
The jerk had deliberately fed her pancakes filled with blueberries that she hated.
How lovely. What a kind soul he must be.
“And obviously, you suspected something, or you wouldn’t be serving me up this particular breakfast treat.
Want to tell me why you decided I needed testing?
” How had she tipped him off so that he’d felt the need to serve her the blueberries?
“You failed the test,” he told her bluntly.
Yes, obviously. Because she was walking around blindly and hoping like hell she would trust the right person. Victor, be the right person. Please, I need you. Because there was no one else she could rely on.
“I saw you come down the stairs last night.” Hatterson stood near the table, bobbing his head a bit.
“Like a thief in the night. Tiptoeing. Sneaking into the study. I knew you were up to no good. Then shots were fired. You appear and hours later there is gunfire? Oh, hell, no. That’s too much trouble.
I knew something was off.” His hands were on his hips.
“And you just proved my point right here. My Melody would never eat blueberries. She’s hated them ever since she got violently ill after eating them when she was a kid. ”
“Violently ill, huh?” Her hand went to her stomach. “Thanks so much for telling me that.” Should she be expecting some projectile vomiting? What a fun visit she was having at Mage Mansion.
“What’s this bullshit about not remembering?
” Hatterson’s thin lips tensed. “This isn’t some soap opera.
You don’t get to call amnesia for shits and giggles.
Either you are the real Melody, or you aren’t.
My money says you are not. You’re not her.
Something about your face is just a little off, and it’s not just because you’re thinner. It’s different.”
She jumped to her feet. “It’s called having your cheekbone broken, asshole. And your nose. The docs did the best job they could, but no, I’m not perfect. I’ll never be exactly like she was before.”
She. Crap. Talking about herself in the third person again. Sometimes, she did that because Melody Mage just seemed like a different person. Someone she didn’t know.
The silence in the kitchen was deafening.
“Well?” Hatterson finally challenged as he tossed a glare over at Victor. “Aren’t you going to say something? Or maybe you want to throw her ass out into the snow for me?”
“Let me be very clear.” Victor moved to stand beside Melody. “No one is throwing her anywhere. She is Melody.”
“I heard you last night! We all did!” Hatterson pointed his index finger at Victor. “You wanted her DNA checked! You didn’t believe her, either, then she pranced out and did the little strip tease. So she has a scar on her shoulder? Big damn deal!”
Victor’s arm brushed Melody’s. “It’s not your job to test her. Not in any way.”
“I raised her.” Brittle. His hand curled into a fist before falling to his side.
“Who taught her to ride her first bike? Me. Who was there at all of her volleyball games? Me. When her father was too damn busy, when he was out of the country on his trips, or going off with wife number three…who took care of the bully who was making her life hell? Me. Who taught her self-defense? Me. It was always me. Who got her to love scary movies because it’s better to be the villain than the victim? Me. Who taught her—” Hatterson stopped.
Her head tilted as she stared at him.
“I raised Melody Mage.” Softer. Sadder. Tears glistened in his eyes.
“I mourned Melody Mage.” He grabbed for the plate of pancakes that had been placed in front of her.
Hurried steps took him to the garbage. He tossed the pancakes inside.
“I won’t be fooled. Melody wouldn’t just vanish.
Not for a whole year.” His back was to her. His wide shoulders tensed.
A memory stirred in her mind.
Better to be the villain…
“Candyman,” she whispered.
He whirled toward her.
“Candyman is my favorite scary movie.” And why? Simple. “He won’t be a victim again.”
Hatterson’s gaze searched hers.
“Trish Yates was the bitch who made my life hell in ninth grade.” The name was just there. A vague flash of a girl with curly hair, braces, and a mean grin.
How on earth could she suddenly remember Trish Yates, but she could not remember so much more? Why something so insignificant? Dammit…why?