THREE
Gigi
The following morning I’m awake before sunrise, but of course, the mysterious stranger from last night has long disappeared. I think I dreamed the whole scenario until I see the contents of the first-aid kit spread out across the kitchen counter, along with a few bloody gauzes littering the top of the bin. I eye them briefly while I pour myself a drink, wondering where Harry went. Then I pad back upstairs with the glass of water in hand, slipping carefully back into bed.
While Greg sleeps, I silently differentiate him from his brother. While Harry’s hair is black, Greg is brunette. Harry’s eyes are a piercing forest-green compared to Greg’s brown.
Greg wakes, stretching his limbs above his head. When he spots me sitting up straight, waiting eagerly to pound him with questions, he groans and immediately turns the other way.
“We need to talk.”
He grunts in response.
“Does he live here?”
“No,” he mumbles into the pillow.
“Then why was he here?”
He sighs and finally turns to face me. “He pops in now and then. Technically, this is his house. It was left to him after our mother died. He’s got his own home in the neighbourhood. Sometimes it’s just more convenient that he drops in here.”
I frown. “You look nothing alike.”
He shrugs.
“And he takes your father’s name too?”
Greg nods half-heartedly.
“How come you never told me?” I ask, having had the night to conclude I’m furious my friend hid his sibling’s existence from me for almost a decade. “Why have Mia and I never met him before?”
“He’s always moving around every couple of years, so I don’t see him often. He’s not a good person, Gigi. I choose not to think about him willingly.”
Why would anyone leave their sibling to fend for themselves when they both have no other family? Surely, no person is that bad.
I pry further. “Why’s he always travelling? Is it for his job?”
“Why are you so interested in finding out more about him?” he asks, sighing irritably. “He’s a freelance photographer, if you must know.”
I nod despite that making no sense whatsoever. What kind of freelance photographer can afford to own two properties near London? I also haven’t forgotten he was clearly wounded yesterday. Unless he works for a news company with dangerous callouts and is prone to injury, nothing Greg has told me lines up.
“But last night—”
“I don’t want to talk about him.” Greg strokes his knuckles over my cheek. “I’m angry enough that he’s stormed back into my life, let alone yours. Let’s just drop it, okay?”
“Just tell me why you don’t get on,” I plead with my most flirtatious smile.
He drops his head back to the pillow with a sigh, running a hand through his hair and partially obstructing my view of his face. “He’s twenty-nine. Seven years ago, he left in the middle of the night and did whatever guys do in their twenties … You know how my mother died during my birth?”
I nod.
“All the assets were left to him since she hadn’t updated the will. He left me with the house and nothing else, barely came to check on me. Kept the money to himself and blew it in months.”
“That’s awful!”
“You’re telling me.”
For a moment he’s lost in thought, then he shakes his head to clear whatever’s clouding his brain. Greg grips my hips, pulling me on top of him, and running his palms up and down my sides as he says, “I’d rather talk about something else.”
I climb off him. “I have to get going somewhere. I’ll see you tomorrow though, okay?”
He assesses my features, trying to discover what I’m hiding behind the shield I’ve put up to barricade my emotions. He’s hesitant, and I force a larger smile.
I’m determined to find out more about Harry St. James.
Luckily, I know one of the only people who can help.
Mia is the only person in existence who can be my favourite and my least favourite person in one sitting. She has a way with men and women that leaves them swooning all over her. Whether it’s her horrendous flirting or her silky blonde hair that leaves them head over heels, I have no idea. She dabbles in a bit of everything, knows pretty much everyone in London, and has an awe-strikingly long list of contacts from her training as a reporter.
Sitting across from me in her living room, her jaw hangs open, inviting any wandering flies to fly in with ease. I push her mouth closed with my hand, but she drops it again instantly.
“What?” she asks, dumbfounded. “Like, a full-fledged human?”
I recite everything from memory, filling her in as best I can, from the conversation with my parents to bumping into the tall stranger in the early hours of the morning. Now I think about it, his height was more like six-foot-four.
“Greg said he left him to fend for himself. Let him have access to the house but barely came to visit.”
“That’s awful,” Mia says, yet her eyes tell another story. “Do you believe him?”
“Who – Greg?”
She nods.
“I have no reason not to. Besides, it explains why we’ve never heard of Harry before.”
“But why wouldn’t he have mentioned anything?”
I groan, running a frustrated hand through my hair. “I don’t know.”
She hums, rubbing her thumb and forefinger against her chin like a professor. “Maybe he isn’t a good guy. I’ll see if I can look into him.”
Mia has “a guy” for everything. She’s one of those rare people who knows everything about others – where they went to school, what car they drive, their favourite colour, or whether they’re right or left-handed – while they know very little about her.
“Was he hot?”
I sputter, unprepared for the question. “That’s not the point.”
“Oh. My. God.” I look up to see her staring at me. “He totally was!”
I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I bet Greg wouldn’t be too happy about you having a big schoolgirl crush on his brother.”
“Mia,” I warn .
“But you know what does matter …” she says, finally gaining my interest. “I did some digging about the break-in at your house.” Rooting through her bag, she pulls out a selection of newspaper clippings, spreading them out across the coffee table.
Throughout the years, our meeting points for our Monday get-togethers have become pretty creative, but Mia’s family home is a firm favourite. It’s the only place in existence where we have privacy without people sharing their unwanted opinions. Mia’s parents welcome me with open arms and have always supported our search. They’re truly like the family I never had. They’re an older couple, the kind who’ve been together since they were teenagers but are still completely and utterly in love. Their home is modest and comforting all the same. It’s the kind that has “live, laugh, love” signs scattered along the walls. I even have my own moderately decorated bedroom here if I ever want a place to stay.
Mia says, “I had someone investigate all the burglaries in the area where nothing was stolen. Guess what I found?”
I lift a brow.
“Nothing!” She throws a few discarded papers at my chest. “Every single one had a motive. I hate to say it, but I think your house was specifically targeted, especially if you said they were in Jack’s room. They weren’t looking for money or goods to steal – this was personal.”
My mind wanders to the intruder and a chill runs down my spine. I don’t know who the person was, but my run-in with them left a permanent scar on my brain that refuses to heal. I failed to mention that part to Mia since she’d probably spill her opinion about how foolish I was.
“You’re right,” I say, looking over the papers. “None of us have gone into his room in years.”
“I bet if we find out who it was then we could find out more about how he died. ”
“There’s no doubt whoever broke in wanted something of his. My parents are acting like he never even existed, and when I try to tell them about this they just shoot me down.” I drop down onto the chair beside her, defeated. “They think I’m certifiably insane.”
She sighs, looking over the papers again. “We’ll go through these again to double-check I haven’t missed anything. In the meantime I’ll get in contact with my guy and see if he can dig up anything else on Harold.”
“Harold?”
“Sounds more British. And I love a British man.”
“He was covered in blood when I saw him—”
“Because that’s not hot as fuck.”
“Mia!”
She raises her hands innocently. “I’ve read enough dark romance novels to know shit like that isn’t always a bad thing.”
“Don’t.” I shake my head, retaining my laughter. “Maybe Greg really was telling the truth about him being a bad person.”
She shrugs. “We’ll get my guy to investigate. It’ll take him about a week or so, but if he’s hiding anything, we’ll find it. Trust me.”