Chapter 2
HARPER
Asingle key rests in the palm of my hand. It looks sad, or is that just me projecting?
I draw in a breath and puff out my cheeks, releasing it with a whoosh as I slide the key into the lock and turn. It clicks, the sound loud against the eerie silence of the hallway.
Home-sweet-home.
I glance behind me at the door opposite, the one that supposedly holds my protection squad. Are they watching? Passing judgement? Ready to defend me with their lives, should I require it?
I’ve clearly watched too many spy thrillers.
Turning the handle, I push open my new front door and step inside, surprised by the contrast with the dingy hallway. Natural light floods the space, and the air smells of fresh polish, as though someone has recently cleaned.
Pulling my case behind me, I close the door, flicking the lock into place.
I move into the room, taking in my new surroundings.
An open-plan kitchen sits in an alcove off the main living area.
It’s small, but neat. Two sash windows overlook the street and the building opposite.
The main area contains a table and two chairs, a comfortable-looking sofa, a TV, and a coffee table.
It appears to have been newly decorated.
Throwing my bag and jacket onto one of the chairs, I move past the TV and sofa towards a narrow hallway leading to the bedroom and bathroom.
Dropping onto the edge of the large double bed, I study the room where I’ll be sleeping for the foreseeable future.
A wardrobe unit stands against the interior wall, providing shelving and a small amount of hanging space.
I think of the enormous walk-in wardrobe I have at home, full of all my beautiful clothes, shoes, and bags.
Another lifetime.
I bounce slightly, testing the mattress. Firm yet soft.
I stand and turn before smoothing out the dent I’ve made in the covers.
Across the hallway is another door. Pushing it open, I step into the bathroom.
I flick on the light. A bath with an overhead shower and a clear screen occupies the far wall.
The washbasin sits on top of a storage cupboard beside the toilet.
The tiles are grey and white. At least it’s clean.
You’ve got this, Harper!
Stepping back into the hallway, I return to the living area and move towards the small bank of cupboards that constitute my new kitchen.
Opening each door, I peer inside. Cups, plates, and bowls fill one space.
The next is full of tins and packets of various kinds.
Soup, beans, tomatoes, including several I semi-recognise.
Another contains pots and pans. Time to dust off those rusty cooking skills.
I’m sure I can magic something up. I pull open the fridge and stare wide-eyed at the amount of food inside.
“Not creepy at all,” I say, picking up a bottle of my favourite juice.
I move a few things, finding the drawers stocked with a variety of fresh fruit and vegetables.
How many people do they think are living here?
Not that I’m ungrateful, but I’m not sure I can get through all this, and I detest waste.
I snag an apple and close the fridge door before rinsing it and taking a bite.
Closing my eyes, I imagine myself back in Mum’s kitchen.
The sharp, fresh taste explodes on my tongue.
I open my eyes and back away, sinking onto the sofa, as the truth settles over me.
My heart races as I take in the compact, functional living space and think of The Seamstress and her dictate.
Welcome to my new reality. This isn’t a week-long holiday. It’s home, at least until they can unravel the shitshow that has become my life. I close my eyes and swallow against the tight ache in my throat.
Fuck!
After I finish the apple, I throw the core into the bin before moving to the door and checking the peephole.
There were cameras in the hallway. I shielded my face from their view on my way up.
Not that anyone would expect to find me here.
Harper Frazer has always frequented the best hotels and attended the most exclusive parties. But isn’t that the point?
Hiding in plain sight.
There’s no movement at the doorway opposite. Are they even in there?
I spin around. Are they watching me? Do they have cameras inside the apartment?
Scanning my surroundings, I inspect the few accent pieces that have been clearly added for decoration, turning each one over in my hands.
I pull over a chair and check the lights and the air-conditioning unit.
Nothing seems amiss, but then, I don’t really know what to check for.
It’s been years since Elijah went over this stuff, and I’m sure technology has changed.
Only after I’ve gone over every inch of the place do I finally sit down and open my bag, pulling out the phone Pen gave me. How did The Seamstress know about it? At least she didn’t confiscate it.
I fire off a message on the family chat Pen set up before I left.
ME:
I’ve arrived.
I snap a couple of photos out of habit, then delete them the moment I remember her warning. Incognito Harper. I close my eyes and exhale. Besides, what are they going to say? Looks lovely, Harps.
Even the apartment Caleb built for April in the rafters of her dance studio is bigger than this.
No one replies. Shit, it’s the middle of the night.
My eyes sting as a thickness builds in my throat. I swallow down the tears that once again threaten.
“Don’t you dare!” I say, giving myself a mental shake before sliding the phone into the inside pocket of my bag, zipping it away.
Self-pity holds no utility, isn’t that what they say?
I wheel my suitcase into the bedroom and hoist it onto the bed.
No luggage rack here. Unpacking doesn’t take long.
I sort through my clothes, setting most aside as unsuitable for my new life.
Designer clothes from Prada, Gucci, Dior, and St Clair do not fit the image of a small-town nobody from a little-known place in England.
Harper Frazer doesn’t live here, Brooke Feldmann does.
Grabbing the manila envelope, I tip the contents onto the bed, locking my passport and driver’s licence in the small safe attached to the wall. I place my certificates and CV back inside.
The booklet lies on the bed and stares accusingly at me.
I’ve memorised it. The Seamstress wasn’t wrong when she said I have a photographic memory, but I refused to leave it behind.
Too many what-ifs. It’s not like I could burn it on the plane, and if I tore it up, what if someone put the ripped pieces back together?
Guilt pulses through me, but it’s not like I’m going anywhere. I’m stuck here. The thought of all the cameras, people, and press means I’m trapped inside.
What if someone recognises me? What if my security detail is too far away and can’t get to me in time? What happens then?
The hairs on my nape and arms rise, and my muscles tense. A fate worse than death. Isn’t that what she said?
I press a fist to my chest and try to slow my thundering heart. I close my eyes as a wave of dizziness overtakes me.
Unzipping my bag, I recheck my phone. Still nothing.
I wrap my arms around my waist and lean against the wall beside the bedroom window, watching the street below and all the people with places to go and families to return to.
I turn away as the ache in my chest intensifies.
After years of fighting for my independence, I want nothing more than to be at home playing Monopoly with my family.
I bite my lip, stilling the growing tremor.
Fuck!
My phone rings.
I sway, my knees going weak.
I glance down at the display. Unknown number.
My stomach drops.
I accept the call and draw a breath.
“Hello?” I say quietly.
“Harper?”
I pause.
“I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong number. Er, who is this?”
I close my eyes, my stomach tightening, the sound of my name on someone’s lips jarring.
“Sorry, this is Sophia Bianchi.”
Mum’s friend. The thought is surprisingly soothing. I exhale slowly, calming my racing heart.
“Mrs Bianchi,” I say. “This is Brooke. Brooke Feldmann.”
“Of course, Brooke,” she repeats. There’s a brief pause. “Please, call me Sophia. Mrs Bianchi reminds me of when I was CEO.”
“Sophia,” I repeat.
“How are you settling in?” she asks.
“I’m fine,” I say, grimacing.
“I was calling to invite you to visit me tomorrow at my home. It will be good for us to meet face-to-face.”
I allow some of the tension to drain from my shoulders.
“I’d like that,” I say.
Seeing and talking to another human being, someone who knows the real me, will be liberating.
“Good. Ten-thirty?” she asks.
“I’ll be there.”
“No need. I’ll send my driver. I live outside New York City. It will be easier that way.”
“Thank you. I look forward to it,” I say truthfully.
“See you then.”
I drop back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling.
The silence closes in louder than before.