42. Trojan horse – aurora
42
TROJAN HORSE
AURORA
T he similarities are undeniable.
It’s not at all like looking into a mirror. The computer-generated woman in the photo has a slightly stronger jaw and a longer, more oval-shaped face. But her eyes look like mine. Same shape. Same shade of green. Her hair isn’t the same length as mine, but it is the right color, too. Or at least it is now that I’ve dyed mine back to my naturally darker shade. There’s something in the curve of the nose, too. And in her cheekbones.
Does Atticus really think this is me ?
I push the image away.
“This can’t be me,” I blurt, my heart pounding too fast. Too hard. “This girl went missing in Oregon. I was dropped at a fire station in upstate New York. That’s the other side of the country.”
I am not related to the sadistic fuck who destroyed Elijah’s family. No way.
My skin feels hot. Tight. Like a million tiny bugs are crawling over me, biting me and pinching me.
Atticus shakes his head, worry in the crease of his forehead. “No, no, no. I’m not saying it’s you, Aurora.”
I force myself to swallow and press my fingers between my knees until they ache from the pressure. “Then…why…?”
“It could be you,” he continues. “If we make Ambrose think you’re his lost daughter, it could get us the ‘in’ we need.”
“No way he’ll go for it,” Seven interjects. “He’s definitely going to DNA test anyone who comes around making a claim to be this girl. Do you know how many people would love to blink and be a fucking millionaire? There are probably hundreds of women who fit this description lined up for the job already.”
“There are,” Atticus admits. “Or at least there were when this was first posted in the summer. And you’re right. He is DNA testing anyone who he thinks might actually be her. But we have something they don’t.”
“Which is?” Eli pushes when Atticus doesn’t immediately say.
“A contact at the genetic testing facility that Ambrose has been using. A contact who is willing to adjust the results of any tests done on Aurora for the right price.”
He really seems to know a guy for everything, doesn’t he?
“Well, what about her history?” Eli asks. “Ambrose will look into that, too. Trace her back to her actual parents and…”
Eli’s voice grows muted as I push the photo of Ambrose’s daughter off to the side, sliding the one of his wife a little closer with trembling fingers. I look a little like her, too. My stomach sours as I trace the line of her face. I don’t recognize her. For one fleeting second, when I first saw the image, I thought she seemed familiar.
God, how many nights did I spend wishing my mom would come back for me? Wondering if she regretted leaving me behind. If she would look for me someday. I don’t even remember her name.
I wonder what actually did happen to this woman and her baby. I’m not sure I want to know.
“Aurora?” Atticus says, and when I look up, I find three pairs of eyes watching me.
“Oh. Sorry, did you say something?”
“You said you were dropped at a fire station?” Atticus asks. “I tried to find more information on your, um, family—the people who gave you up—but it’s all sealed. Is there anything Ambrose would be able to find?”
“Uh…” I think, but everything feels disjointed and a little foggy, and I think I really should’ve had that third coffee, after all. I swallow and try to bring some moisture back to my dry mouth. “Not really. All I know is that I was dropped at Bellerose Fire Station when I was about three. I was left with this necklace and a note.”
Eli must notice my shiver because he drags the throw from the back of his chair and hands it to me. “What did it say?”
I pull the plush blanket over my lap. “Not a lot.”
Fuck, why does it still sting to remember? Spit it out, Aurora.
“It just said, ‘ Her name is Aurora ’ and ‘ I’m sorry .’ That’s what they told me when I went back to ask when I was eighteen. The guy who I talked to was there the night I was abandoned. He said it was a woman who dropped me off—saw her in the camera footage. I don’t even know if she was actually my mom.”
But I always assumed she was.
Elijah slips from the armchair to sit on the floor next to me. He takes my hand in both of his, and it makes it hurt more. And less.
Atticus probably didn’t find any records because there were none from before that day, and I’m forced to remember it every fucking year on my ‘birthday’. It’s the day she left me. I was too little to remember when my birthday actually was, and the doctors figured I was close enough to being three years old to just put that date on my new birth certificate.
June fifteenth. Now, I hate that whole damned month.
“She could work even better than I thought,” Atticus mutters, and I’m not even sure he realizes he’s said it out loud as he begins to flip through the rest of the documents in his file.
“Dude,” Seven barks at him, indicating me. Indicating that he’s being a callous prick. But I’m used to callous pricks, and, to be honest, I don’t want their pity. I don’t want the fucking spotlight. But I definitely do want them to stop looking at me the way they’re looking at me right now.
“Sorry,” Atticus says, and I don’t miss the way the vein in his temple pulses when he clenches his jaw.
“I never knew my mom, either. It sucks. I get it.”
There’s a hard bite to his words that makes me believe him. I didn’t expect that. I wonder why he never got to know her, but by the guarded expression on his face, I can tell he isn’t interested in sharing.
“It’s fine,” I say, trying to match Atticus’s emotionless tone. I wonder how he got so good at that—making it seem like things don’t hurt when that couldn’t be further from the truth. Maybe he’ll teach me someday. “I don’t even remember her, and it was a long time ago.”
Seven leans forward over his knees to steeple his fingers, shadows hooding his eyes. “So that was your plan, then? Use her to get us inside?”
I notice how he says was . As if he’s already dismissed Atticus’s plan. I’m not sure why he would. With the guy willing to forge the DNA test, it actually sounds pretty airtight. It could work depending on what they’re hoping to get out of it.
“A Trojan horse,” Atticus nods to Seven, but he’s looking at me now. “If we can get you inside, and if you can get him to let his guard down and really make him believe you’re his daughter…Aurora, I just need access to his personal devices. His computer or his phone. Something that would have the information we need to find where he was keeping Eli and the Ashfords’ collection. Once we have that, you’re out. You won’t ever have to breathe the same air as that bastard again.”
My lips part, but no words come out. There’s so much hope in Atticus’s warm stare.
It doesn’t sound that hard, really. I’ve played a lot of different roles in my life. Squeezed my whole-ass self into a myriad of different-shaped rooms to fit the whims of whoever held the key.
I know how to handle bad men. How to play into their twisted narratives and keep myself safe. Or at least keep myself alive.
If I do this—put on a new mask and fit myself in that box just one more time—at least some good would come out of it.
“I…”
Eli’s grip on my hand tightens. “No.”