50. Mason
FIFTY
MASON
The conference is in two hours, and I’m trying like hell to keep my nerves under control. Everything is riding on this moment—on Olivia being who she says she is.
Olivia, who I watched park in the driveway fifteen minutes ago, walk in like she owns the place, and make her way to distract my father until it’s time to leave.
I walk through the house, making my way to the office, my body on edge from the blood sizzling through my veins. I pause when I pass the formal living room, my mother staring at the family portrait hung in the middle of the gallery wall.
My chest pinches, and even though I know I should walk away, that time is short and there are important things that have to happen, I can’t stop my feet from moving in her direction, part of me aching at the thought of upending her world in just a few short hours. She’ll never win any mother-of-the-year awards. My nannies were more viable candidates, but she’s still my mother .
My insides quake, the little boy in me never quite being able to let go of aching for her love and attention. “Are you okay?”
She snaps out of whatever daze she was in, her perfectly manicured hand coming up to touch the pearls around her neck as we lock gazes. “I’m just fine, honey. Do you remember when this portrait was done?”
I nod slowly, my eyes taking in her posture, not wanting to look at the picture that houses memories from that time of my life. “I do,” I say carefully.
The truth is that I remember this day well.
In the portrait, I’m wearing a long-sleeve maroon sweater over khaki pants. But that was a secondary choice made by my father’s assistant. Originally, I was in a polo, picked out by a team of stylists who were preparing us for this picture-perfect moment. When I came downstairs to the living area, the outfit was short-lived. My mother walked over, her eyes appraising me before lingering on my arms.
I remember the feel of her stare as it burned into the fresh scabs from the night before. I had tried to sneak into her room, steal concealer to cover them, but there was only so much I could do, and the job was spotty at best. My insides cramped, trying to hide them from her view, not wanting anyone to know what I did late at night in the corner of my bathroom. I was worried that if she found out, they’d somehow figure out how to take that away from me too. My only form of release. The only thing I had control over doing.
Her lips thinned, pressing so tightly against each other that the edges turned white, and then she snapped her fingers, calling over one of my father’s many assistants. “He can’t wear this shirt. We need long sleeves. Find something.”
And then with one last sweeping gaze over me, she turned around and walked away.
The cuts from that night were my deepest yet.
Snapping out of the memory, I look over at my mom, my stomach churning with pain. Is she really going to bring this up now? I’m not sure what I expected to see when she asked the question, maybe some remorse sneaking through her features, an apology poised on the tip of her tongue.
But I don’t get either of those things.
I just get a small, wistful smile and her ever-vacant stare. “Those were the days, huh.” She sighs.
Her words punch through my chest, my teeth grinding until I feel the tension radiating up my jaw.
“I’m having brunch with the ladies, so I’ll meet you at the press conference.” She walks over, pressing a chaste kiss to my cheek before leaving the room.
Pushing down the ache of wanting a narcissist’s love, I focus back on what’s important.
This is my chance.
Glancing at the time, I see that we have a little less than an hour and a half before we’re due at the capitol’s steps in downtown Salem, where my father has decided the grand gesture will be. “A strong statement from a strong family.”
I make my way down the long hall, my stomach somersaulting with nerves. This is a gigantic risk. There are cameras. Everywhere . And while the house isn’t bustling with people yet, in less than thirty minutes, it will be, and if someone has any suspicion whatsoever that something is going on, then this is all fucked. Then I’m fucked.
This can’t fail. There’s no other option.
My heartbeats stampede through my chest, pounding so loud I worry someone will hear as I approach his office door. It’s locked, of course, but I’ve spent years getting into places that should be impenetrable, so it only takes a flick of my wrist and a paper clip for me to hear the click of the door, my stomach jumping at the noise.
I make my way in, eyes scanning the area for where Olivia said the safe would be: hidden behind a picture frame. But when I look around, my heart drops through my stomach like a rock because the entire fucking room is lined in photos. Fucking great, Olivia. Again, I question if this is all a setup.
I’ve set a timer on my cell, to make sure I’m in and out of the room in less than five minutes, my brain replaying the code for the safe. Olivia slipped it to me after a media-training session yesterday.
35-0-72-16
Sucking on my teeth, my stomach knotted so tight I can hardly breathe, I make my way to the photo closest to me and work my way down the line. Skimming my hands along the portraits, I attempt to lift up the bottom of the frames, my fingers running on the wall behind. Not it.
I move to another one, so similar to the one my mother was just staring at in the living room, my hand sliding under the ornate gold rim. It lifts easily, and my heart jumps into my throat as my fingers touch metal. I glance around, my vision searching for the cameras. I can’t see them in here, but I know they exist.
My heart bangs in my eardrums, my hands sweating from nerves as I lift the photo, revealing the safe underneath.
Holy shit. She was telling the truth.
I’ve just reached forward to enter the code when the sharp crack of wood slats sound from down the hallway. My blood turns to ice, my lungs being punched from fear. I hold my air in, like even the sound of my breathing will alert someone that I’m here.
Did they see me? Is all of this about to go to shit?
I wait for a few moments, but when I don’t hear anything else, I turn back toward the safe, my stomach lighting up like fireworks, sparking off my insides and shooting down my legs.
35-0-72-16
A lock unlatches and I blow out a shaky breath, my stomach as tight as a fist. A chill skates over my back, goose bumps sprouting along my arms, and I pause again, my saliva thick as it coats my mouth from the anxiety.
The safe itself is filled to the brim. Gold coins, a few stacks of hundred-dollar bills, files of paperwork. But then, in the back corner, there’s a box, and my gut just knows . Breathing deep, my gut tenses, and I reach behind everything else, grabbing it and unlocking the latch.
Bile immediately churns at the contents. Because Olivia was right. There are pictures. Lots of them. And they aren’t all of her.
My heart squeezes as I sift through the images, my vision blurring with anger from the snippets of depravity that this man who created me caused. On innocent souls. On girls who weren’t even old enough to know better. My phone vibrates in my pocket, alerting me that my five minutes are up, but I stay rooted in my spot, unable to move. Lost in the horror of what he is. Of whom I’ve been created from.
Noise from the hallway, louder than before, creeps through the walls and my heart jackhammers against my ribs, spurring me into movement. Grabbing all the pictures, I stuff them in my jacket pocket, latching the box and shoving it to the back.
Footsteps grow closer, and my brain whirls, stomach dropping to the floor, hands slippery as they stumble to close the safe and pick up the heavy frame to hang back up on the wall.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I get it back in place, furiously scanning the room, dread pumping like caffeine through my veins as I try to find a spot to hide, praying like hell that whoever it is doesn’t try to come in here.
Even if I do hide successfully, they’ll know that the door shouldn’t be unlocked. Fuck.
“Hey, where are you going?” Olivia’s muffled voice flows through the door, and my heart ceases to fucking beat. It must be my father. Shit. I’m frozen in my spot, afraid that if I move, the noise will let him know that I’m here. Their bodies create shadows that appear at the bottom of the door, and I suck in my breath, holding it in my lungs.
My stomach is in knots, tightening further with every second, my forehead collecting beads of sweat like treasure.
“I told you to get presentable, Olivia. We have somewhere to be,” he snaps.
“Well, yeah, but…” Her voice trails off, and I hear something thud, the doorknob jostling from the movement.
My stomach twists.
She giggles. “I wasn’t done with you yet. Come back to the room.” She whispers something else, her voice too low for me to understand.
He groans slightly, and nausea churns in my gut, but it soon turns to relief as I hear footsteps walking away.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I collapse against the edge of his desk, my body shaking from the adrenaline.
Waiting a few more minutes, I blow out unsteady breaths, dying for a cigarette to calm the nerves. Walking to the door, I crack it open, looking both ways to make sure the coast is clear, and then walk as fast as possible out of the hallway and back up to my room.
And now, I just pray that no one checks the security footage or notices anything is amiss before we leave.
I look at the clock.
One hour to go.