37. Lincoln
LINCOLN
Gravel crunched beneath the tyres of my SUV as I brought it to a stop outside the front entrance of my family’s mansion. I knew that the news of my visit would make it back to my father, but he was in London right now, so there was nothing to stop me from doing what I needed to.
The mansion was dark and silent as I padded through the cavernous entrance hall.
The staff were probably either asleep or had retired to their own quarters for the night.
I’d disabled the security as soon as I got inside, so no one should bother me, but there was still another hurdle between me and my goal.
My father had a separate lock on his office door, and I didn’t know the code.
I also had no knowledge of lockpicking or code breaking, so that was a no go.
I couldn’t endanger Daniel, Mike, or Tilly, and that left me in a nearly impossible situation.
So here I was, creeping through the house and hoping against hope that I could pull off a miracle because I didn’t have a plan B.
I couldn’t involve Mike in this because I’d be jeopardising his career.
If I told Daniel, I’d be risking him and his family and friends at a time when they needed to lie low.
Until Operation Foxglove concluded, they were all at risk, and I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to him or anyone he cared about.
That didn’t even take into account the likelihood that he’d get his uncle involved, at the very least, and the situation between our families would deteriorate even further.
No. It was just me, and I alone had to pull off this plan, because otherwise, we were all fucked.
Ascending the winding staircase, I reached the tall window that bisected the small landing that split into two further sets of stairs, each leading to a separate wing of the house.
Moonlight glinted on the glass, a shaft hitting the huge chandelier hanging from the ceiling, refracting silver light around me.
I paused for a second, holding my breath as I listened to make sure I was still alone, and then I took the staircase to my left.
“Nolan?”
I jumped out of my fucking skin as a slight, shadowy figure appeared in the doorway of the bedroom opposite mine. Rubbing at my chest in an attempt to calm my racing heart, I exhaled slowly. “It’s me. Lincoln.”
My mother detached herself from the shadows. “Lincoln. Did you come to see your brother?”
I squeezed my eyes shut, swallowing hard. This was another reason I hated coming home. Sometimes she pretended that my dead brother was alive, and even worse…sometimes she called me by his name.
“I came back to get some things from my room.”
“Come and see your brother’s new rug.”
My fucking father enabled her delusions, and I knew it couldn’t be healthy. She was so composed, so ruthless in business, and it was so hard to reconcile the seasoned lawyer with this fragile-looking woman floating around in a silk dressing gown late at night, talking to ghosts.
Steeling myself, I stepped into the room.
It was decorated identically to mine, its mirror opposite, but this room was filled with love.
An unhealthy love, yes, but I guessed it was easier to project your ideals onto a person who didn’t exist, rather than the living, breathing, flawed human who was still around.
I think that was one of the reasons they sent me away to boarding school so early. They didn’t want the reminder of what they’d lost, that I’d lived and he hadn’t survived.
“It’s a handmade silk-wool blend. I got it for his birthday. I thought he’d appreciate it.” She caught herself. “If he were here.”
I let out a breath. Okay, good. She wasn’t pretending he was alive.
“He would,” I said gently. “Maybe we should get some sleep. It’s getting late.”
“Yes.” She blinked, the hazy, faraway expression instantly disappearing from her eyes. Then there was the hard, ruthless woman I knew, straightening her shoulders as she took on her usual haughty tone. “What are you doing here? You should be at your university.”
“I told you, I came back here to get some things from my room. I’m staying the night.
You know I sleep better here.” That was a lie—I barely slept when I was in this echoing mansion, but my mother didn’t know that.
She had no interest in my life. I turned the question back on her before she could interrogate me any further. “Aren’t you supposed to be in London?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I needed some files from my office for my case.” She stepped towards the door, already bored with our conversation. “I’ll be returning tomorrow.”
“Oh, okay. Good luck with the case.”
Giving me a sharp nod, she swept out of the room, leaving me alone.
I scrubbed my hand over my face. Between my fingers, I stared down at the expensive rug. A gift for Nolan’s birthday.
My parents hadn’t even remembered mine.
A memory tore through my mind, sudden, vivid, and devastating, leaving me gasping for breath.
“Happy birthday to you,” three of the staff members intoned.
I fidgeted in my seat, wishing I could change out of my uncomfortable, scratchy shorts.
At the head of the giant dining table, my father had his nose buried in the paper, and across from me, my mother was busy consulting with the gardener… something about flowers and seasons.
I sighed, glancing to my left at the empty chair. A plate, shiny cutlery, and a crystal cup were on the table in front of it.
“Seven years old!” the chef announced, placing a towering cake in front of me. I couldn’t even reach the top to blow out the candle. Carefully, I climbed up on my knees, balancing my hands on the edge of the table.
The tablecloth material was shiny and slippery, and— Oh, no! My hands were sliding on the material, and my knees were wobbling. Quickly, I grabbed at the cloth to stop myself from toppling over, but that was the worst decision I could’ve made. I was falling.
There was a loud crash as my body hit the floor, with cutlery and cake raining around me. I curled into a ball as the edge of my plate struck the side of my head.
I cried out in pain.
A hand came down, yanking me upright. I stumbled, agony radiating down my arm as it was pulled, hard.
“Lincoln! What do you think you are doing?” My father’s voice was full of rage, and I automatically flinched away from him, my lip trembling.
“I-I’m sorry. It-it was an accident.”
“You ruined the cake. Do you have any idea how much it cost? You selfish, clumsy boy!” His hand flew out, catching my cheek, and I gasped as white-hot pain bloomed across my face.
“Get out of my sight,” he boomed, and I half ran, half staggered towards the door, desperate to be alone so the tears that were choking me could fall.
If I dared to cry in front of him, that was asking for him to hit me again.
I ran blindly through the house, ending up in the tiled mudroom, where we kept all the wellies and outdoor equipment.
Pulling myself up onto the padded bench in the corner of the small space, I curled myself up as small as I could and finally let my tears fall.
It was safe to cry here. No one could see me. No one could hear me.
No one ever came.
Much, much later, when it was dark outside, I crept out of my hiding place, back through the echoing hallways towards the kitchen. My stomach was rumbling. Hopefully, I’d be able to steal some food now that the chef was gone for the day.
Voices came from the open door up ahead, and I stopped, holding my breath. My parents were in my mother’s office.
“…I know, Cressida. He’s a selfish, ungrateful boy,” my father murmured, and something sharp hurt me inside, like someone was in me, stabbing my heart with a big knife.
“He ruined the cake. I had that especially ordered from the Cotswold bakery the royals use.” My mother sniffed.
“We can order another for Nolan’s birthday. He would appreciate the efforts you went to,” my father soothed, and I bit down on my lip until I could taste blood, hot tears filling my eyes all over again.
My mother sniffed again, her voice coming out shaky. “He would never disappoint us. I wish he had lived instead of Lincoln.”
“So do I,” my father said.
Tearing myself out of the memory, I strode into the corridor and entered my own bedroom, rubbing at my stinging eyes. Sinking down onto the bed, I dropped my head into my hands, my throat working as I attempted to get myself back under control.
My fingers trembled as I reached for my phone, scrolling to the social media profile of the person I’d recently admitted that maybe I didn’t hate after all.
@linkb_flames:
you awake?
Rising to my feet, I crossed to the window, cracking it open and letting the chilly night breeze in. The air in the room was stale—I doubted anyone had been in here for months, except for the cleaners giving it a quick dust.
My phone buzzed on the bed, and I dived for it, throwing myself onto my back and resting my head against the mound of pillows. The lump in my throat dissolved as I read the message, a strange peace filling me as I pictured Daniel lying down, smiling at his phone as he attempted to provoke me.
@danhfirestarter:
can’t sleep either? or are you too busy daydreaming about me? so sweet. you should’ve stayed although you would’ve been waiting a while. the debrief took forever but suffice to say we got some good info. can’t talk about it but will catch you up in person
oh wait are you watching the hockey? did you see that fight just now? they could learn something from me and you
My lips tugged upwards. I got why he was paranoid about mentioning anything that could potentially be incriminating over social media, so I concentrated on his second message. I liked the fact that he was watching the game and thinking of us.
I liked it too much.
@linkb_flames:
you’re deluded if you think i’m daydreaming about you. i’m not watching it, gonna catch the highlights tomorrow. what happened?