CHAPTER 12 – SUSPICIOUS MINDS
Hunter
Iset the photo on the shelf and step back, arms crossed, pretending this is normal.
The frame is silver, the matting white, and the glass catches the city light so the whole thing glows.
In the picture, I’m fifteen years younger and grinning in an oversized shirt, with my arm slung around a stick-figure of a girl who’s both elated and mortified by the camera.
She’s got braces and a spray of sun-bleached hair and a face too sharp for her years.
If you squint, you’d almost mistake her for Daisy. Almost.
I try to line the photo up so that if you’re sitting at the desk and look left, you can’t miss it. There’s a logic to this, a ritual—if you want someone to remember, you give them something to stumble over. It works with passwords and childhood memories and, I hope, amnesia.
The penthouse is quiet, the only sound the hum of HVAC and the occasional click from the fridge’s ice maker.
Sunlight pours through the north-facing windows, spattering the floor in geometric grids.
I move to the next photo, a candid from some long-ago barbecue: me, mid-twenties, beer in one hand, burger in the other, standing behind the grill while that same scrawny girl tries to sneak a hot dog from the plate.
In this one, she’s wearing a pink swimsuit with red bows at the shoulders.
The shot is mostly innocent, except for the way her eyes tilt toward the lens, as if she’s already plotting her future as a heartbreaker.
I slide the frame to the edge of the shelf, adjust the angle so it’s obvious but not desperate, and try to ignore the knot in my gut. This feels wrong, like staging a crime scene for an audience of one.
But it has to be done. Unfortunately, I don’t have any recent shots of Tara. Everything’s from years ago, and to be honest, I’m not sure she’ll recognize herself as a young girl. But it’s worth a shot.
My work done, I turn around. The home office is minimalist, but not cold: dark walnut, brushed steel, a set of absurdly expensive ergonomic Scandinavian chairs.
The glass wall to the living room is always clean, so the light flows in in a bright glitter.
At night, the city glows behind it, towers and traffic and the constant promise of something happening just out of frame.
I check the clock—five minutes until the Zoom with Tokyo, which is really just four execs in a boardroom, faking jet-lag and waiting for me to give them permission to print money.
I glance at the shelf, at the parade of faces and years and accidents, and feel the old sense of unease stir.
After all, is this really a good idea? There are two versions of the girl I know—the one I bought at the auction, soft and blonde and so utterly ripe with her big breasts and round ass; and the one in these photos, all edges and mischief with a sprinkle of freckles across her nose.
I want them to be the same girl, but I have no idea if I’m doing the right thing.
I leave the study door open on purpose, like a baited trap.
I’m halfway into a suit jacket when I hear the faint pad of feet from the master. Daisy walks through the main room, blonde hair like a golden stream, wearing a t-shirt that’s two sizes too big and nothing else. She sees me at the office door, smiles, then disappears down the hall to the kitchen.
I want to call out to her, tell her to come look, but I can’t. I have to pretend this isn’t a test.
Instead, I go to my desk in an adjoining room, open the laptop, and click into the video call. Four faces bloom to life, each more boring than the last.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” I say, settling in. My voice is pure steel—years of public speaking, of making weak men feel like they’re in on the secret, even when the secret is nothing at all.
“Mr. McCarren,” says the senior partner, bowing from the waist even though he knows I hate the formality. “It is always a pleasure.”
I run the numbers, say the right words, and nod at the right slides.
But my head is half in the next room, listening for any sign of Daisy.
There’s a clang of dishes, the hiss of the espresso machine.
I imagine her drifting through the penthouse, distracted and perfect, the way she moves when she thinks I’m not watching.
I hear her open the fridge, then close it too hard. I picture her standing there in the spill of light, maybe eating a piece of fruit, maybe just enjoying the sunlight, lost in thought.
I wonder if she’ll see the photos.
The call drones on—ROI, cross-market synergy, the word “innovation” used like a bludgeon. I say yes, I say no, I promise nothing. All the while, I keep an ear cocked toward the hallway.
Guilt simmers in my chest. I tell myself that this is for her own good, that if she remembers, we can finally talk about it.
Maybe even move past it. But I know better.
I want Daisy to see the photos so she’ll ask questions, but I also want her to forget forever, so I can keep her exactly as she is: blank, beautiful, and mine.
I can’t have both.
The call ends. I close the laptop and sit in the silence, not moving.
From the kitchen, I hear a soft, startled sound—a sharp intake of breath, the kind you make when you recognize someone you’ve never met. It’s followed by the slow, cautious footsteps of a girl who doesn’t trust her own curiosity.
I keep my eyes on the laptop, but my heart is pounding.
She’s coming this way.
Daisy stands in the doorway, half-hidden by the trim, arms folded across her chest like she’s cold, even though the thermostat is locked at seventy-two. I don’t look up. Instead, I slide a pen between my fingers, make a show of finishing some fake notes, and let her stare.
She enters quietly, steps careful, the way you do in a museum when you’re not sure what’s off limits.
The study is small but deliberate—every item chosen, every angle calculated for effect.
Daisy drifts to the shelf, eyes skimming the books, then lands on the first photo.
She picks it up, tilting the glass to kill the glare, and for a long time she just stares, thumb tracing the curve of the metal frame.
I watch through the open doorway, every muscle rigid.
She glances at me, then back to the photo. “Is this you?” she asks, her voice soft.
I nod. “A long time ago.”
She studies it closer, squinting at the girl beside me. “Who’s the girl?” Daisy asks, careful.
“My stepsister,” I answer, keeping my tone flat.
There’s a pause. “You look so young,” she says, and there’s an ache in it I can’t parse. Is she jealous? Or just lonely for her own lost past?
I force a laugh. “Yeah, it was ages ago.”
She smiles, sets the picture down, and moves onto the one where she’s wearing the pink swimsuit with red bows. Daisy frowns, lips pursed, as if the images are a puzzle she can’t solve.
“Are you and your stepsister close?” she asks, quieter now.
Holy fuck, how do I answer this? I just came with my cock buried in her asshole last night, both of us groaning with ecstasy as I filled her with jizz, so I answer in a neutral tone. “We are, in our own way.”
“Hmmm,” she murmurs.
“She grew up,” I tell her. “Got beautiful.”
For a moment, I imagine Daisy throwing the frame at my head. Instead, she laughs—a quick, shaky sound—and sets it down. “She looks like someone I used to know,” Daisy says, and I can tell she’s unsteady. Her hands are trembling. She tucks them behind her back.
“Do you ever remember anything new?” I ask, gently. “Any flashes?”
She bites her lip, shakes her head. “Not really,” she says, but her eyes dart to the window, then back to the shelf. She picks up the barbecue photo—the one with the swimsuit and the hot dog. Her thumb slides over the image of the girl’s face, just for a second, before she puts it down.
“Do you ever talk?” Daisy asks, looking straight at me now. “To your stepsister, I mean.”
I swallow, again wondering how to answer this without stating a bald lie. “Sometimes.”
There’s a tension in the room, like the air is waiting for us to finish the story.
Daisy moves to the chair, perches on the arm. The light catches her hair and she looks almost translucent, unreal. “I feel like I should know her,” she admits. “But it’s just blank.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
After a long minute, she sighs. “Sorry if I sound weird.”
“You don’t,” I say, and I almost believe it.
She glances back at the photos, then stands up, smoothing the hem of her shirt. “Do you have more of these?” she asks, casual.
“In storage,” I say. “At my parents’ place.”
She turns to face me, blue eyes wide. There’s a flicker—fear, maybe, or just nerves—but she covers it with a smile. “We could go there,” Daisy says, the words a dare.
I let myself imagine it: driving her out to the old house, showing her the basement full of boxes, the faded posters still taped to her bedroom wall. I wonder if any of it would mean anything to her, or if she’d just stand there, hollow, as the past spilled out at her feet.
“I’d like that,” I tell her.
She nods, but I can tell she’s uneasy. “Will your parents be there if we go?” she asks.
“Probably not,” I say. “They’re in Florida this week. It would just be just us.”
She exhales, relief or disappointment, I can’t tell.
I close the laptop, stand up, and move to the shelf. I pick up the photo she was tracing, the one from the barbecue, and hold it out to her.
“Are you sure you don’t recognize her?” I ask, soft.
She takes it, stares for a long time. Her jaw clenches. “No,” she says, almost too fast. “I would know if I’ve met your stepsister before. Besides, she’s old now, right?”
I shrug.
“About your age.”
Daisy sets it down with shaking hands, and then leaves the room.
I stand in the silence, staring at the photo, and wonder if I’ve just signed my own confession.