Page 3 of Reverie

“Need a hand?” he asks, reaching out to me.

I don’t dare take it.

Another sigh. “Don’t be so damn stubborn, Hunter.”

With one hand holding his cigarette, he pulls me to my feet. The world spins for a few seconds before stabilizing. He directs my movements, leading me to the long-cushioned sofa that lines a significant portion of the veranda. It’s often moved around the space depending on the needs of the crowd. Now, it arcs in front of the stage where the artists who come to the island perform.

He drops me onto a pillow without care.

Taking in another draw, he says, “You know, son.” He speaks while holding in the cigarette smoke. A beat later, he exhales.“You’ve brought this all on yourself, you know.” He flicks the end of the cig.

“You are so damn much like me.” He smirks.

What a terrible thought.

The door to the patio slides open, and Father prevents my view of the people who enter.

“Let’s see if this jogs your memory.”

Father steps aside, and icy panic rushes down my face.

Mom.

Amelia Brigham never comes to Isla Cara. But now she’s here—her mouth covered with tape and her arms and legs bound as three of Father’s guards drag her along the tile before they drop her onto the stage.

Everything goes silent—the wind stops, the ocean and the air seem to hold their breaths.

“Father, I-I—” I stammer.

“I-I,” he mocks. Walking to Mom, he presses the burning cigarette over her right eye socket.

Her screams cause all sound to resume—the crashing waves, the violent breeze whipping through the trees as the storm presses on, thethump-thump-thumpof my heartbeat between my ears.

Even though the thick tape covers her mouth and muffles the sound, it’s as loud as though she were yelling into a microphone.

“S-stop!” I lean forward, engaging all my muscles to stand and rush to Mom. Once I’m upright, Father removes the butt from her face…only to whirl around and backhand me so hard I fall back into the sofa cushions.

Spinning. Spinning. Everything tilts.

Hetsks.

“Hunter,” he says with a tone bordering on caring.

“Hunter, it’s simple. We can bypass all this drama. All you have to do is tell me.” Father holds his hands out to his side, a single rivulet of smoke wafting from the almost spent cigarette.

I don’t grab my cheek. Instead, I look at him over my shoulder for a hard moment. Likely seeing the resolve I channel into my expression, he flicks the ash one more time, takes a long draw, and exhales as he crushes the cigarette beneath his foot.

“Okay,” Father says, much in the same way one might say, “As you wish.”

I painfully flip around so that I face him. One of the guards observing the scene moves from his spot across the veranda and enters the server area. He crouches to search for something and returns a few moments later to stand next to Father with a gallon glass jug in one hand and a pair of rubber gloves in the other.

Father moves to Mom, tearing the tape off her mouth.

Once freed to speak, Mom grits her teeth and says, “Let him go, Benjamin.” Each word is a pointed stab aimed at tearing at my father.

He smiles at the assault.

“And why would I do that, Amelia?”