Page 102 of Corpse Roads
Hunter takes a mouthful, wincing slightly at the burn. “Try it and find out. Go easy, though.”
“Am I even allowed to drink?”
“You’re an adult. Decide for yourself.”
Hunter watches as I take a sip, letting the fiery mouthful slip down my throat and warm my belly. It tastes awful, but I kinda like it.
“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”
I cough and manage another mouthful. “People can surprise you. I’m not a kid you have to look after.”
“I’m aware.”
“So talk to me like an adult.”
Sitting back in my armchair, I stare straight into Hunter’s perceptive orbs. He holds my gaze without attempting to hide it.
“You have been here before,” he reveals.
I take another sip of liquor, despite feeling sick at his words. Deep down, it isn’t a surprise. I’ve felt the impending doom for a while now.
“When?”
The fire dapples light across his symmetrical features. “When you were a child. Your name isn’t Harlow Michaels.”
The bar falls away until it’s just us, stargazers chasing the next meteor shower, now caught in the path of imminent destruction.
“Pastor and Mrs Michaels aren’t your parents. They don’t actually exist. Those are pseudonyms your kidnappers chose.”
My heart shatters against my ribcage. “So, I don’t exist?”
“Your name was Leticia Kensington. Who you choose to be now is up to you.” His brows are furrowed. “Harlow is the name they gave you when you were taken from your family, thirteen years ago.”
All I can do is stare blankly as my entire world burns to ashes around me. I should feel something, anything, but my body is numb. I can’t find it in me to shed a single tear.
“It was all a lie,” I say in a dead voice.
“I’m sorry, Harlow.”
From the pocket of his wet coat, Hunter retrieves a white envelope. He hesitates before pulling out a small stack of photographs and placing them on my trembling leg.
“Leticia loved to draw,” he says quietly. “She was a keen reader, well above her age range. Her mum had to ban her from staying up late, hiding under her duvet with a torch and a book.”
He turns the first photograph over. Two adults stand on a beach not unlike the one we just found, a wrapped-up toddler swinging between them.
“She enjoyed playing on the beach,” he continues, his irises poisoned by emotion. “Her grandma lived nearby. She’d take Leticia to feed the seagulls and get ice cream, even in the winter.”
The next photograph shows a wizened, silver-haired woman with a little girl bouncing on her knee. Her loving smile strikes the killer blow.
“I know her.” I pick it up and run a finger over her face. “She smelled like gingerbread biscuits and loose-leaf tea.”
When I found the courage to look in the mirror a couple of weeks ago, it was hard to face the grief staring back at me in hollow-eyed brutality. The little girl cuddling her grandmother is still me, but younger, healthier.
“Why now?” I choke out.
He clasps my shaking leg. “We’ve found your real mum. You’re not related to those monsters, and you never were.”
I swallow my remaining drink in three quick gulps. It doesn’t help the rising magma of rage seeping into my veins.