A Game Of Three: Between Love And Death

Amber

Today is undoubtedly the worst day of my life.

I thought the day I found out that I’d been kidnapped as a child would qualify for the top spot.

Instead, it’s today, the first day at my new house in Washington state, about as far away from my home in Catskills, New York as geographically possible.

The black Mercedes we’re riding in pulls up to a gate outside of a towering three-story mansion. It looks like a white cube with too many eyes, its numerous windows overlooking Lake Washington.

With its flat roof and starkly modern aesthetic, it’s the exact opposite of the 1830s farmhouse that I grew up in.

It’s also surrounded by reporters.

I shrink down in the back seat, taking comfort in the tinted windows and doing my best to avoid the flash of cameras, the waving of cell phones, and the raucous chatter that’s haunted me for the better part of the last six weeks. Six weeks of pure, unadulterated hell.

The gate slides open and the car rolls forward, leaving the flock of reporters and influencers behind a wall of stark metal pickets.

“Well, we’re here,” Elizabeth Bricks says, pulling into the four-car garage as I struggle to take in a shuddering breath.

I suppose I should call her Mom, right? Considering she gave birth to me. But then again, I was stolen from a daycare center when I was two years old, and I don’t remember anything about her except the smell of her perfume.

The moment she walked into my grandparents’ house, and I took a deep breath, I felt it in my bones: she’s telling the truth.

When I was two, I was kidnapped, abducted, taken away from her.

I remember none of it.

All I know is that one day, my life in New York was perfect and easy and comfortable, and the next …

“I want you to think of this place as home,” Elizabeth says, looking up at the rearview mirror and doing her best to smile at me.

Her face says she’s exhausted, but then, so am I. And she’s the one that wanted this, for me to come and live with her, when I was perfectly happy where I was.

She also pursed her lips and sighed when I refused to sit in the front seat, choosing to curl up in the back instead and watch the airport fade into the distance.

My last connection to home.

Elizabeth can call the hulking multimillion-dollar mansion whatever she wants, but home will always be twenty-two-hundred square feet of wide plank floors, funny little built-ins, and a kitchen that always smelled like Grandpa’s cooking.

This is not home, and it never will be.

I’m trying not to be a bitter pill though, so I force a smile as I open the door and step out onto the shiny epoxied floors.

My stomach lurches with nerves as I haul my backpack up my shoulder and wish with all my heart that I was at home helping my best friends Daisy and Fanny pick out their outfits for Zade’s party on Friday.

Zade was the boy I had a crush on before I was dragged into this mess. Likely, I’ll never see him again.

“Right this way, sweetie,” Elizabeth tells me, heading for a side door and opening it for me.

She stands aside, waiting for me to step onto the white marble floors in my hand-me-down sneakers. They used to belong to my older sister, Elena.

Well, the girl I thought was my older sister anyway. Learning that I was kidnapped as a child by some crazy woman and given to her parents to raise meant that I wasn’t actually Elena’s little sister. That’s the part of this whole thing that hurts the most.

I move into the house and stop short in the cavernous entryway. Everything in this house is white. I mean, truly. It’s white-on-white-on-white.

My stomach lodges in my throat as I look up at the only organic shape in the room: the curving staircase with its metal bars, like a jail cell. That’s what it feels like in here: a gilded cage.

“Who the fuck are you?” a voice asks, drawing my attention away from the staircase and over to the doorway across from me.

It seems to lead into a kitchen/living room area of some sort, but it’s impossible to take note of any of that because there’s a shirtless guy standing in front of me, covered in tattoos, and holding a half-gallon of milk at his side.

The carton has a picture of a teenager on the side with the words MISSING CHILD printed above her head. That’s what I am. Me. A ‘missing child’. “And what are you doing in my house?”

“Caden,” Elizabeth warns, her tone maternal and familiar but harsh at the same time. “Knock it off. This is your sister … Amber.” She chokes on that last word a bit, but I guess I can’t blame her.

It’s the name my kidnapper gave me, not the one she did.

Caden—apparently this is the hot shirtless guy’s name—has an expression on his face that tells me he couldn’t give two craps less what Elizabeth has just said.

He knows exactly who I am and why I’m here. His words are meant to inflict pain: I know who you are, and I don’t care; I don’t want you here.

I just stare back at him.

His eyes are almond-shaped, the color of hazelnuts with a splash of honey, and his mouth is full and lush, if not a little sharp at the edges, like he practices speaking cruel things on a regular basis.

His hair is thick and wavy, a feast of dark chocolate, with a few naturally sun-bleached bits that tangle around his forehead. He looks mussy and tired and pissed all the way off.

As I watch, he lifts the milk carton to his lips and chugs it while Elizabeth sighs.

“We do own glasses, Caden,” she says, her heels clacking across the floor as she moves past me toward the stairs. “Please pour the rest of that down the sink, and next time you get milk, use a cup like a civilized person.”

Caden smiles prettily, but that edge is still there, making the expression more like a smirk. Also, he isn’t looking at Elizabeth; he’s looking at me.

Actually, assessing might be a better word.

Reflexively, I find myself putting my hand over my stomach. There’s an ember in there, something hot and crafted of refined, undiluted rage.

Oh my god, I hate this fucking guy. Two seconds in and I’m staring at someone that makes my skin hot, my muscles tight, and who even manages to draw a few beads of sweat from my forehead. That’s how intense and immediate my reaction to my new ‘brother’ is.

This dude is a complete and utter tool, a tattooed Chad, a narrow-eyed, sulky, pouty, too-rich-for-his-own-good diva bastard. Great. Just fucking great. An Instagram model come to life with the personality of a pissed-off sloth. Slouchy, annoying, entitled.

I grit my teeth and force myself to exhale. Remaining calm is paramount; it’s essential. You can make it through this, Amber.

You’ve got this. And then, of course, Caden speaks and has the audacity to wink at me which just enrages me even further. I’ve never had this reaction to another human being. Never. He’s got sketchy vibes for sure.

“There’s nothing about me that’s civilized, Mother,” Caden drawls, sounding bored as he looks me over from head to toe, sizing me up with a single glance.

As soon as he’s made his pass, he’s done, and I can see a hardening in his eyes: he’s dismissed me.

The thought is fucking infuriating.

But I promised my grandma that I would try. I promised Elena. I promised myself. And that's what I'm going to do even though I dislike my 'new' brother.