Blood Vines

CHAPTER TEN

Thursday, February 18

11:00 A.M.

Nothing he could have said would have rocked her more. She simply stared at him, unable to find her voice.

“Actually, Dylan was your half brother. I’m sorry.”

A half brother. She’d had a half brother and a family in Sonoma. How could she not remember? People couldn’t just forget things like that, could they?

The detective was looking at her strangely, as if she was some sort of freak for not knowing these things. She didn’t blame him; she felt like one.

“Tell me about him,” she managed, voice small and choked.

“He was abducted from his bed. Your mom and Harlan had left you with his fifteen-year-old daughter.”

“Rachel?”

He nodded. “Nobody knows for sure what happened. Someone entered the house and took Dylan. No ransom demand arrived, and he was never found. Your mother’s marriage ended. She took you and left.”

Alex clasped her hands together, imagining her mother’s anguish. What would it be like to lose a child that way? To never know what happened, if he was alive or dead. If he had suffered and cried out for her.

“She never told you any of this?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Mother was always… secretive. I always wondered why. I always thought…” She let the words trail off.

He picked them up. “Always thought what?”

She met his gaze. “That she was hiding something. But I never imagined it was something like… this.”

“And you have no recollection of your time in Sonoma or your brother?”

Alex shook her head again. How was it possible she had blocked it all out? “Do you have any photographs of him? Or any of my stepfamily?”

“My parents do. Harlan does.” He cleared his throat. “I hate to ask, but could I have a look around? I’m hoping whatever your mom wanted to tell me didn’t die with her.”

Alex followed while he searched. They didn’t speak, and truth be told, she was there in body only, her thoughts on the things he’d said, sorting through the way she felt about them.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of any help,” she said, when he had finished and come up empty-handed.

“Here’s my card. If you think of anything, some comment your mother made, anything at all, call me.”

“I will.” She walked him to the door. “You’ll let me know if that baby turns out to be my brother?”

“Of course.” He held out a hand. “It was nice seeing you again, Alex.”

She took it. “You, too, Dan.”

“Call me Reed. Everybody does these days.”

A moment later he was across the porch and down the front steps, heading to his car. She watched as he climbed in and drove away. For a long time after he had gone, she wandered the house, thoughts whirling.

Anger and betrayal rose up inside her. She’d had a brother. A stepfather and stepsister. Her mother had kept them from her. Why?

If only she’d picked up that last call. Her mother had been ready to tell her everything. From her own lips, with explanations.

Now, she would never know why.

Fury took her breath. She wanted to scream, strike out at someone or something, kick and wail. How could her mother have done this? This was her history, her family. Whatever had occured had happened to her as well.

Of course. She started to pace. Something missing, she’d always felt that way. As if she had an empty place inside her that she’d kept trying to fill up.

A place that had once held a brother she loved-and who had been stolen from her.

Literally. And figuratively.

How had her mother managed to keep his existence hidden from her all these years-

Hidden.

Photographs. Mementos, official records. Dylan had been her child, she wouldn’t have destroyed all that remained of him. She couldn’t have done it, even in her deepest despair.

Alex moved her gaze over the room. If she had kept a box of mementos, where would she have hidden it? Here in the house, no doubt. A place she could easily access, but Alex didn’t frequent.

Or wasn’t allowed.

Her mother’s bedroom. Of course.

Alex ran up the stairs. Like the rest of the house, her mother’s bedroom had become part art studio. She picked her way around drawings in progress, laid out on the floor, crossing to the dresser. Beginning with the top drawer, she rifled through them, tossing the contents into a heap on the floor.

Nada. Nothing.

Undeterred, Alex moved on to her mother’s closet, then bathroom, the vanity drawers, tearing them apart. From there she moved from one room to another, until she had searched every drawer, closet and compartment.

Still she came up empty.

Her mother destroyed her art, why not all physical remnants of her son? The thought planted and Alex stopped, heart racing. No. She refused to believe that. Somewhere in this house her mother had stashed a record of her son’s short life.

The attic, she thought. The only place left.

She made her way there, pulled down the attic steps, then climbed them, cold air swirling around her as she ascended. When she reached the top, she yanked the cord attached to the single lightbulb.

Weak light illuminated a lifetime of stored stuff. Brown cardboard boxes, dozens of them, stacked one on top of the other. A cry rose in her throat. Where did she start? It would take her days to go through every box.

Whatever she had to do. One step, one box at a time.

She began at the front right. Her progress was slow; between the cold and the dust, her nose began to run. It’d be smart to go grab a coat and gloves, but she refused to stop even for the few minutes that would take.

Her gaze fell on a large steamer trunk, the kind people had used in the 1800s for cross-Atlantic travel. It was locked, she saw. Secured with a combination lock, the kind she had used on her high school locker.

Heart thundering, she made her way to the trunk. She gazed down at the only thing between her and its contents.

She tried a couple obvious combinations: her mother’s birthday, her own birthday, consecutive numbers. When those didn’t work, she looked around for something to break it open with.

Her gaze landed on an aluminum baseball bat propped up in the corner. Alex retrieved it, lifted and swung. On the third whack, the lock gave. She removed it, released the hasp and opened the trunk.

Her breath caught. Inside, her mother had carefully stored photographs and letters, stuffed animals and baby toys. A christening gown, she saw. Several unbearably small, blue outfits. A binky. Booties.

Alex caressed each item, rubbing the soft fabric between her fingers, then against her cheek. She buried her face in a Teddy bear’s fuzzy belly and breathed deeply. Was it her imagination or did it still smell of baby powder and formula?

Her chest tightened and tears stung her eyes. A brother-her brother. One day she had awakened and he was gone. How had she processed it? She must have been frightened and confused.

Alex wiped the tears from her cheeks and gently laid the bear back in its makeshift bed. She chose a small photo album next, opened it and stared transfixed at the first photograph.

Her mother. Young and lovely. Smiling-no, beaming-for the camera, a baby cradled in her arms. And beside her, gazing up in adoration, was her three- or four-year-old self.

She’d never seen her mother happy, Alex realized. Manic, yes. But never like this-glowing with joy.

What part had the loss of her child played in the woman her mother had become? What part had it played in her illness? Her violent mood swings?

With a sense of desperation, Alex flipped through the album, soaking in the images of people she didn’t know, studying their faces, expressions, body language. Everything. Longing to remember.

From downstairs came the sound of the front door slamming. She swung toward the stairs. “Hello?” she called.

“Alex? Where are you?”

“Tim! I’m up here! In the attic.”

Moments later he appeared at the top of the stairs. “Alex? What the hell-”

“I had a brother,” she said, voice shaking. “A stepsister, too. Come look.”