Jade

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“Whose idea was this again?” I whispered as I watched Fisher use some kind of tool to unlock the French patio doors.

“That would be yours,” Fisher replied gruffly, focused on disengaging the lock.

“I’m a fucking idiot,” I said.

Fisher didn’t respond, still busy unlocking the door, but as I stood I looked around the grounds again, wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into.

I recognized the grounds, had been in this very backyard more times than I could count. It was different now.

I’d spoken to Nya, got confirmation that she was out of town. Then Fisher and I had gone on a little expedition.

I’d sat next to him as he had scoped out the house, found it abandoned.

As I watched, I had been certain I was going down the right path.

Nya had told me that Patrick and the other brothers had inherited this house from their mother, and to me, it seemed the most logical place to start looking.

Except, there was nothing logical about helping an enemy break into my best friend’s house.

But that was what I was currently doing.

“Why don’t you take the rest of the day, Fisher,” I said testily.

“Would you rather have a crack at it?” he asked sarcastically.

I scowled at him but didn’t answer, and then finally, finally, after what felt like an eternity, the door popped open.

“They certainly don’t scrimp on the security,” Fisher said.

“Well, with the likes of you running around, it’s probably a good move on their part,” I said.

He smiled quickly, and I returned the look, feeling, at least for the moment, calm.

This definitely wasn’t ideal, but nothing about the situation was ideal, and if breaking into the house provided the thing that I needed in order to free Fisher from his past, and spare Nya and Patrick and the others Fisher’s wrath, I would definitely do it.

I stepped into the house, and looked at Fisher as he looked around.

In his expression I saw everything I had expected to, and something that I most assuredly had not.

There was the expected disgust, anger, curiosity, but there was also longing.

I recognized it immediately because I felt much the same thing.

Even in their absence, it was clear, undeniable that this was a family home, a place of love and connection.

Siobhan’s highchair was shoved into one corner, her tiny plate and fork and spoon sitting atop it.

I recognized the mug in the dish rack, one that Nya had gotten from some business trip years ago, one that matched one that I had in my own cupboards.

Everywhere I looked, I saw touches of them, the family, their life, could practically hear the laughter, feel the joy that filled this place.

“Let’s go,” Fisher said, his voice low, slightly on edge.

I followed without protest and watched as he headed directly to the study.

“Why are you going there?” I asked.

“Why not?” he responded.

He wasted no time pulling books off the shelf, seemingly uncaring that the place would look ransacked.

I was stunned for a moment, watched him go through half a shelf before I stopped him.

“Fisher,” I said sharply, pleased when he stopped to look at me.

“What?” he said.

“No. Not like this,” I responded.

“You’re still trying to protect them?” he said.

“Maybe, but mostly you’re going about this completely the wrong way,” I said.

He dropped his hands by his sides and then tilted his head, staring at me.

“What would you call the right way?” he said.

“I call the right way using my brain. What were you looking for here?” I asked.

“I’m just humoring you,” he responded.

“Something that I am very much thankful for. What we’re looking for here is something about the past, so do you really think Patrick’s been keeping that on his bookcase?” I said.

“I have no fucking idea what Patrick might do,” he responded.

No,” I said, rejecting his words. “Be objective. Be smart, Fisher. How would you approach this if it wasn’t personal?”

Fisher looked at me for a long moment and then finally shook his head. “I don’t know,” he responded.

“I get it,” I said, understanding that this was far too much for him, too meaningful for me to expect him to be able to completely detach himself.

So, instead of trying, I decided to take the lead.

“Just follow me. Do you think we can turn on lights?” I asked.

“I checked the perimeter, and there’s no one for at least half a mile. Plus there don’t appear to be any guards. Do whatever you want,” he said.

I nodded and then walked out of the study.

Fisher followed behind me but didn’t speak. I continued through the rest of the house, flipping on a light, looking into a room, and immediately dismissing it.

It was hard to say what exactly was driving me, but instincts, years of experience, I let all of those be my guide.

I went with my gut.

A quick sweep of the downstairs revealed nothing, and I looked at the massive, grand staircase, then glanced back at Fisher.

“I don’t want to go up there,” I said.

“Are you afraid?” he asked.

“No. But it’s…rude,” I said.

Fisher chuckled, but then hooked his arm in mine and started to lead me toward the stairs.

“I don’t necessarily appreciate rude either, but I think we crossed that threshold a long while ago.”

He was right, but his rightness didn’t obviate my icky feeling as I ascended the stairs.

I’d been here before, but never like this, never when I felt so completely like an interloper, an invader.

And never when I was both of those things.

Reminded myself that I was doing this for a reason, one that would be beneficial to all of the people I cared about, both old and new.

We made it to the top of the stairs and I paused, looked left and then right.

I knew that Patrick and Nya’s bedroom was at one end of the long massive hall, Siobhan’s nursery right next to it.

I disregarded that wing of the house and looked to the left, going down the slightly shorter but still impressive corridor.

There were two guest rooms, one on either side of the hall. There was also a bathroom and a bonus space that I knew Nya was using as a playroom.

I kept going even farther, until I reached the very end of the hallway.

There was a small bedroom, less than half the size of all the others.

I felt drawn to it and opened the door and quickly stepped in.

I flipped on the light and saw that the small room was being used for storage, brightly colored boxes containing all of Siobhan’s stuff around, a few other odds and ends.

“What is this?” Fisher asked.

“Servants’ room. They are using it for storage,” I said.

“Why are we in it?” he asked.

I looked at him, saw that his expression was annoyed, filled with some degree of consternation. For a moment I hesitated to answer, not knowing if my words would make sense, but then I went with it.

“A gut feeling.”

I said nothing after that and turned away quickly before I could see Fisher’s reaction. Instead, I looked at the room, studied it, trying to understand what had drawn me to it.

I couldn’t say, but just like I told Fisher, I had the feeling that this was the place we should start. It might not have all of the answers, but I was certain it would have some.

Still quiet, I looked around, and then made my way to the closet in the back.

It was tiny, understandable given the size of the room, but I couldn’t imagine anything more than a few coats, dresses, and pants hanging there.

Right now, it was mostly empty, the boxes that held Siobhan’s things probably far too big to fit in it.

I saw a string hanging from the ceiling and pulled it, giving a celebratory fist pump when the light came on.

The single bulb was almost overwhelmingly bright for the enclosed space, but it illuminated the space well and gave me a sense of what I was looking at.

“Congratulations, Jade,” Fisher said. “We found an empty closet.”

I stopped my examination of the closet long enough to turn and look over my shoulder.

“I’m running this, remember?” I said.

Fisher scowled but soon inclined his head toward the door, his gesture that I continue.

I went on, but my mind was barely focused on Fisher.

It happened like this, when I found myself in an investigation, knew that I was on the verge of some kind of discovery. It seemed like all of my senses were completely attuned to that, my entire body, my mind, everything focused on what was to be found.

I stepped inside the small closet, shifting sideways so that it could accommodate me.

Once there, I ran my hand along the side of the wall, then repeated the process with the other. The wall was smooth, and I could tell from a single touch that it wasn’t the drywall that would exist in a more modern home. Instead it was plaster, the kind that was so seldom used anymore.

Despite the relatively small footprint of the closet, the ceiling was tall, seven, eight feet maybe.

I stepped out of the closet and looked at Fisher who was staring at me intently. “Do you see something for me to stand on?” I asked.

“Why do you need something to stand on?” he responded.

I tilted my head and lifted a brow, and he seemed to get the message.

“No, I’ll lift you,” he said.

“No, I don’t think—”

My words were cut off when Fisher took two steps to close the space between us, wedged his body into the closet, then anchored his hands on my hips and lifted me.

He had a shoulder braced against the wall, with me sitting atop it.

For a moment I was stunned, but I quickly moved into action, not wanting to break the poor man’s back.

I started to tell him as much but decided not to waste my breath. Instead I continued stroking the wall, moving my hand slowly over the rough plaster, that feeling, the one that told me I was close to a discovery getting stronger and stronger.

“You okay?” I asked, pausing long enough to look down at Fisher, who didn’t seem any worse for the wear.

“Peachy. Continue,” he said tightly.

I wanted to argue, but the feeling to search was too strong so without pausing I turned away from Fisher and continued to stroke the wall.

I reached the top, near the left corner and noticed that the plaster there felt different.

There was texture everywhere else, but this patch was smooth. Even though the closet was fully illuminated, the top left corner lay in such a way that it was difficult to see it without shadows.

Still, my gut told me I was onto something. I traced that spot again, feeling the transition point between the textured plaster and the smoother surface. Rubbed the textured part then the other.

Convinced that I had found something, I called to Fisher, “Close your eyes,” I said.

I didn’t wait to see if he complied and instead balled my hand into a fist and began to bang on the smooth surface.

Had I tried this anywhere else in the closet, I didn’t doubt my hand would’ve been injured if not broken, but one punch, a second and the smooth drywall gave way.

I ignored the particles that were floating through the air, as well as the slightly musty scent of the interior of the walls. Instead I hit again, then hit once more and then paused and pushed the debris out of my way.

“You okay?” I asked when I turned to see Fisher with his head down, his arms still locked across my thighs, holding me over his shoulder.

“Fine. I hope you found something,” he said.

I didn’t answer, and instead cleared away the rest of the debris and reached inside of the hole I had just created.

Part of me was freaked out, not sure what kind of creature I might encounter sticking my hand into a hole sight unseen, but even more than the nerves was the excitement, the hope that I might be able to give something to Fisher, find something that would take away some of the hurt that was rocking him, find something that might make this all okay.

I rooted around the hole, feeling nothing.

My stomach dropped a little, but I refused to be dissuaded and instead kept poking, reaching deeper.

Finally, when I had my arm in the wall past my elbow, my fingers brushed against a hard object.

I wanted to shriek, my mind conjuring images of rodent skeletons or some other kind of critter, but I didn’t and instead touched the object again. Then knocked.

It was metal.

“Jackpot,” I said.

I spoke so quietly I wasn’t even sure that Fisher heard me, but I was far too excited to pay attention to his reaction, mostly grateful that he hadn’t sent me flying over his shoulder.

So instead of screaming as I wanted to, I closed my fingers around the object and pulled it and my arm out of the wall.

“You can let me down,” I said.

Fisher did, and despite how distracted I was by what was happening, I felt a trickle of excitement as my body slid down his.

I put that feeling aside, though, and focused on what I had found.

“What did you find?” Fisher asked, his question mirroring my own thoughts.

“We should find out,” I said.

We stepped out of the closet and Fisher paused long enough to turn off the light and then close the door.

“How are we looking on time?” I asked.

“That doesn’t matter. What’s in that box?” he said.

“Do you want to open it?” I asked, extending my arm.

He shook his head quickly, and again I saw that flash of anger, then one of hope.

I set the box down on one of the storage containers in the room and then dusted my hands off.

I wouldn’t be able to get rid of all the plaster until I showered, but once I had gotten rid of the loose debris I went for the box.

It was metal, a flat document box like the ones they used at safety deposit boxes.

I hoped this one didn’t have a key.

I tested the lid, and to my surprise it pulled open quickly.

The hinges were rusted, the box definitely having seen better days, but the inside was pristine.

I reached inside and pulled out the small stack of items I had found there.

I hadn’t missed the first thing I had seen, an official-looking document, probably a birth certificate with footprints on it.

I shifted through quickly, saw a bracelet like the kind they put on babies at the hospital, and a few pictures.

That feeling that I had before, one where I was an interloper came back but even stronger.

I wasn’t sure what had drawn me to this place, wasn’t sure how I had known what to look for, but I had no doubt. I found exactly what I had been looking for, and it belonged to Fisher.

“Do you want to see this?” I asked.

He was standing close to me, but his back was turned. I could sense that he wanted to look anywhere but at the box.

“Tell me what’s in it,” he said.

I nodded and then began to look at the documents.

I was right about the first being a birth certificate.

“It’s a birth certificate. Your birth certificate,” I said.

“It has a birthday, your weight, 8 pounds, 6 ounces, in case you were curious.”

“I wasn’t,” Fisher said, though I could hear the hurt in his voice.

“Do you want to see it?” I said to his turned back.

“It’s probably forged,” he replied, his affect flat, but the flatness not doing anything to hide the depth of his emotion.

“I doubt it. If it is, it’s a very good one. Has a raised seal. Super old-school but hard to duplicate unless you know somebody on the inside,” I said.

“What else is there?” Fisher asked, his way of telling me, I was sure, that this portion of the conversation was over.

“Hospital bracelet for Murphy, Fisher.”

“What else?” he said, voice still flat, emotion still coming through loud and clear.

I didn’t answer immediately.

Instead I flipped through the pictures.

There was one of a tiny baby, a newborn all wrapped up in a blanket. Underneath, in feminine cursive someone had written Fisher, two days old.

“What is it, Jade?” Fisher asked.

“A picture. Of you,” I said.

“What else?” he asked through clenched teeth.

I turned to look at him, saw that he was standing tall, his fingers curled into fists at his side. I let my gaze linger a moment and then went back to my task. I continued to flip through, came across another picture, one that I studied intently.

One look at the woman in it, and I knew it was Fisher’s mother. Her hair was long, brilliant red, but even through the years that had passed, the trauma that had obviously passed, I looked at her face and saw that it was her, looked at her eyes and saw that they belonged to Fisher.

After I studied her, I looked at the rest of the picture. His mother was kneeling down, and next to her were three little boys. Two of them were slightly older, three, four, maybe, and between them sat a younger child. Maybe one.

I flipped the picture over and in that same feminine handwriting she had scrawled Patrick, four. Declan, three. Fisher, one.

“What is it?” Fisher asked.

“A picture. A picture of Patrick, Declan, and you, Fisher,” I said.

I walked toward him, my hand extended as I circled him to face him. He didn’t look inclined to take it, but I didn’t leave him any choice.

I stood in front of him, my arm out, certain that I wouldn’t move, not a single inch until he took the picture.

He seemed to want to fight me, but in the end he grabbed the paper out of my hand and looked down on it.

I studied his face, feeling like I was intruding somewhere I didn’t belong, but also unwilling to look away.

His expression was impassive, his face not moving a single millimeter.

But his eyes, his eyes told the entire story.

They swirled, emotion in them, real, deep.

“What’s this supposed to mean?” he asked.

His voice trembled at the very end of his sentence, but I ignored that, and simply said, “Let’s take the stuff and get out of here.”

He looked at me, seeming surprised at what I said.

“What? You want to stick around?” I asked.

He didn’t respond, but handed the picture back to me.

I loaded it and the rest of the documents back into the metal box and grabbed it, clutching it tight to my chest.

This wasn’t my life, this wasn’t my fight, but I would guard these documents, and what they meant with everything I had.

Because Fisher might not know it, he might not accept it, but everything he had believed for his entire life was wrong.

And now I had proof.