“The sun watches what I do,
but the moon knows all my secrets.”
—J.M. Wonderland
I had a dollhouse when I was seven. We got to keep it for three whole months before Mama found it. She labeled it a game of the devil and banished it from our trailer.
It was a hand-me-down from Batshit Crazy Betsy’s granddaughter, and its walls were bent and caving in. The tiny furniture pieces were so faded we couldn’t distinguish their color. Even the finger-sized dolls were chipped, their clothes torn.
Frankie had eyed the pieces when we first got them, picking them up one by one and inspecting their damage closely. Within seconds, she found a way to fix them. That’s one of the traits I’ve always admired about my big sister, how she takes things into her own hands.
She’d borrowed—and I use that term loosely—another neighbor’s makeup and fabrics then gave the dolls full makeovers, complete with posh dresses and eyelash extensions. She used the extra scraps of fabric to add rugs and curtains to the house’s interior.
“You see, Emmy,” Frankie said, modeling one of the dolls and having it do a full body spin. “Now no one has to know.”
“Know what?”
“About the damage, of course. You show people what they want to see, and they’ll never suspect what’s underneath.” She stroked the toy’s hair, which was now combed and tied back with a ribbon. Then she leaned forward, toward its ear. “You’ll be the perfect little doll now, won’t you?”
If dolls could feel, I imagine that one would have felt exactly as I do now. The black-walled corridor I follow Aubrey down is lined with small mirrors. Each one only serves to cement the odd, hollow sensation in my chest. If I took a moment to stare at my reflection, I might find myself on the surface eventually, but our brisk pace means that each step only teases me with fleeting glimpses of a stranger.
My hair is still straight, hanging to my waist, but the black strands are sleek and glossy, shining in a way I’ve never seen before. The extensions sealed to my already thick lashes feel heavy on my eyelids. Shimmery specks from the golden shadow create an unnatural sparkle in my sky-blue eyes. The concealer hides any trace of the light freckles sprinkled along my nose and cheekbones, making my fair skin look porcelain against the black of my hair and dress.
And all I see is another doll.
Aubrey stops so abruptly I almost crash into her. I glance around, seeing that we’ve reached a small sitting room with a single bench.
“Sit here,” she instructs. “I’m going to check if they’re ready for you.”
She disappears through an open doorway that leads into the dining room. I shift on the bench, craning my neck to try to catch a peek of the men who are to seal my fate in this house. The men who’ve likely already sealed Frankie’s.
A stab of unease pricks my spine, forcing me to sit straighter. The Matthews. Brothers, maybe? Family of some sort? Whoever these men are, they’re the only lead I have to Frankie’s disappearance. The last place I know she was headed before her letters stopped coming.
Mama could assume she’s still out chasing paper all she wants, but I know better. Since I’ve never had my own phone, and Mama didn’t make it easy for me to sneak over to Betsy’s trailer and use her computer, Frankie made sure to write me through snail mail at least once every month. Always. I knew something was wrong the instant that second month arrived with no mail. By month three, I called the police station and tried to file a missing person’s report. None of the officials took the claim seriously. When half the town, law enforcement included, has paid the woman in question for an ‘adult evening,’ it’s almost impressive how quickly she loses credibility.
The truth is I can’t say I blame them. Frankie left Mississippi the second she turned eighteen, off to pursue modeling in New York. It wasn’t unusual for long stretches of time to pass without anyone in our neighborhood seeing her. She liked to pop up without notice and surprise me, then disappear without a word until a letter would arrive in my mailbox the following month explaining whatever new dreams she was chasing at the time.
You and me, she’d always say. One day we’re gonna forget all this and be sipping rum off the coast of Hawaii.
At twenty-five now, her lifestyle choices—flirting with both the law and the boundaries of common sense—have always come with repercussions. She knows this as well as I do. Like me, her choices have left permanent marks imprinted on her life. But then, she’s always been larger than life.
Which is why when she showed up out of the blue eight months ago, shoving the few belongings she still had in our trailer home into a duffle bag, I didn’t blink. Her movements were wild, frantic, as she stuffed the bag till it overflowed, a nervous excitement radiating off her.
“This is it, Emmy,” she’d said as she pulled open the drawer of her nightstand and ruffled through some old photographs. “The real deal.”
I propped a hip on the side of our dresser and folded my arms over my chest. “You say that every time, Frankie.”
“No.” She paused, her hand frozen mid-search as she looked up at me. Her deep brown eyes went a shade darker, her expression shifting to something serious, thoughtful. “I mean it this time. If you had the chance to get away, and I mean really get away—forget Mama, forget it all. Would you take it?”
I frowned, parted my lips, but I didn’t know what to say. What I really wanted was to ask her not to leave me again, to beg my only friend in this world to stay just a little while, but I knew I could never voice those thoughts aloud.
I’m a bird trapped in a self-made cage. Frankie is as free as they come.
“If your honest to God answer is no, then I’ll call the whole thing off,” Frankie said, taking a slow step toward me. “I’ll stay home for a month. Maybe two.”
“Really?” Skepticism trickled into my voice.
She nodded once. “Really. But no bullshit, Emmy. Just truth. What if . . . what if there was a place you could finally just,” she shrugged a shoulder, glanced sideways toward the box that hid my artwork, “be you. All of you. Without consequence. Without judgment.” When she looked back at me, her eyes were wide, lips tilted downward. She wore all the innocence of a little girl depending on the honesty of my answer. “Would you do it, Emmy?”
A knot formed in my throat. I wanted to lie, to beg, to insist. But we both knew my answer. I couldn’t even imagine that kind of freedom. “Yes.” My voice cracked. “I would.”
Looking back now, the words we shared that day take on a whole new meaning.
“Emma?” Aubrey’s voice pulls me back to the small sitting room, and my eyes find her standing in the open doorway. “I said they’re ready for you.”
“Oh.” My response comes out shaky as I stand, my new contacts making me blink rapidly. This is what I wanted, I remind myself. Don’t fuck it up. Spine straight, chin up. I clear my throat. “Thanks.”
Aubrey nods toward the dining room behind her. “You’ll do fine,” she whispers as she starts to steer me past the doorway. “Just remember the contract. Unless you’re like me, do what you can to get claimed.”
The contract. Get claimed.
Deep breaths.
The second my foot crosses the threshold, four male pairs of eyes hit me. My chest rises and falls. My skin feels clammy against the tight dress.
The dining room is dim, enclosed by the black walls I’m becoming accustomed to. It’s lit only by a modest chandelier above the small, rectangular table where the Matthews are seated. I don’t know if it’s the shoddy lighting or the adrenaline suddenly pumping through my veins, but I can’t seem to focus on any one man long enough to make out his appearance.
All I see are frames of big, dark, and suits.
“Matthews,” Aubrey greets them with a nod, “meet Emmy Highland. Your newest secretary.”
For a moment, the room is so still I’m afraid to breathe. My chest is too tight. Their silent, concentrated stares are tiny needles prickling beneath my dress. When another long minute passes and still no one speaks, I flick my gaze to Aubrey, hoping I’m the only one feeling the awkwardness.
Except she isn’t there.
My fingers start to fidget, but I catch myself and clasp my hands together. You show people what they want to see, and they’ll never suspect what’s underneath. Right, Frankie?
A throat clears. The sound is rough and whips my attention to one of the two men seated directly across from me. The other two sit at each head of the table, one to my left and the other to my right.
“Emmy.” The throat-clearer speaks with a strange sort of authority. It’s the kind of voice that trails off, like it has a secret. Like he knows my name better than I do. “Well, aren’t you going to join us?”
It’s not until then that I see the empty chair positioned across from the speaker and the silent man beside him. I force my legs to bring me forward, hoping my movements are fluid despite the unease rolling through me as I slip into my place at the intimate table.
“Ah, much better,” the man drawls. “No use having a beauty like this one under our roof if we can’t even see her.” He winks, nodding toward one of the other men who chuckles.
With the lighting directly above our heads and my pulse settling, I can finally see them clearly.
Since only one man has spoken directly to me, I focus on him first. His face is all sharp angles with a long nose and pronounced cheekbones. His dirty-blond hair, parted mostly on one side, is smooth and long enough to stroke his collar—a very expensive looking collar. I don’t know suits, but his reminds me of wedding attire.
Looks too high maintenance to be my type, but he’s the kind of handsome Frankie would fall right into.
“Excuse my rudeness,” the man says, amusement dripping through his tone. “Allow me to introduce myself.” He stands, and I would have cocked an eyebrow if I wasn’t so on edge. Does he think standing for introductions makes him more of a gentleman? He extends a hand. “Raife Matthews.”
I force a smile I hope is charming as I rise to slide my hand into his. “Nice to meet you, Raife.”
“Aha,” he says, something dark dancing behind his golden-brown eyes, “so she does speak. I was beginning to worry this one was defective.”
Bitterness bites at my tongue, begging to be unleashed. But then, what kind of men did I expect to find in a place like this? Remembering the reason I’m here, I swallow my distaste to humor him. I need to play the part if I’m going to get close enough to these men to figure out their role in Frankie’s disappearance.
My lips curve just a hint, my index finger playfully stroking his palm when he releases my grip. “I do more than just speak.”
A low chuckle slides past his lips as he tilts his head. His eyes narrow. “We’ll see about that.” Before I can respond, he’s gesturing toward the man at the left end of the table, and I lower into my seat. “This is Felix, the brains of us Matthews brothers.”
Brothers.
Raife smirks again, and I swear it’s like he can read my mind. A shiver crawls up my spine at the thought, reminding me to watch every tick of my expression.
Felix holds out a hand, but he doesn’t stand, and I’m glad. At least that’s one less pretense. “Don’t mind Raife here,” he mutters, giving me a lopsided grin while we shake. “Not all of us are creeps.”
Raife rolls his eyes. “Don’t let him confuse you, sugar. He’s just as fucked up as the rest of us. Some of us just wear our creep on our sleeves.”
I glance back at Felix. He’s probably a good five years older than me, but he’s got a younger face than the others; soft edges and wide eyes beneath a mop of light brown hair. My gaze lowers to his bright suit—such a contrast to the darkness of the room. His white button-down shirt is layered under the thin straps of suspenders and a crisp, grey vest, but it’s his bowtie that steals the show. The thing is large enough to look like a caricature, and it’s a vibrant shade of blue I’d love to paint with.
I expect Felix to argue or deny Raife’s statement, but instead he shrugs, something dangerous flickering in his eyes. “Touché, brother.”
The tiniest spark of hope that I may have found a decent brother quickly deflates.
“Although,” Felix adds, nodding toward the opposite end of the table. “If any of us have mastered our creepy sides, it’s that one.” I glance to my right, then fight the urge to shrink into my seat at the sight of the third brother. “Emmy, meet Griff.”
Griff doesn’t say a word. Even seated, it’s obvious they’re all tall, well-built men, yet Griff is far bulkier than the others. His massive frame crushes the chair beneath him.
He wears a black and white tux like Raife’s, but his arms are wide enough they threaten to split the material. His brown hair is shaved in a military cut, his lips are turned down in a scowl. His eyes, however, are enjoying a slow perusal of me, starting from my waistline and inching their way up until they land on my chest.
When he runs his tongue over his teeth, I suppress a shudder. The darkness I’d glimpsed in his brothers’ eyes is nothing compared to the black holes staring at me now.
“And then there was one,” Raife murmurs, turning to the man sitting beside him. A hint of amusement is back in his voice as he looks to the remaining brother, almost deviously.
For the first time, I shift my eyes to the silent man sitting across from me. He’s staring straight at me, still partially shadowed as the weak rays of light above the table struggle to reach him. His head is angled a fraction, his thumb stroking a lightly stubbled jaw. Like he’s assessing me. Judging me.
My skin flushes, heat rushing to my cheeks, and I hate it. Has he been watching me so closely the entire time?
Broad shoulders dipped, his posture’s more relaxed than the others. The top of his black button-up is undone, hinting at a sculpted chest. No jacket, no tie. The glass table reveals that his long legs are spread. Comfortable. And yet a wave of tension courses through him, beneath it all. He’s rolled up the sleeves of his crisp shirt, allowing me to see the tendons of muscle straining in his forearms as he clenches a fist, then releases.
His hair—shaved on the sides, longer on top—is as black as my own, blending into the walls that encase us. But where my skin is porcelain, his is olive-toned.
I dart a glance to the other brothers. He doesn’t resemble them. Come to think of it, none of them look alike.
“Well, don’t be shy, Adam.” Raife nudges his brother’s shoulder. “Introduce yourself to the beauty.”
The man, Adam, doesn’t take his gaze off me, but one corner of his lips twitches up. His eyes, though, flash dangerously. Deadly. They’re such a dark blue they almost look black in this lighting. I can’t tell who they mean to threaten more: me or Raife.
His eyelids lower, his gaze burning me from within as it drags down to my lips. Then stays there.
Somehow the subtle movement feels more obtrusive than Griff staring blatantly at my chest. My throat goes dry. I try to swallow but can’t. Suddenly being claimed by any of the others doesn’t seem so bad.
“Of course. Brother.” The words are bitter. The deep baritone of his softly spoken voice prickles my skin as his eyes break away from my lips.
He aims them at Raife, whose own lips curve as though the pair of them are sharing some sort of private joke. A joke only Raife seems to find amusing. A silent dare colors each of their expressions, tainting the air with something dark, heavy.
Felix shakes his head at them as though in warning, but Griff remains far more interested in me. Neither of the men is as sucked into the interaction unfolding before us as I am. Something flips inside my stomach as their stare-down begs me to look away. But I’m stuck, held hostage by the strange and twisted energy filling the room.
What is the joke, exactly? And why does it feel like it’s at my expense?
“I hope you’re enjoying your first day.” Adam’s chair scrapes along the white marble as he pushes back and stands, the motion shattering the intensity and flooding my lungs with relief. The relief quickly turns to ice, though, because then he’s walking around the table, right toward me, and I can’t suck in a breath.
He stops directly beside my chair, then lowers himself just enough to put his lips by my ear. Warm breath strokes my cheek, my neck. When his thumb comes up and brushes my hair from my eyes, a fiery tremor runs down my spine.
“It’s going to be interesting,” he whispers, his voice so soft, so smooth, it would almost sound soothing if I weren’t listening to the words, “watching you break. Emmy.”