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.

Amber

“Nice to meet you, Caden, I’m Amber,” I grate out as pleasantly as I can, stepping forward and offering a hand.

His are covered in tattoos, literally drenched with ink. There are matching sunbursts on the backs of either hand, letters decorating his knuckles. Both arms are covered, too, and much of his chest.

I know he’s a bit older than me—seventeen as opposed to sixteen—but I can’t imagine how he got so much ink so fast.

He stares at my hand for a moment and then takes another swig of milk. I notice he doesn’t get a single drop of white stuck to his lips. My hatred for him doubles. Triples.

Quadruples with each subsequent swallow.

“Ben’s coming over in a few,” he tells Elizabeth, and she bristles with irritation.

“Caden, shake your sister’s hand,” she snaps, her voice stretched thin with fatigue from the long flight.

We flew business class—of course we did—but she’s still tired, and so am I. Drained. Empty. Emotionally destroyed. “And tell Ben he can spend a few nights at his own place. We have family stuff going on here.”

With another chug of milk, Caden turns and shuffles back into the living room, barefoot and wearing plaid pajama pants and nothing else.

Against my will, my eyes glide over the smooth muscles in his upper back, traveling down the curve of his spine and finding a taut, trim waist.

A drip of lust mixes with my newfound fury and turns it into something … weird. Like my emotions weren’t already in a tangle from finding out that I’m a goddamn kidnap victim.

As if he can sense me looking at him, Caden throws a lazy, arrogant glance over his shoulder.

“As if, little sister. In your dreams.”

Caden pads off, leaving me gaping, a violent, achy feeling shooting from my heart to my fingers and toes. What the … hell? My hands clench into fists at my sides, nails digging crescent marks into my palms. Did he really just say that? Really? Fucking really?!

I have to slow-blink away the shock of his casual insult before I can close my lips, turning back to look at Elizabeth.

She’s now halfway up the stairs and doesn’t seem to have heard.

Loneliness spreads out from my chest, an icy balm to soothe away the fire of my frustration.

It doesn’t make me feel any better though. Instead, I hurt worse. There’s nothing more devastating than the cavernous chill of being lonely.

“Like I was even looking,” I murmur lamely, almost a whole minute too late, and far too quiet for Caden to have heard anything at all.

Caden. When Elizabeth and I first met—and she’d finally stopped kissing my forehead and crying—we sat at my grandparents’ kitchen table, and she told me all about her other children.

Caden isn’t Elizabeth’ biological kid. Instead, he’s the son of her husband, Doctor Gabriel Vanguard. She met Caden when he was three, and I’d been gone for just a few months. She told me she threw herself into being his mother for want of missing me.

I’m not sure how to process that.

Apparently, I have four biological half-siblings living in this house, too, siblings that I share with Caden.

Heaving a defeated sigh, I follow Elizabeth up the stairs and find her waiting, wringing her hands in nervousness. The curved staircase deposits us in a bit of hallway floored with pale bamboo, a wall of windows facing toward the lake.

On either side of us, the hallway continues. Elizabeth gestures for me to follow her to the left.

“Your room is right across from Caden’s,” she tells me as I struggle to rein in a groan.

Fan-flipping-tastic, that’s exactly the restful, private space I need: one with a doorway that’s three feet from his.

Elizabeth glances over her shoulder to gauge my reaction, so I force a smile I don’t feel. Her hair is bouncy and dark like mine (before I dyed it anyway), thick espresso-colored curls pinned into a loose bun behind her head with several stray ringlets brushing against a pale freckled neck.

My own hand strays to my neck, and I flush, hoping Elizabeth won’t guess the direction of my thoughts.

“Look at those toes, kiddo. Long and curved, just like me and your mother. Your great-grandmother used to call them witch toes." My grandfather’s voice sounds in my mind, and I choke a little on my feelings. I looked just like them, like my grandparents, like Elena, like Saffron—the woman I thought was my mother, but was really just my … kidnapper.

“Awesome,” I reply belatedly, wondering how I’m going to survive living across the hallway from that tattooed prick.

Back home, I would’ve openly hated him while Daisy and Fanny would’ve secretly lusted after him. Oh, who am I kidding, I probably would’ve lusted after him, too. I almost choke again.

He’s supposed to be my brother, right? Or … stepbrother, I guess. Gross. I’ve never liked stepbrother romances, never. Good thing we’re as likely to see Yellowstone’s super volcano erupt and end the world as we are to see a romance between me and that horrible boy.

Elizabeth opens the door to a room on the right which surprises me. That means I have the lake view and Caden doesn’t. Interesting.

I stop short in the doorway as Elizabeth turns around, crossing one arm over her chest and clutching at her elbow with her hand.

She’s nervous, not something a famous true crime novelist is used to being I’ll bet. She’s written over twenty New York Times bestsellers. Her first novel—Abducted Under a Noonday Sun—launched her career.

It was semi-autobiographical.

It was about me.

The irony is that I’d read that book—more than once, actually—and never once made any sort of connection.

Stupidly, I’d even written an English paper analyzing the content and the deeper meaning in the story without ever getting it through my thick skull that I was dissecting a story about myself.

“Well, what do you think?” Elizabeth asks proudly, chest expanding as she takes in a deep breath and gestures around the room with a hand decorated in a diamond ring and tennis bracelet.

The day we met, she gave me a matching bracelet.

It’s in my bag; I can’t bear to wear it.

I force yet another smile. If there were a counter for it, I think we’d be at about nine-hundred and ninety-nine forced smiles in the six weeks since I met Elizabeth.

“It’s great,” I say, trying to keep my voice from cracking the way my heart is.

I almost miss the hot, angry feeling that Caden gave me. It was a shit-ton better than feeling the way I am right now, like a ghost, a shell, a shadow of my former self.

The room is … nice. I mean, it’s got those light-colored bamboo floors, stark white walls, and modern light fixtures that look like abstract metal sculptures.

There’s a bed in the center of the room, decorated with silver and faux fur pillows, and it faces out on a magnificent view of the water.

It’s just so cold and sterile in here. There’s no color, no art on the walls, no creaky floors.

There isn’t a dent in the wall from that one time Elena and I were wrestling. There isn’t a deep gouge on the baseboard molding from that day Grandpa and I bought an antique dresser and struggled to get it up the stairs and pushed into place in the corner.

“You can decorate it however you want,” Elizabeth says eagerly, stepping forward.

She’s so happy, I’m trying my best not to rain on her parade. I can only imagine what it must feel like to find the child that was stolen from you fourteen years prior. “We can hit the shops tomorrow, get you whatever you want.”

“That’s really nice of you,” I respond, our interaction stiff and forced. Elizabeth’ eyes—the same raven-black as my own—crinkle at the edges as she struggles to smile back.

We’re both trying here. It’s just … not a situation any normal person would ever find themselves in. “If you don’t mind, I’m a little tired from the flight …”

Polite code for please get the fuck out so I can die in peace.

“Oh, of course,” she says, shaking herself and falling right back into that famous novelist role she wears so well.

When I first saw her, I thought she might very well be the coldest person I’d ever met. But then she started to cry, and I could tell that she was just a master of locking away her emotions. She’d have to be, right? Considering what she’s been through.

Will she?

Amber

One day—fourteen years, three months, and sixteen days ago to be exact—Elizabeth took her two-year old daughter Freda Rivers to a low-cost daycare center down the street from the diner she was waitressing at.

According to her, she was holding a red plastic tray with four Cokes, three cheeseburgers, and a chicken salad on it when her phone went off in her apron.

Somehow, she knew something was wrong. The first line of her book sums it up: In my stomach, I could feel it, a primal fear as cold as the snow and ice that kiss the Cascades.

Elizabeth dropped the tray to the floor and started running in kitten heels and an apron. By the time she got to the parking lot of the daycare, panting and shaking and sweating, she saw the red and blue lights of a police cruiser.

She never made it inside, falling instead to the pavement outside the cheery yellow walls of the building and screaming.

That’s the day Freda Rivers became Amber Cross.

“You’ve got your own bathroom, too,” Elizabeth gushes all a sudden, like she can’t bear to leave just quite yet.

She moves over to a shiny white door on sliders, like the barn doors at home in my grandparents’ house. Only, this one looks space-age.

It’s shiny and perfect, and I don’t see any sort of handle. Elizabeth seems able to slide it open with just a few fingers.

I step forward and peer into the room, finding it just as sterile and cold as the bedroom. At least there’s black marble on the floors instead of white, and the shower is big enough for four.

A bathtub rests in the center of the room, with windows all along the wall. That’s the only thing I see that makes me feel any better. A bath in that giant tub, looking out at the water and the city lights across the lake, that should help a little.

But only a little.

I’d do anything to go home and soak in the old clawfoot tub in my grandparents’ house.

“Gabriel will be home soon, with the rest of your siblings,” Elizabeth adds, and I can hear the slightest warble of nervousness in her smooth voice. “If you’re too tired to meet them tonight, we can go out for breakfast …”

“That’d be fantastic,” I blurt, wrestling my rebellious lips into forced smile Number One-Thousand.

If Caden is any sort of indication as to the reception I’m going to get here, I’d much rather wait until morning. Elizabeth’ face falls a bit, but she, too, manages to maintain a smile.

“Sleep well, Freda,” she breathes wistfully, and then we both freeze up completely, any pretense of normality flying out the window. “I’m sorry, I meant … Amber.” Elizabeth pauses awkwardly as I do my best to swallow past the lump in my throat.

“It’s okay. We’re both working our way through this,” I respond with all the politeness my grandparents taught me but with absolutely zero sincerity.

On the inside, I’m screaming. Why couldn’t you just leave me alone? Why couldn’t you just leave me where I was happy?

Elizabeth nods once, her smile faltering just a little, before heading for the bedroom door. She glances over her shoulder one more time before leaving, but whatever it was she intended to say dies on her lips.

“Goodnight … Amber.”

Elizabeth steps into the hallway, closing the door behind her. I don’t hesitate more than a handful of seconds before moving over to it and locking the handle.

I toss my backpack on the floor and then flop down on the bed, putting my face in my hands. I don’t cry. I’ve cried enough over the last several weeks. Instead, I gather myself together and pull my phone out of the pocket of my hoodie.

It’s hard to fathom the facts: that my family—that is, the Cross family—is legally obligated to refrain from contact with me for an entire year. So I’ll have time to adjust, Elizabeth says.

Personally, I think that’s the most awful and wicked thing anyone has ever done to me. I video-call my grandparents, but nobody answers. I can only imagine Elizabeth’ scary expensive lawyers and fancy legal documents are keeping them from picking up. Doesn’t stop me from texting them though.

I miss you guys, and I want to come home. I send that off, and I don’t care if that makes my grandfather cry again. I need them to know how much I want out of this place.

Next, I video-call my sister, Elena.

She, on the other hand, isn’t intimidated by anyone or anything.

“Amber!” she calls out, appearing on my screen with a smile. We used to say we had matching smiles—the same small mouth and full bottom lip, a thin bowtie shaped upper lip.

Guess it was all bullshit, huh? God, you sound bitter. Don’t do that to yourself, Amber. There’s no sweetness to be found if you keep chewing on the same old sour crap. “Where are you right now?”

“My new bedroom,” I say, my voice strained and forlorn. I lift the phone up and pan it around so Elena can see what I’m working with here.

Multimillion-dollar views and about as much love and warmth as a block of ice. I turn the phone back to my face. “Elena, I can’t do this.”

Her face softens as she sits down on the edge of her own bed.

“It can’t be all bad, right? Moving in with a famous author and a plastic surgeon? You could probably guilt-trip them into buying you a sportscar.” Elena puts a hand to her chest, the phone jiggling around as she clutches it in her other. “A Ferrari. A white one with a red leather interior—”

“Elena,” I scold, but I’m smiling anyway. I knew talking to Elena would help. Besides, unlike my grandparents who are a forty-two-hour drive away from me, Elena is going to the University of Oregon in the city of Eugene which is only four and a half hours south of here.

We’re actually closer now than we were when I was living at home. Silver linings and all that. “You’re probably right, but I don’t want a Ferrari; I want to go home.”

“I know, Amber,” she says, her body deflating just a bit. “I don’t like any of this either, but you know what?”

“What?” I lie back on the bed, staring up at the screen and wishing my sister were here to wrap her arms around me the way she used to do when I was little.

That’s my very first memory, of Elena smiling at me and stroking my hair back while I sobbed. I don’t remember anything about my life with Elizabeth before that, when I was named Freda Rivers. Not a damn thing. Not surprising, considering my age at the time.

And still, the scent of her perfume lingers. I choke a little on the thought.

“This doesn’t make us sisters any less, you know that, right?”

“Blood is thicker than water,” I spit out, and then cringe. There I go, being bitter again. But maybe I’m just not giving myself enough credit? This is a lot harder than I thought it would be.

“Wrong. That’s one of the most misused quotes in the entire world. The real quote is: the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. What it really means is that the family you choose is stronger than the family you’re born to.”

Elena pauses for a moment as my eyes water, and I blink back the tears I promised I wouldn’t shed.

“Hey, how about I come and visit you next weekend? I’d come sooner, but I have a paper due.”

“The lawyers …” I start, and Elena snorts, tossing her auburn curls. We always used to say she took after grandma while Mom and I took after grandpa with his espresso-colored hair. Irony, at its finest.

“Fuck lawyers, Amber. I’m not about to let some suit-wearing bigwigs tell me I can’t see my little sister. Besides …” She pauses and gives me such a goofy grin that I just know I’m about to hear about a boy. Elena is so predictable. I smile.

“This is about Maxx—the boy with two X’s in his name, right?” I ask with a roll of my eyes. Maxx Wright is a fellow student at the U of O, some motocross superstar, and the exact opposite of any boy Elena has ever gone out with. I have yet to meet him, but I hear good things.

“I’m going to bring him with me,” Elena declares, grinning. “You can just call him X, like I do. That way we don’t have to worry about any confusion.” She leans back on her bed, so that our positions are mirrored. Four and a half hours away, but just alike, as always. “You’ll like him, Amber, I know you will.”

“I don’t doubt that,” I say, my thoughts straying to my new stepbrother, Caden. “Speaking of boys, I just met one of my new brothers.”