Page 86 of The Dark Before Light

Faces cycle through my mind, a carousel of people I’ve trusted for a decade. Who know my cell number, who knew my meeting was cancelled. The same people who knew where Liz and I lived and that I went running every morning, which was when the guy came at us with the knife.

Sven’s right. He’s always been right. That the person behind everything is a stranger simply isn’t logical.

What’s my continued denial worth? Is it worth Sven’s life? Dylan’s or Gabe’s or mine? My brother’s?

Is it worth Talia’s?

I pull a breath into my tight lungs and turn back to Sven. “Tell Tom to focus on Lumitech. And hire more people. As many as necessary for twenty-four seven security on Alistair, Gail, and Talia. I don’t care if they don’t like it.”

He stares at me, his surprise contained to a slight squint. “Done. I want two more on your personal detail as well.”

I nod, having expected the request. All the money and power in the world can’t keep word of the impending testing phases under wraps forever. For better or worse, the target on my head is about to get bigger.

Moreover, Sven knows my stint as a hermit is finished. I have a company to run. A disease to cure with a technology that will forever alter landscape of modern medicine. And I have a woman to love.

I don’t want fear to control me anymore, but thanks to Talia’s work in my head, I’m aware of my limitations like never before.

I need help.

I’m finally ready to ask for it.

Grabbing my phone, I pull up the browser and type in: Dr. Leo Chastain, Los Angeles.

Chapter 25

Talia

Istare across my kitchen table at the two women who rang my doorbell five minutes ago. They’re twenty-five years apart but look like sisters thanks to spray tans, the same hair stylist, and cosmetic surgery.

Six minutes ago, I was running on my treadmill and trying not to overthink the fact I haven’t heard from Kieran since yesterday afternoon. Now I’m trying to figure out how to kick my mother and sister out without sounding like a complete bitch. I’m not sure I can manage it. The gray roots in my mom’s artificially blond hair and my sister’s chipped nails suggest they’ve run out of money. Again.

I tune back into the one-sided conversation as my mom says, “It’s a shame, what they’re saying. We just want you to know you have family support.”

She’s trying to sound genuine, but she keeps glancing at my sweat-drenched sports bra and leggings. Her lips purse in distaste every time, like she thinks I leave the house like this.

It’s my own fault I’m in this mess. I haven’t gotten into the habit of checking the app on my phone when the doorbell rings. If I’d looked first and seen them, I could have ignored the summons and kept running—the only activity that’s doing anything for my stress.

Instead, I’d bolted for the door thinking maybe, illogically, that it was Kieran, only to be slapped into another dimension. One in which I hadn’t set an explicit boundary with these women; namely, I’m not giving you any more money, so don’t call me, talk to me, or show up unannounced at my fucking house.

I should have closed the door in their faces.

I’m not exactly sure why I didn’t.

“I appreciate that, but I’m doing fine. I have an incredible support network.” One that doesn’t include them and never will.

My mom smiles. “That’s great, Talia. We’re so relieved to hear you’re landing on your feet. Did I read somewhere that you’re writing a book?”

It’s her smile that does it—specifically the fact it doesn’t reach her eyes. At least Olivia isn’t bothering to hide the fact she was dragged here. She’s said less than a sentence and keeps looking around my house like she’s assessing its market value.

“Why are you really here, Mom?”

She turns red. Olivia’s head whips toward us, her eyes narrowing with interest. The dynamic is as old as we are. She’s always loved conflict, instigating and escalating it whenever possible. Especially when it promises a divide between our parents and me and keeps her in the position as the favored daughter.

A memory surfaces of our trip to Ireland, one of the first and the absolute last time we traveled as a family. The night I met Kieran, when I returned to our hotel room, Olivia was already there, sobbing about how I’d stolen shots from someone at a bar and then disappeared.

What she doesn’t understand—can’t seem to wrap her head around—is that I’m not her victim anymore, and I haven’t been for a long time.

“See?” chirps Olivia as she palms our mom’s shoulder. “I told you not to get your hopes up. She hasn’t changed. She only cares about herself. Zero appreciation for how hard you worked to give her what she needed to succeed. She owes you everything, but she wouldn’t help us if we were begging on the streets.”

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