Page 14 of Where We Began

“Here we are,” he says, pulling up short outside of a heavy wood door. The handle is a muted gold shade. It looks like all the other doors I've seen here, but the way Dominic is fixated on it, I know it's different.

And I know Dominic is scared.

“Hey,” I say, reminded of Kara in the rain, “It's fine. He can't do anything to me.” I say it confidently. I'm anything but.

Dominic closes his eyes, like he's gathering his strength. I think he's going to tell me something. He looks at me, then at the far wall. “Knock. Then go inside.”

Following his instructions, I tap with my knuckles. There's no answer. I go to knock again, except the door cracks open. “In,” a gruff voice says. Through the gap I catch a glimpse of a weathered jaw, a single eye that's oddly wide and excitedly expectant.

Steadying myself, I push into the room. I nudge the door shut behind me. Only then do I notice that this place isquiet,a room where no sound can escape. Once, when Kara and I went exploring, I fell into a hole. The dirt pressing around my ears was just like this.

The man who opened the door is standing in front of a desk. It's shaped like a crescent, with him inside the curve. The edges are uneven—it's been carved from a giant tree trunk. “So,” he says, gazing down on me. “You're Joseph Greene's kid.”

His eyes aren't like Dominic's. They're not even like Annie's. The puffy edges look wrong with how sunken in his sockets are. His dark hair is thinning around his temples, the rest cut clean to his scalp. He's trying to smile, but it's all wrong.

I'm frozen.

I don't know why I'm scared. He's just an old man in a room full of papers and books.Is he that old?I wonder, squinting at his lined skin. He could be close to Dad's age. But where my father normally radiates energy, this man is sucking it from everything around him.

“Well?” he asks, leaning against the desk. “Answer me. Are you Joseph Green's daughter?”

Swallowing, I shake my head patiently. “No. I'm JosephLaurel'sdaughter.”

His angular brows fly upwards. He's gripping the wood behind him violently. The veins on the backs of his hands flex; he inhales, laughing so sharply it makes me flinch. The sound turns into a wet hack. He grabs at his chest, there's a little triangle of maroon in his jacket's breast pocket. Like him, his outfit is all severe angles and lines. He yanks out the fabric, coughing into it for a long minute.

It sounds awful. I wonder if he's dying.

Tucking the handkerchief away, he nods at me. “Laiken, correct?”

“Yes.” Speaking to him is easier now that I've done it once.

His lids become hooded. “You look like him around your cheekbones. Tell me, are you anything at all like your coward of a father?”

Stunned by his insult, I ball my hands. “He's not a coward!”

“How loyal of you.” A thin sheet covers the window behind him. It lets only a fractional amount of sun into the room, leaving him more shadow than anything else. Pushing off the desk, he makes his way to me. His approach calls forth all the terrible monsters from my nightmares. Except when I blink, I don't wake up.

The top of my head reaches his ribs. His scent is crisp like parchment—like his son’s—but it covers a sickly sweetness that roils my breakfast. I know he's my enemy the way a newborn bird knows to stay silent in its nest when a hawk is near.

I think about elbowing him.

I think about biting his thigh.

I think and think... and I do none of it.

Never have I stood in the presence of someone so paralyzing. I don't even know hisname. But I'm unable to move my tongue from the roof of my mouth. When he bends in half, gripping my chin, I feel tears slide from my eyes.

He sighs heavily. His breath is sour. “Don't cry, girl. I'm not going to hurt you. Think about it. Your father won't do as I say if I do anything too terrible, hmm?”

There's a whining in my ears that grows the longer he stares at me. I nod stiffly.

His fingers fall away as he remains where he is. “Annie told me that you weren't interested in hearing your father's history with us. You don't have to know, if you don't want. But living here will bring whispers to your ears. You won't be able to block out what others say when they think you aren't listening. Wouldn't you rather the truth, than fragments that could be lies?”

He's oddly persuasive. “Yes,” I say softly.

“Good.” His thin lips spread benevolently. “Then I'll tell you the important parts.” Standing to his full height, he moves to sit in the wing-backed chair behind his desk. The wall is covered with shiny plaques and medals with different colored cloth; far enough away I can't tell what the words on them say. Did he earn all of them?

I draw closer. There's an engraved, gold nameplate in the center of the desk.Silas Bradley. It must be his name. A small, stump-shaped chair waits in the deepest curve of the desk. I settle on the lacquered surface.

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