Page 85 of The Woman

But I do understand why he kept it from me.

“You said you decided to bring me here when you found out that I knew she was a WOUN and that I couldn’t have been the one who reported her. How did you find out?”

Before he’s able to answer me, the door to the house opens drawing both of our attention.

My eyes drift to the woman standing in the doorway, roving over her neutral face, taking in her features. And although I haven’t seen her in many years, I know she’s my father’s woman, my mother.

“Elliana,” my father greets her in a softened tone that I’m not used to. “Phoenix is finally here.”

There is only a moment’s pause before her lips start tilting upwards until they become a fully formed smile filled with radiant warmth, and she rushes forward, wrapping me in a hug.

I stand unmoving while she hugs me, not hating it and not pulling away, but not returning the gesture either. While foreign, her arms bring me a small form of comfort that I wouldn’t expect from a hug and definitely not from a woman.

Today has been a lot of new information and new revelations. Another turn in the kaleidoscope, changing up my previous preconceptions and leaving me feeling unsettled.

My mother pulls back, placing a palm on each cheek, and looks me over lovingly. I remain still, allowing her perusal until my eyes lift from hers and connect with yet another woman over my mother’s head, standing just inside the open door of the house.

When my father follows my line of sight and sees her, he clears his throat, holding out his hand to the woman. “Come here, Rayne.” I’m finally released from my embrace, but she stays standing close as this Rayne woman walks over to my father. “Phoenix, this is Rayne . . . your younger sister.”

“Hello,” she says to me, her gray eyes on me and black hair pulled back from her face.

My gaze shifts back and forth between her and my father as I stand speechless and unsure of what to say or how to respond. Her eyes are equally curious and moving over me, taking me in.

“Sister?” is all that manages to come out.

A slim hand slips into mine, giving a gentle squeeze. “Will you come into the house? We can talk more in there.”

Looking down, I see the pleading look on my mother’s face, soft and gentle, and find myself nodding.

I may have gotten used to Avery having a personality and talking to me, but it’s still a surreal thing for me to have multiple women here who are similar in nature to her.

We all walk inside, and the first thing I notice, besides the simple design of this small house, is the piano in the corner of the living room. It’s a Steinway, like mine, but a different model.

My mother must notice what my gaze has snagged onto because she steps over to it, pressing a hand to the side.

“I used to play that song to you when you were very young. You used to love it.”

An image of Avery sitting and playing my piano in her tiny shorts crosses my mind, causing another ripple of pain to pass through the beating organ in my chest.

I refocus my attention on her. “That song?”

She bobs her head toward my arms and my eyes drop to the tattoos inked on my skin. It prickles in the spot and then spreads as a wave of understanding and something unknown washes over me. That was the reason it sounded familiar.

Faded memories locked deep in my subconscious try to filter into the forefront of my mind, but they’re only snippets, jumbled clips, and snapshots. When I heard Avery playing it the first time, it must have shaken the lock to those memories, but I didn’t have the key to open it.

Now, I can vaguely remember laying my head in someone’s lap as they played it to me. My first thought would be to assume it was my father.

But it was her, my mother.

“Do you want something to drink?” I’m snapped out of my newest revelation, my eyes finally leaving my mother and the piano to land on my sister.

“No,” I tell her. My throat feels too tight to let anything pass through it.

My father places a hand on Rayne’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go wait outside for Harold and give us a few minutes to talk.”

I stare at the interaction, still trying to place this softer version of my father with the man I grew up with. He wasn’t cruel or mean, but he taught me to behave a certain way and to never act in any sort of inappropriate way that could reflect badly on our family. I can’t help but wonder what it was like for her growing up.

Once she leaves the room, my father and mother settle into one of the couches, and though he indicates for me to take a seat, I remain standing. My body feels too charged to stay still.

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