Page 57 of Nest Of Lies

Her room is as perfect as the rest of the house, though. An enormous bed with a white bedspread. A room fit for a queen. With nothing in here that is like her.

Lia is messy. She’s cute. She doesn’t do this austere elegance. I finger the lace curtains that frame the bed and inhale. The distinct lack of her scent is another giveaway.

This might be Lia’s room. It can have a big huge plaque on the front of her door, but this is not her space.

I carefully back out, unwilling to disturb the strange silence. I find the room I think is hers, judging by the intense smell of marshmallows. It’s a door I walked past twice before I saw it. The panel is half hidden, and the only reason I noticed it was a hint of light in the gap. I push the door open and step into the space. The room is saturated with her scent. There are pillows and a few blankets. This isn’t a nest, not really, but it’s the bare bones of one. I bet Lia doesn’t even realise she’s built it.

I wander to the window and look down at the window seat. It smells like Mills in here, but when I look out, I see the Mirakill Mansion.

I brace my arm, and close my eyes, hating the pain she’s been in and wondering how the fuck she is this freaking lonely and how she’s survived.

“Why are the only safe places in this house the panic room and a room no one can find?”

I whirl around and go upstairs. I pause as I enter what must be China’s room. The three bedrooms take up the entire third floor. One room is dark, one is white, and the other is gold. This room, though, has more wear on the floor leading to it. It’s huge and dark, but perfectly elegant. Almost a mirror replica of Lia’s bedroom.

I pad through until I find another door and push it open. It’s a walk-in closet, but there are two more doors. I open the first to reveal a stunning bathroom. The expensive renovations show that it’s top of the range but barely used. There’s not even the memory of a scent in here. I pull the door shut. It’s got nothing I want to see. I open the second and frown when I uncover a set of stairs.

“Did not know there was an attic,” I murmur and walk up them. They are carpeted, and the walls are painted white.

I get upstairs and frown as the scent of paint intensifies. The attic is empty but for a single box. It sits there in the space, alone and lonely. Why leave a single box? I walk over to it and crouch, opening it up. Dust motes fly into the air. I pull out news articles, a photo of a guy I recognise as Andy Anderson. The next photo shows China with an infant with black hair in her arms.

“Now who the fuck are you?” I murmur. “Probably that little shit who tried to beat me up.” My attention slips to the huge drawing pad, and I bring it out and open it up.

There are dark drawings of stick figures and messy writing. Page after page is filled with nonsense and drawings that make me feel uneasy. I can’t put my finger on what it is, but this doesn’t look like the drawings of a healthy person.

I would bet my soul that this is China’s and not Lia’s. I flick through the pages and find Lia’s name repeated over and over, the words so aggressively written that at times it’s broken through the paper.

I replace everything in the box and close it up. I wander to the window and find it’s hidden by the single tree at the back of the house. You’d need to know it was here. Still, the light shines through, illuminating the space. I wander around the room and pause. On the floor is black paint, just a bit, but it’s a streak that looks like it continues up onto the walls.

I step back. The walls are all freshly painted. The carpet has been torn up. Everything has been removed. What were they trying to hide up here? I shiver and decide to leave.

I find Lia in the kitchen with Ianto. He’s pressed against her back, hands roaming over her body. She’s got her head tilted back and her mouth open. Her cheeks are pink, her breathing fast, and she is single-handedly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

As I watch, Ianto’s hand slips down into her pants, and he strokes her. She arches her back and moans, her hips rising and falling as she meets every stroke he gives her.

I should walk away or join them, yet I find myself unable to move, helplessly hers.

As she falls apart, so, too, does my willpower, but I need to have a conversation with her. It’s important. I shake it off, trying to clear my head, but I go still when Ianto flicks me a ravenous gaze and slinks out of the room. I find I’m so hard I can’t move.

Lia comes to me, with no hesitation, straight into my arms.

“Lia,” I say, clearing my throat. “Did I ever tell you about my parents?”

Lia shakes her head. I bury my face in her hair.

“I don’t talk about them much, but I think you should know.”

Lia steps back and looks up at me, her eyes intent. The blue green colour is startling. It’s my favourite colour.

“You told me some. Foster parents and being naughty.”

“Ianto’s parents were bad people. I’m sure he’ll tell you one day. His gran is fantastic, but she wasn’t around when Ianto went crazy. My parents were happy. I had a childhood free of drama. The only thing I needed to worry about was what time to stop playing. But I was a wild kid.”

I take Lia’s hand and lead her out onto the porch and sit down. It feels easier to talk about it while I’m outside.

“When I was twelve, my dad got into some trouble, except we didn’t know. He kept it hidden, but he was an addict, Lia. He kept stealing and draining everything dry until there was nothing left. Even us. We had nothing left to give him. I can still remember his erratic behaviour and the weird things he would do.”

Lia squeezes my hand harder.

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