Page 6 of Wicked Riddles & Bitter Heartbeats

This is all information I know, but still, I skim over it just to be sure nothing is different.

Bridget and Baxter St. Claire.

Adoption finalized on December 24th. A lovely Christmas present to Bridget because Baxter couldn’t get his dick up enough to impregnate her.

I’d just turned five and my hope for finding a family was going down faster than the Titanic. Then they came and swept me away to Boston. I remember it like it was yesterday. Rememberthe happiness in their eyes, the excitement of taking me on a plane with them, of touching down in Boston, of showing me buildings bigger than I thought was possible.

I also remember the disappointment in their eyes when I didn’t respond and react the way they hoped. I didn’t get excited, I didn’t smile, I didn’t wantmore.

Soon enough, I learned how to handle that though. I watched and listened—especially listened. And it didn’t take long for me to put on a happy face because that’s what I was supposed to do. It never felt right, but seeing my mother smile was kind of nice. At least she wanted me in some way. I still believe that, just a little. There were other children at the orphanage, and she picked me. I shouldn’t hold onto little things like that, but what else do I have?

Adapting on the outside turned out easier than I thought it would be. I’m like a chameleon, turning into whatever is needed at that time. It’s entertaining most days, but other days it’s downright exhausting. What I would give to go back to that last night with Violet… nowthatwas living.

Fire. Sex. Murder.Perfection.

Life with the St. Claires was good. They fought, but they had a shit ton of money so I got the best video games, a giant bed, comfortable clothes, and all the food I could ever want to eat. They kept me happy with their money, and I was fine to take it because I’d gone so long with having nothing. Even now, in the afterlife, they still take care of me with their money. They left me everything. I didn’t get access to it until I turned twenty-one, which made the years of eighteen through twenty-one really fucking difficult. Living on the streets, squatting in abandoned buildings when it got too cold, working under the table at bullshit restaurants. It wasn’t awful for the short time Violet and I were together, right after I left the home. But that didn’t last long, either.

Now that I’m in my dead parents’ house, the one I grew up in, with their millions, life is good again. Good in the sense that it isn’t stressful. At least in most aspects.

Both St. Claires came from money. Baxter was some big shot lawyer, raking in a ton of money from handling some of Boston’s worst cases. It’s why they moved here at all. His parents' money made him rich in Iowa, dealing with corn, but what made his name big was coming to the city. I don’t hate it here, and it’s why I stayed instead of selling everything and taking off to Russia—which still sounds good some days.

I flip through all the adoption pages, not seeing anything new. Not a single thing about my father, so that’ll remain a mystery, it seems. Next is all my medical stuff. Doctor’s appointments, dentist appointments, that time I had to get my appendix removed. School transcripts, job history, license, vehicle information… a bunch of nothing.

Until I reach the end and find the picture of a man who looks faintly familiar, though I’m not sure why. Pretty sure I’ve never seen him before in my life, yet there is something about him that draws me in. Lifting the photo that’s paper-clipped to the top corner, my vision goes funny after I read his name.

James Erickson.

For a split second, I think this could be my father. Perhaps the cheating mother theory is wrong, and they just didn’t want a child at all. But something about that doesn’tfeelright. I look down the rest of the paper, taking in James’ information and realize there is no way he could be my father. The age is all wrong. Completely fucking wrong. It would be impossible for him to be my father, because he’s the same age as me.

Exactly the same age.

James Erickson is my brother.

Mytwinbrother, if this is accurate information. And I believe it is.

There are enough similarities in our features that we could pass as related, but enough differences that people wouldn’t automatically assume so. No wonder he looks familiar. I see myself in him. It’s the shape of the eyes and width of our mouths and the height of our cheekbones. Our jaws are shaped the same, with a similar slope to our noses. Such stupid things to have the same, but there they are.

A mix of emotions swirl in my chest, building like a tornado. I’d accepted that I was given up for adoption, but to have twins and only keep one? I huff out a disbelieving laugh. That’s fucked up. What made James better than me? Why did he get to stay? Why was he wanted while I was discarded? According to the timestamps, I was born first. Meaning, I should have been the one to stay.

I get lost in the information on him. Photos of him through the years. Childhood. School. Graduation. With our mother, which I only know thanks to Gavin labeling it as so. Police Academy. There are awards and certifications. Workplace information.

Boston PD.

Boston fucking PD.

What are the odds?

We’re born in Iowa, yet both end up here? That’s ridiculously unlikely.

According to the paperwork, he’s been an officer for seven years. Graduated the academy at twenty and was top of his class.

My breathing increases as I go over the information one more time, until the anger blinds me and the dark part of me makes itself known.

I don’t bother fighting it. There’s no use.

My mother had another child. A child she kept. Yet she gave me up, put me through a traumatic life, all for what? The only thing that gives me the smallest semblance of peace is staring at her death date. Over seven years ago.

Why did he get to stay?

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