Page 41 of Where Broken Wings Fly

His green eyes barely meet mine before darting away again. “Twins.”

Standing in front of him, it’s now completely obvious to me. This person couldn’t look less like Zach even if he tried, despite their matching exteriors. I can see the darkness swirling amidst his malachite irises, unlike his brother’s motiveless warmth.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“And you are?” he asks awkwardly.

“Uh, I’m Willow. New around here.”

He looks longingly into the distance, like he can’t wait to get far away from me. I inch backwards, feeling totally embarrassed.

“I have to get back inside.”

Micah nods and turns on his heel without saying goodbye. I watch him stalk away, his short, powerful legs teetering in the rising winds. He cuts a stark figure, alone in the night and shrouded in a cloak of sadness.

Shaking off the weird encounter, I head back inside. Rain falls from my long, raven-coloured hair as I sneak upstairs to dry off and check on Arianna. She’s right where I left her, curled up in a tight ball in the middle of our double bed, snoring her little head off.

I stroke her hair back. “Sleep tight.”

Swapping out my wet clothes for a comfortable pair of Miranda’s sweats and a loose, blue t-shirt that covers my bruises, I leave Arianna to sleep and decide to poke around while Lola cooks. I haven’t had much of a chance to explore yet.

On this floor, there are a total of four generous bedrooms. Lola sleeps next door—she insisted on having us close by. There are three bathrooms, one shared and two ensuite, all lined with oak units and slate tiles that contrast the gleaming, clawfoot bathtubs.

Trailing my fingers along the wall, I inspect the rows of framed photographs. Lola is featured in many, gardening or helping paint cabins, surrounded by smiling adopted family and friends. She looks younger in most of them, but her radiant smile hasn’t changed over the years.

It’s clear her happiness comes from one thing—Briar Valley and its colourful collection of residents seeking refuge in the mountains. Pausing at the final photograph, my heart drops to my stomach. I recognise this person.

Lola is posing with another man, their arms wrapped around each other. They wear loving smiles and between them, a small, slim boy with a shock of black hair refuses to play along. His mouth is pulled down with visible boredom.

It’s my dad.

It hurts to see his younger self with a perfect family surrounding him. The man I knew never talked of his parents, let alone their lives here in Briar Valley. He had parents. A loving family. A whole life. I don’t need Lola to tell me what happened.

Drugs.

He was an addict.

Instead of telling me about my grandparents and raising me as a father should, he chose to bring me up in a world of pain and disappointment. I grew up around discarded needles and tarnished spoons, our meagre money fettered away on more narcotics.

Where other kids my age had parents who picked them up from school and loved the very bones of them, I had nothing. For my father, I didn’t exist. All he wanted was to get high and forget that Mum had left us, destitute and heartbroken.

If it weren’t for him and the debts he accumulated over years of drug abuse, I never would’ve started stripping at sixteen. The mounting bills he left behind fell on my shoulders to pay. His death was mine too, in so many ways.

My future died with him.

Fleeing the bad memories, I head up to the third floor where Lola’s home office resides. It’s spacious and light, with a gabled roof and warm sconces built into the beams. She has lots of gardening books and a filing system for the town’s paperwork, neatly organised into the attic space.

There’s a computer too. Heart racing, I sit down and wiggle the mouse. It powers up on a cooking website that she must’ve been looking at for recipes. Anticipation thrums beneath my skin as I open up a new search tab.

Mr Sanchez’s high-profile reputation in the real estate business grants him certain privileges. Most of his work takes place in the States, but he prefers to live in the freedom of Mexico. It’s easier to conceal his crimes that way, far from any public scrutiny.

He sells luxurious properties for extortionate fees. Many of his clients are celebrities, looking for a slice of heaven to expend their hideous wealth on. As a result, he’s become a pseudo-celebrity himself. The estate agent and property developer for the stars.

With shaking hands, I type his name and hit enter before I can talk myself out of it. His website floods the screen, and I almost swallow my tongue from fright. It’s a slick, glossy marketing campaign that matches his spotless image.

Sanchez Real Estate is a flawless brand, covering properties from Los Angeles to New York, San Francisco to Seattle. He caters to some of the most illustrious clients in the world and banks every drop of money, wealth and power that it provides him.

Scanning the rest of the results, my blood chills when I spot a suggested news article. It looks like some stupid gossip site, the kind of thing I used to drool over as a nosy teenager. Clicking on the article, dated a decade ago, I want to be sick.

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