Page 150 of The Otherworld

I can’t help but ponder that question as we walk down Washington Boulevard, hand in hand. The city is so crowded we had to park the truck a distance away from the building where Mama lives. I keep glancing at the wrinkled address in my palm, but I don’t need to. I stared at it enough last night for the numbers and letters to be seared into my mind forever.

24 Washington Blvd., Suite 103, Seattle, WA.

Building 24 is impossibly tall and wrapped in thousands of glass windows—reflecting the gloomy gray sky overhead. A gilt revolving door ushers us into the lobby, which is elegantly furnished with thick carpets and twinkling chandeliers. Adam leads me into the elevator and presses the button for the top floor.

“How do you know that’s the right one?” I ask.

“Your aunt said the penthouse. That’s always the top floor.” He turns to give me a little smirk. “Just think: if you grew up living with your mom, you’d be some fancy, private school penthouse girl. You’d never look twice at a guy like me.”

“Oh, yes, I would.” I hug his arm, resting my face against his bicep. “I would have looked three times. A hundred times.”

He murmurs a laugh and kisses the top of my head.

That’s when the elevator stops with a soft bing, and I realize we’ve reached the top. My heart thuds as the shiny gold doors slide open to reveal a small landing covered in the same plush carpet as the lobby. We find the door marked 103.

Mama’s apartment.

Now that I’m finally here, standing in front of the door with my heart racing in my chest, I wonder if this was a mistake. There’s still time to turn back. She would never know I had come this far.

But I would know.

I would always wonder.

So I press the doorbell and wait. My breath is unsteady as I glance at Adam, who stands beside me, a quiet fire in his eyes.

“You’re strong. You can do this,” he says softly. Those words feel like a life raft underneath me—something to hold onto in the midst of a raging ocean.

The door opens.

“Can I help you?”

Her voice is crisp, high, and professional. So unfamiliar to my ears, yet something deep inside me twists with bittersweet heartache when I hear it. Something in me remembers that voice.

She looks older than she did in the wedding photo. Her dark blonde hair is short now, cut into a spiky pixie, which seems to sharpen the angles of her face. Her arms and legs are long and graceful; her smile pretty and insincere. The other details come to me in snatches: a gray pencil skirt and a matching suit jacket. A gold wristwatch. Diamond earrings. Snakeskin high heels.

“Well?” she says, crossing her long arms over her chest. “Are you going to tell me who you are? I’m a very busy woman.”

Adam clears his throat to speak for me, but I step forward first. My voice trembles as I introduce myself. “It’s me, Orca. Your daughter.”

She stiffens, surprise washing over her face like a rogue wave—erasing the pinched frown of impatience. Her gaze darts over me, head to toe, taking in the details of my appearance in a new light.

“Orca…” The name rushes out of her like someone just knocked the air from her lungs. She takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders. “I never expected to see you after all this time.”

“I never expected to see you,” I confess, my voice still shaky. “Until yesterday, I thought you were dead.”

Mama frowns, squinting at me in disbelief. “What?”

“Papa told me you died when I was a baby. Yesterday I went to see Aunt Sara… and she told me the truth.”

Mama stands frozen in place for a long moment, her mouth hanging open as she absorbs this news. I wait breathlessly for her reaction, my heart pounding in my throat.

All last night, I was wondering how this moment would be. I wasn’t expecting a tearful, heartfelt welcome. I wasn’t expecting her to embrace me or tell me she was happy to see me. Yet still, I feel a pang of disappointment when she takes a step back and holds the door open for me, as you would for a stranger on the street.

“I, uh… I think you’d better come in. Both of you.” Her gaze shifts to give Adam an analytical once-over. “Orca’s boyfriend, I assume?”

“Adam.” He introduces himself. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

But I can tell by the way he holds onto me—his hand tense and his jaw set—that the expression is a mere formality. He looks ready to sweep me up in his arms and carry me out of here at the first sign of trouble. It’s impossible to overlook the gentle fierceness in his eyes, just as it’s impossible to miss the judgmental curl of my mother’s lip as she scrutinizes Adam’s rugged good looks.

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