The Memoir That Wasn’t
696 Words
Breakfast started right at seven.
Elena slipped in at 6:58. Small win.
The dining room barely edged out the foyer in size. So, basically—a regular person’s house. Table sat twelve, but only two places were set. Damian sat at the head, hidden behind an actual newspaper.
“People still read those?” Elena slid into the chair across from him.
He didn’t look up, just folded the paper. “People still make jokes at seven in the morning? You haven’t changed.”
“I don’t really get what that means.”
He pushed a plate her way—eggs, toast, some fruit. “It means you make jokes when you’re scared. Eat. You barely touched anything yesterday.”
She hesitated. “How do you even know what I ate yesterday?”
“I have cameras.”
Her fork hovered. “That’s not creepy or anything.”
“Only in common areas. It’s for security. Julian’s tried to get onto this property eleven times in the last ten years.” He cut into his toast. “You’re safe here, but safety takes surveillance.”
“So, I’m a prisoner.”
“You’re a guest.”
“With no exit.”
He still didn’t look at her. “Driveway’s two miles. You’ve got legs. You aren’t a prisoner, Elena. You have a choice. Stay and find out the truth. Or leave and pretend none of this happened.”
“You said someone’s trying to kill me.”
He nodded. “I did.”
“If I walk out, I’m dead.”
Damian set his fork down. “Probably.”
She stared at him. “You’re really bad at making people feel safe.”
He finally met her eyes. “No. I’m just bad at lying. I could tell you Julian lost interest. I could say you’re not in danger anymore. I could tell you walking away is perfectly safe.” He leaned forward. “But ten years ago, I promised never to lie to you again. Even if the truth hurts.”
He sounded so honest, it almost hurt to hear.
“Show me the contract,” she said.
—
Forty-seven pages. Elena read every one, then started over and read them again.
The terms were wild. Two million up front. Five million after. Total creative control, fact-checking rights, power to bail at any point, no strings.
She signed on page forty-seven.
Damian watched the whole time, face impossible to read.
“Now what?” she asked.
“Now you start,” he said, standing. “It’s not really a memoir.”
She frowned. “Then what is it?”
“It’s a confession.” He went to the wall, pressed his thumb to a hidden scanner. A panel slid open. “My brother Julian wasn’t born a monster. He was made. I helped make him.”
From the panel, he took out a thick old folder, tied up with black ribbon.
“Inside is evidence. Crimes. Cover-ups. Bodies.” He handed it to her. “Your job? Write a story that’ll finally put Julian Cross away.”
Elena took the folder. It felt heavier than it looked.
“If this is real evidence, why not just take it to the cops?”
Damian’s voice was hollow. “Because I’m not innocent. I did things, Elena. Awful things. Stuff that would keep me in prison forever.” He looked her in the eye. “I’m not after forgiveness. I just want the truth. All of it. Even if I’m the villain.”
She opened up the folder.
First page: a crime scene photo. Young woman, blonde hair, eyes open and empty.
Printed below: Victoria Hayes. Age 24. Disappeared June 14, 2013. Found July 3, 2013. Cause: strangulation.
Suspect: Julian Cross.
Alibi by: Damian Cross.
Elena glanced up. “You covered for him.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
His jaw clenched. “Because he was my brother. And I was a coward.”
He turned and left.
Elena sat there, folder in her lap.
Forty-seven pages of contract. Hundreds more of secrets. One big question clawing at her ribs:
What else is Damian hiding?
- Writer
