THE THINGS WE NEVER BURIED

SERENA’S POV The first time I met Alexandra Reed, she told me I was trespassing. The second time, she threatened to ruin my career. By the third time, I had developed a sincere desire to see how far I could push her before that pretty, expensive face finally cracked. In my defense, she was incredibly easy to annoy. "You're in my seat." I didn't look up from my laptop. "Congratulations." A silence followed. I could practically feel her staring at the back of my head. The restaurant was one of those unnecessarily expensive Manhattan establishments where the waiters wore black gloves, the water cost more than my lunch and the lighting was designed to make rich people look as though they had never experienced a bad day in their lives. I had chosen it for precisely one reason. Alexandra Reed ate lunch here every Thursday. And I needed to speak to her. "Miss Hayes." Ah. She knew my name. How unfortunate for her. I closed my laptop and looked up. Alex stood beside my table in a charcoal suit, one hand tucked into her pocket. Her white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and a silver watch rested against her wrist. She was taller than I remembered. Or perhaps I was simply more annoyed than usual. Her hair was cut short, neat at the sides and slightly longer on top. Her expression was unreadable, but her dark eyes moved briefly over my face before settling on the empty chair opposite me. "You're sitting at my table," she said. I glanced at the table number. Then at her. "Does your name appear on the reservation?" "No." "Then I suppose we'll both have to survive this terrible inconvenience." Something shifted in her expression. It wasn't quite a smile. God forbid the woman accidentally displayed a human emotion. "Do you enjoy being difficult?" "Only with people who make it so rewarding." Alex pulled out the chair and sat down without asking. I stared at her. She stared back. A waiter appeared almost immediately. "Good afternoon, Ms. Reed. Your usual?" "Yes, thank you." He turned to me. "Would you like anything else, miss?" "An entirely different dining companion." The waiter looked as though he regretted choosing hospitality as a career. Alex, however, looked mildly entertained. "Bring her whatever she wants," she said. I turned to her. "I can order my own food." "I'm aware." "Then stop behaving as though you've adopted me." This time, the corner of her mouth actually moved. It was a small thing. Barely a smile. Unfortunately, it changed her entire face. I hated that I noticed. "You're always this pleasant?" she asked. "Only when I'm interrupted." "And here I thought journalists enjoyed asking questions." "We do. Usually, we prefer answers." Her expression changed. There it was. The reason I had come. I reached into my handbag and withdrew a photograph. I placed it on the table between us. Alex glanced down and went completely still. The photograph was old, slightly damaged around the edges. It showed a building engulfed in flames, smoke curling into the night sky. Four people stood outside the entrance. Three were too far away to identify clearly. The fourth was unmistakable. Victor Reed. Alex's father. Dead for eighteen months. I watched her carefully. "Where did you get this?" she asked. Her voice had lost its earlier amusement. "An anonymous source." "When?" "Yesterday." "Who sent it?" "If I knew that, I wouldn't be sitting here asking you questions." Her eyes lifted to mine. "Put it away." I leaned back in my chair. "Excuse me?" "Put. It. Away." I should have listened to the warning in her voice. Instead, I smiled. It was not a particularly kind smile. "Is that how your father taught you to handle journalists? Tell them to shut up and hope they disappear?" Something dangerous entered her eyes. "My father is dead." "So I've heard." "Then perhaps you should learn to speak about him with a little respect." "Respect is earned, Ms. Reed. Not inherited." The silence between us was immediate and absolute. Alex slowly leaned forward. I became painfully aware of how close she was. She smelled faintly of cedar wood and something clean, expensive and annoyingly comforting. Her gaze held mine. "You have no idea what you're involving yourself in." "Then enlighten me." "I won't." "Why? Is it because you don't know anything, or because you know too much?" Her jaw tightened. There. A crack. Small, but real. I felt a ridiculous surge of satisfaction. Then Alex reached for the photograph. I caught it before she could. Her hand stopped a few inches from mine. For one strange second, neither of us moved. Her fingers were long. A faint scar crossed the back of her right hand. I hadn't noticed it before. I wondered where she'd gotten it. Then I remembered I didn't care. I pulled the photograph toward myself. "Don't touch my things." Alex's eyes lifted slowly. "Your things?" "Yes." "You brought evidence of a possible crime to my table." "And yet somehow, you haven't called the police." She said nothing. I tilted my head. "Interesting." She withdrew her hand. "Listen to me carefully, Serena." My name sounded different in her mouth. Less like a name. More like a warning. "Whatever you think this photograph proves, you're wrong." "You haven't even asked what I think it proves." "I don't need to." "That must be convenient. Being so certain about everything." "You have no idea what certainty costs." There was something beneath her anger. Something tired. Something almost painful. It disappeared before I could understand it. Alex stood. "Stop investigating the fire." I laughed once, without humor. "My father died in that fire." "I know." The words came too quickly. Too easily. I stopped laughing. Alex seemed to realize her mistake at the same moment I did. I studied her face. "You know what happened to my father?" "I know what was reported." "That's not what I asked." She reached for her jacket. I stood, too. "Did you know him?" Alex looked down at me. For a moment, she appeared to be deciding whether to tell me something. Then her expression hardened. "No." The answer came without hesitation. It should have reassured me. Instead, something about it felt rehearsed. I slipped the photograph back into my handbag. "You're a terrible liar, Alexandra." "And you're a terrible listener." "Perhaps you'd be more convincing if you weren't so obviously frightened." Her eyes narrowed. "Of you?" "Of what I'll find." She stepped closer. Not enough to touch me. Enough to make the space between us feel deliberate. "You should be frightened, Serena." I lifted my chin. "Of you?" "Of what happens when you find it." For one heartbeat, the restaurant seemed to disappear around us. Then I smiled. "Good thing I've never been particularly sensible." I walked away before she could answer. I made it all the way to the street before my hands started shaking. Not because of her threats. Not entirely. There had been something in Alex's expression when she'd seen that photograph. Recognition. Grief. And something that looked disturbingly like guilt. My phone vibrated. An unknown number. UNKNOWN: You spoke to Alexandra Reed. I stopped walking. Another message appeared. UNKNOWN: I told you not to involve her. My pulse quickened. I typed a reply. ME: Who is this? The response came almost immediately. UNKNOWN: Someone who knew your mother. I stared at the screen. My mother had been dead for fourteen years. At least, that was what I had always been told. Another message arrived. This time, it contained an image. An old photograph. A woman stood outside a hospital, holding a newborn baby. Her dark curls fell over one shoulder and she wore a small gold necklace I remembered from the few photographs my father had kept. My mother. But that wasn't what made my blood run cold. Standing beside her was a younger Victor Reed. And in his arms was another baby. Two babies. Two newborns. My phone nearly slipped from my hand. A final message appeared. UNKNOWN: Ask Alexandra why her father was at the hospital the night you were born. I read it once. Twice. Then a third time. Cars rushed past me. People brushed my shoulders. Somewhere behind me, a taxi driver shouted at another motorist. But I heard none of it. Because beneath the photograph was a date. My birthday. Reality hit me. The woman I had spent the last three years trying to expose was no longer just the daughter of a man connected to my father's death. She was connected to the very beginning of my life. I looked back toward the restaurant. Through the glass, I could see Alex standing beside our table, her phone pressed to her ear. She was looking directly at me. Even from across the street, I could see that she was furious. Then she said something into her phone. Something I couldn't hear. But I would remember the expression on her face for the rest of my life. Because it wasn't the expression of a woman who had just discovered a secret. It was the expression of a woman who had been waiting for a secret to find its way home. Somehow impossibly, I knew one thing. Alexandra Reed had been expecting me.