Drunk and raging her father had stormed into the west wing. Bellowing his hatred as spittle sprayed from his lips, he burst into her room and almost pulled her arm off as he yanked her from under the bed. Expletives flowed like vomit from his mouth as he stood there and shook her and shook her and shook her some more, calling her words she had never heard before. She had no idea it was her mother’s birthday. She had no idea his fury was born from a soul twisted by loss. All she knew was on that night, on the night he nearly broke her jaw with a slap that sent her flying over her bed, she’d always remember the feeling of warm urine soaking through her knickers and the last prayer she uttered before turning her back on God. He should have saved her, and He didn’t.

Addison was not a connoisseur of vintage biblical volumes, but by the appearance of their bindings, it was easy to tell which was old and which was not. Going over, she pulled the most pristine from the row.

Its leather was thick and embossed, and still carried the shine of polished calf, but already knowing the fiction it contained, she was about to return it to the shelf when she noticed a thin red silk marker nestled between the pages toward the center of the Bible. Opening it to the ribbon, she found herself looking at facing pages displaying the Kane family crest at the top, and beneath it, under the heading of Marriage was written Oliver and Alena Kane 1978.

Addison stared at the handwriting. Large and loopy, it was definitely written by a woman. A woman who had been her mother, and according to the foulness her father had spewed throughout her life, a woman who Addison had killed. She ran her fingertip over the ink, and her emotions began to stir. Had she ever touched anything belonging to her mother before?

She blinked, clearing the moisture that had formed, and trying to get her mind off of the memories she didn’t have, Addison looked to the other page, and her gasp broke the silence of the night. Under the heading of Births was not only her name, but that of her brother’s. “Christ,” she said, seeing the birth and death dates of a boy who was to be called Alastair.

It had been years since she had thought of her twin. In her youth, there had been times when her mind had wandered, and lying in bed, she’d stare at the ceiling and think about a brother she didn’t have. Would they have been the same height? Would his hair have been the same color or his eyes as blue? Would he have grown up to be a businessman like their father or would his wants take him in a different direction?