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"I'm here, Len. And I agree with everything Layana just said." Brant leans forward to make sure the microphone catches his voice.
"I'll need you both to provide your security passcodes." Any camaraderie I've shared with this man over the last few months is gone. Suddenly, I recognize the ex-Special Forces asset we’d hired. It was a welcome transition, and the panic in my gut eased a little. It would be okay. We were in good hands. At least we would be as soon as we got home.
"4497," Brant says.
“1552." I glance at him, considered at the pale pallor of his cheeks. Had they been feeding him? What drugs had they had him on?
"Thank you. We'll be ready when you arrive. Is there anything else we can do?"
I glance at Brant, speaking when he shakes his head. "Please connect me to Anna."
“Connecting you now."
Our house manager answers with an efficient perkiness, and I’d be willing to bet that she’d been up ever since I left the house.
“Hi Anna. Can you have Christine prepare breakfast? A full spread of everything Brant likes. Also, please prepare the bedroom and the spa. I also need you to bring a physician in. Brant needs a full tox screen done, so have them bring whatever they need for that." I had a sudden idea. "Actually, call Dr. Susan Renhart. She's at Homeless Youths of America. Tell her it is urgent, and that discretion is important. Mention my name.”
She doesn’t ask questions, just repeats the instructions back to me, and I have never been more grateful for the ex-headmistress who now ran our household with a rigid effectiveness. I end the call and glance over at Brant, his eyes closed, his features tense. "Stay with me, babe," I say softly.
"I'll never leave you," he says. "Not willingly." He turns his head and meets my gaze. "I'm so sorry for everything I must have put you through."
"We have the rest of our lives to talk about it." I squeeze his hand and glance back to the road. "Right now I'm more concerned with Jillian. Brant, she’s—"
"Crazy," he finishes with a growl. "Crazier than me," he amends with a wry laugh.
“I can’t—” I couldn’t even put the confused rage I was feeling into words. “How long has she had you there? How did she even get you tied down to that bed? And who was that guy?”
“She injected me with something. I went straight there after I got in the fight with you so what—how long has it been? Twelve hours? A day?”
“Three days.”
He is silent at the news, but I can see in the tight flex of his jaw, the subtle fist of his hands, how much the timeframe angers him. This is what I am more accustomed to. Not the wild fight in the bed, but the small battle restrained inside of him.
I press harder on the gas, and zip through an intersection before the yellow light turns red. The car’s windshield is fogging in the chilly morning air, and I hit the defrost button on my steering wheel and try to think through Jillian’s next steps. "Should you call your parents? It might be best for you to speak to them before Jillian does."
I reluctantly pull my hand from his, putting both on the steering wheel before he feels the shake in my palms. I am literallyshakingwith anger, at myself, at Brant, at the manipulation this woman has had in our lives. "Brant, what kind of sick person ties someone down? We have to think about what else she’s capable of.”
"Maybe it was for the best.”
I let out a strangled laugh. “What? Are you kidding me?”
“What if I'm dangerous?" His voice is quiet but walks the steps of giants.
I slow the car down as we approach our private drive and jerk my gaze to him. "You're not dangerous, Brant."
"Brant isn't dangerous. But you said yourself I have other personalities, what if one of them..." He suddenly leans forward and grips the sides of his head. "Oh my God."
"What?" I pull the wheel hard and make the turn through our gates. They are open, Len standing by the guard shack and waving us through. I gun the Mercedes’s engine and careen down the long driveway and then brake hard by the front doors. Shifting into park, I undo my seat belt and twist to face him, alarmed at the grief on his face. He was breaking down on me, right there in his seat, and while I had seen him shift personalities before—this was something different. This was a cascade into a dark, negative emotion. I pull at his arm, grip his shirt, try to pull his attention to me, but his eyes are vacant, his hands still clawing at his head as he shakes it from side to side.
"December twelfth," he whispers. "Oh my God. December twelfth."
The date means nothing to me, and I turn off the car and reach for the handle, about to get out and go around to his side when suddenly he stills. I turn back to see him drop his hands into his lap, a calm settling over him as he raises his head and finally meets my eyes.
"I remember." He says softly. "I remember December twelfth."
Chapter 73 - Brant
TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS AGO
