her death he married Lorinda, and the whole family moved from the house with too many memories to another one across town. Employed by the forestry department, Albert pushed his old life behind him, and made a new one. Liv understood he was as haunted by the events of that night as she was, maybe in a different way, but in one just as powerful. Deborah’s death had affected and shaped his life from that day forward.
As it had Hague’s . . .
Now Liv climbed in the rattling elevator with the accordion door, slamming the handle shut, watching the floors pass as she headed for the third story. She let herself onto the hallway with its scarred wooden surfaces and scents of floor wax and dust and overcooked vegetables, and walked quickly to Hague’s door.
After their mother’s death, the policeman had interviewed Hague, too, for all the good it did. Hague had babbled about “that man.” The authorities had looked around for help but no one seemed to know what he was talking about. Liv asked him later, when they were alone, and he squirreled under the blankets of his bed and said, “Zombie man. Kill you. Kill you!” And he was crying and laughing and crying some more.
He’d scared the living daylights out of Liv, who ran to her own room, hiding beneath her covers. Later Hague said Mama had a friend. “A friend!” he’d yelled at the authorities. “Mama’s friend!”
They, in turn, labeled “the friend” Deborah Dugan’s Mystery Man.
Liv never mentioned Hague’s zombie man comment to the police, nor that he’d also said kill you in the same reference, like he’d said when he’d been sitting in his high chair, if that’s what he’d said that day; she’d never been completely sure. And she didn’t know then that his words were the first inkling of the behavioral changes that would send Hague down, down, down in a descending spiral that would last until his life to date.
“Hello, Olivia.”
Della Larson, Hague’s companion, stood in the open doorway, answering Liv’s knock. She leaned her head back and crossed her arms, assessing Liv suspiciously; behind her the place looked like a dark hole. Hague didn’t like lights, or fresh air, or anything remotely different. Unless, of course, he chose to do an about-face himself, which happened occasionally.
Della was older than Hague by about a decade and was a nurse-cum-attendant-cum-friend and maybe lover. She’d been with Hague for most of his adult life, ever since his release from Grandview Hospital, the mental institution for teens where he’d been sent briefly while Liz was at Hathaway House. Even though Liv had been adopted by the Dugans—a fact the birth certificate she’d just received spelled out clearly—and wasn’t related to Hague by blood, it sure seemed like mental illness relentlessly plagued their family. Hague was a genius with a 160 IQ but it didn’t mean he knew how to live in this world. Maladaptive was the word often used to describe his behavior. On that, Liv was way ahead of him, though her problems had been diagnosed as derived from mental trauma, not from a mind that moved in ways the rest of the so-called normal humans couldn’t understand. As the German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer once said—as quoted by Della more often than Liv cared to count—“Talent hits a target no one else can hit; Genius hits a target no one else can see.”
That and a dollar would buy you a newspaper. Maybe.
Della’s white-blond hair was scraped into a bun at her nape and her icy blue eyes raked over Liv as if she were someone she’d never seen before. It irked Liv, but then she knew it really was a reflection of the suspicions her own brother held inside himself as well.
“You didn’t call ahead,” Della said.
“Hi, Della,” Liv said. “The last time I called the line was disconnected.”
“It’s been reconnected for over a month.”
“Under whose name?”
She hesitated briefly. “Mine.”
“No matter what you may think of me, I’m no mind reader,” Liv said. “I’ll leave that to Hague.”
Her nose twitching in annoyance, Della stepped aside and Liv was allowed into the dim recesses of her brother’s den. The place smelled like bleach and lemon and everything clean, which was a relief given the fact Liv’s eyes were adjusting to a whole lot of clutter. Hague might be a hoarder of sorts, but everything had to be squeaky clean, per his decree and by Della’s hand.
“He’s in his room,” Della said, leading the way to the northwest corner of the apartment. She knocked on the door panels and when he barked, “What?” she said, “Your sister is here.”
A long silence ensued, before Hague bellowed, “Well, let her in!” as if Della’s interference were just that, interference. She ignored his tone and opened the door and when Liv crossed the threshold, Della was right on her heels.
Hague sat in a brown leather chair that nearly swallowed him whole. He was lithe to the point of wispiness but he was tall like Albert—his biological father and Liv’s adoptive one. He looked a lot like Deborah, too, Liv realized, seeing those hauntingly large blue eyes of her dreams stare at her from Hague’s thin face.
“What do you want?” he asked gruffly.
“Nice way to greet me. I came to find out if you know anything about this.” She held up the manila envelope and his eyes followed it, a frown creasing his brow.
“What is it?”
“Guess that answers my question.”
“What is it?” he demanded more loudly and Della moved to his side and laid a comforting hand on his shoulders.
“It’s from the law firm of Crenshaw and Crenshaw. Ever heard of them?” Liv asked.
“ No.”
“They were directed to send me this package when I turned twenty-five.”
“Last Friday. Happy birthday.”
She smiled faintly. Hague didn’t live by the world’s time line though he understood it perfectly. “It had pictures of our mother and some other people inside.” She handed him the series of pictures she’d pored over throughout the last two days. This morning she’d decided to go visit her brother directly after work and see what he made of the package’s contents. “And it has my real birth certificate and several other papers.”
“Who directed the lawyers?”
“Our mother.”
His eyes caught hers. “What?”
Liv explained how the lawyers had gotten hold of her and sent the package. “She—Mama—wanted me to have this, but I don’t really understand why. My birth certificate, okay, and personal stuff, but who are these people?”
“That’s our father.”
In one of the pictures Albert was standing beside Deborah in a grassy field, possibly the one behind their old house.
“But who’s this?” she asked, pointing to the man trying to grab for the camera.
Hague was ignoring her as he selected a piece of paper, holding it up between his thumb and index finger, away from his body, as if it might bite him. He glanced at her expectantly.
