Witness

“I rather like your house with belongings in it,” Harry teased from his spot on the couch. “I don’t have to keep telling the neighbors that there is in fact a completely normal girl living in this house. They’ve all begun to think you’re a proper nutter.”

I rolled my eyes, not much caring what the rest of the population of Holmes Chapel thought of me. I sold them drinks at the bar and they were tipping me heftily for a real-live glance at the gossip. That was enough for me. Instead of answering, I clicked absently at my bookmarked sites on my computer, flicking through login screens of accounts I’d been forced to deactivate.

“You know, maybe if you’d step out every once in a while, grant your adoring public an audience, they might not speculate so much.”

“Maybe if they stopped speculating so much, I would perhaps be more inclined to grant them such an audience.”

“I’m just saying, maybe if you had more friends than just me in town things might be a little more enjoyable for you.”

“I have friends,” I defended sorely. In fact, that afternoon Mary was taking me to a self-defense class in Crewe upon her suggestion. Her friend from boxing class was apparently instructing a three-week seminar and Mary, being the ridiculously physically fit maven that she was, insisted on trying it out. And I would take just about any opportunity I could get to get out of Holmes Chapel.

Not to mention, learning how to defend myself could maybe help me able to sleep at night again.
Harry shot me a pointed glance over his slightly tucked up knees. “I just… I need a little more alone time than most people,” I hummed. “I’m an introvert at heart.”

Which was a lie. In New York, I had an insanely busy social life. I participated in every film club I could get into, was social chair of my dorm floor freshman year, loved going out on the weekends, and was fiercely dedicated to Amelia and Thomas. In fact, I rather hated being alone. Especially after growing up in a foster home that housed up to six children at any given time. Being alone wasn’t something I was even used to.

But it wasn’t exactly easy to get close to anyone when you were suspicious of his or her every move. If Harry and Mary hadn’t forced themselves on me, I would have probably been entirely alone.

Harry shrugged, flicking on the TV to some terrible show on E4. A grant had just come through from the O.E.O., allowing me to now purchase furniture in hopes of making my shell of a house a little more homey – I couldn’t tell the difference. A little leather and wood couldn’t make the atmosphere any less eerie.

“Don’t you, like, have responsibilities or something?” I quipped at him. Shouldn’t you be getting back to London rather than hanging around bothering me?”

“I’m afraid I’m all yours for the time being, love.”

My skin pricked at the word, the silly British pet name love. He released an exaggerated yawn, stretching out his legs so they brushed against mine. I narrowly avoided flinching in response, amazed at how nonchalantly he could graze me. He shifted in his seat, making himself perfectly at home, sending me a mischievous grin.

He fancied me.

Fucking Brits and their ability to make everything sound so much more romantic than it really was.

I certainly didn’t fancy him back, if that’s the way it’s coming off. We were only friends. We went on our run every morning, ate scones and prodded at each other near mercilessly until Harry had to run off for some conference call or I had to get to work. For a man with as much supposed band responsibility he had, he certainly was able to spend plenty of time bothering me.

Regardless, things hadn’t changed between us – had they? We still did the same things we’d been doing for the last two weeks, dancing around the subject of Harry’s – as he would say – cheeky confession the other night. I was beginning to think Harry was addicted to a little bit of mystery, wanting to keep it alive between us as long as possible. I was nothing more than a fun puzzle for him to figure out, and he was nothing more than someone to keep me company in the little desert of a town.

Except for the fact that when his criminally beautiful eyes met mine, my heart involuntary skittered across the floor.

Shaking the thought from my head, I absently flipped to my old homepage, the New York Times website. It had been ages since I read an American newspaper – it only made me more homesick to think about it. The bold Blackletter type at the top of the page made my bones ache to hold a real paper copy of the Times in my hands. But then my eyes caught sight of something else.

Arthur Trask: the man behind the empire and the son on the loose

“Harry!” I exclaimed, sitting straight up in my spot on the couch. “Turn that down for a minute!”

As quickly as my fingers would allow, I clicked the headline, which linked through to an article complete with an audio file. Without even thinking, I pressed play on the small bar, sound blaring from my speakers. Harry pressed mute on the TV, shifting even closer to me so he could see what I was reading. His body was grazing mine, curls brushing against the place where my neck met my jawline. I stifled the urge to shiver.

“Arthur Trask, CEO of the multibillion dollar World Trust Corporation, is under fire this week for his lack of involvement in the hunt to find his son, Damien Trask, 28, who is currently topping the FBI’s most-wanted list.

“Damien Trask, a graduate of Brown University, has recently been linked to the murder of agent Eric Spengler, 36, of New Castle. Spengler was on assignment investigating the recent uptake in FBI-classified activity with which the younger Trask is said to be associated.

“What is this?” Harry asked curiously.

I hushed him. “Something important going on in the States. Just hold on.”

“Since Damien Trask was placed on the most-wanted list after disappearing in apparent thin air, Arthur Trask has nearly disappeared from the public eye himself. The normally extremely socially involved CEO has begun to avoid his municipal responsibilities. When asked, his publicist refused to comment.

“Sources close to the family say that Arthur Trask is a dedicated father who always gave everything he could to his son. They are unsure of what could have possibly went wrong that lead Damien Trask down a path of danger and destruction.

“One source that opted to maintain her identity is Arthur Trasks’ current girlfriend, former model Irene Michaels.

“’Arthur and Damien always had a healthy relationship,’ said Michaels. ‘He loves his son very deeply. Ever since the warrant for Damien’s arrest came out, Arthur has been a mess. He really had no idea that this was coming at all.’

“Arthur Trask has been the head of World Trust since he founded it under Manhattan Trust in 1981. The company manages much of the funds of private companies in the New York area as well as around the world, in countries including Russia, China, England, and Saudi Arabia. Arthur Trask’s net worth is estimated at $1.2 billion.

“An anonymous witness tipped off the FBI to the murder of Spengler late on the night of August 21st. Special forces have been on the trail of Damien Trask ever since, though he has not been spotted since early on August 22nd.”

As the audio file faded out, I sat on the couch absolutely stunned. I was aware that Damien had been missing since that night, but I was entirely unaware of the fact that the entire nation was on the watch for him. The only reason it was getting this much attention was his relation to his insanely high profile father, of course, but still. My stomach tied in knots to know that I was mentioned in that article, though maintaining my anonymity.

“Lilia?” Harry prodded. I didn’t acknowledge him at first, still not entirely used to my new name. “Lil?”

“Oh,” I murmured, pressing at my temples with my forefingers. “Sorry. I just really can’t believe that all is happening. It’s uh… kind of a big deal back home. Arthur Trask is a big deal.”

And he was. Anyone who was anyone in New York worked with him. Whether it was business related, money related, or socially related, Arthur Trask’s name seemed to pop up everywhere you went. I’d set sights on him a couple times across crowded NYU benefits.

This was a new wrinkle in my story of Damien Trask. Damien Trask who tried to kill me. Damien Trask who already killed another man right in front of my eyes. Damien Trask who ruined my life as I knew it.

Damien Trask, the well-loved son of billionaire Arthur Trask?

It was almost comical how unfair it was.

If there was anything that bothered me, it was privileged kids with loving parents who thumbed their nose and threw their souls into rebellion – perhaps an understatement in Damien’s case, but still. For a girl who had grown up without parents, for a girl who had grown up in foster care, it was infuriating.

The lack of information provided on my home life really wasn’t entirely because I didn’t enjoy talking about it. It’s mostly because I don’t know anything about my parents. For as long as I could remember, I was living in a busy, busy house in Alphabet City, kids coming and going as they were adopted and relocated. But I stayed in the same place. No one ever wanted me. Not until NYU.

My foster mom, Susan Carlisle, was the most patient person I ever met. She wasn’t necessarily the most loving person, but she was kind enough and fed me enough to keep me healthy. By no means did I have a horribly ravaged childhood – I had friends (until they got in trouble or found distant relatives and left), I did well in school (except for the fact that it was in a really dangerous neighborhood and didn’t have a particularly high rating), and I was healthy (although I didn’t have health insurance to cover anything if I were to have ever fallen ill).

But God, would I have killed to have parents.

And Damien Trask took his for granted.

“So who’s this Damien then?” Harry asked unknowingly. “His son?”

I was quiet for a long time. I didn’t want to talk about Damien. It was stupid of me play that clip out loud for Harry to hear. I should have just read it in private to avoid any sort of conversation about it. Even just hearing Harry say his name out loud was enough to send my heart into dizzying contractions, the glinting eyes of my killer flashing in my mind.

“Just another American psychopath, I suppose,” I murmured weakly.

Harry grinned, throwing his arm around my shoulders. “I assure you, there are just as many psychopaths in Europe. Crazy things are happening over here all the time. I promise you won’t be bored if you read the news.”

Well, that was reassuring. Well done, Harry.

“Thanks for that,” I muttered at him, narrowing my eyes.

“Never fear, dear Lilia,” he stated grandly, his face just inches from mine. “I am always here to keep you safe.”

I rolled my eyes, secret blush bubbling inside me. Just in the nick of time, a knocking came at the door. Mary.

“As a matter of fact, Harry,” I hummed, standing up from the couch and shooting him a triumphant glance. “I am about to head off to a self defense class in Crewe with Mary. So I don’t think I’ll be needing any of your protection, but thank you so kindly for the offer.”

Harry quickly stood up after me, following me down the stairs in a flabbergasted state. “You’re taking self-defense classes? Wait. You’re leaving the house with another person?”

I grinned in his direction; happy for the distraction from my dark thoughts of Damien as I grabbed the bag I’d prepared for class and left by the door.

“No need to be jealous, Harry,” I teased. “I’ll always have a special place in my heart for you. You’ll lock up for me, won’t you?”

He stared at me for a moment with a look of whirlwind disbelief before his winning grin appeared. “You really are something else, Lilia. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And I headed out to class with Mary – who was breathtakingly good at self-defense, I later discovered – laughing and chatting all the way. But one little thought kept resonating in the back of my head, all through lesson as I pretended I saw his terrifying face on every item I aimed at.

Damien Trask had a family and I did not. And what kind of cruel world did we live in where that was okay?