Echo by E.K. Blair
For My Fans
“You would have to be half mad to dream me up.”
-Lewis Carroll
I DIDN’T EVEN take another second after I found out about Nina. Elizabeth. My wife. Jesus, what the hell is going on? The only thoughts in my head since hearing the truth an hour ago are confusion and fear and getting my ass to my attorney’s office. I don’t know what Nina is up to. Shit, I don’t know anything right now. I haven’t even had a chance to look at the dossier because I had to make sure that the only other person I care about, aside from Nina, would be taken care of no matter what. My mind is spinning and thoughts are beginning to swarm now that I’ve made it back to The Legacy.
Pulling into the garage, I park in my spot, grab the file, and rush inside. It’s like a thousand hammers beating inside of my chest as I push through the doors, raking my hand through my hair.
“Mr. Vanderwal!”
I stumble in my step when I hear Manuel call my name from across the lobby.
“Mr. Vanderwal,” he repeats as he stands up from behind the desk. “I have something for you.”
Ice swims through my veins when he picks up a small manila envelope and begins walking over to me.
“Who delivered this?”
“Said her name was Mrs. Brooks and that it was urgent. She was extremely persistent that you open it right away,” he says with an outstretched hand, and I take the envelope.
“Thanks.” Giving a quick nod, I make my way to the elevators. I recognize Jacqueline’s handwriting on the envelope and wonder why she didn’t just call me. When the doors open and I step into the penthouse I’ve been sharing with my wife, the panic manifests into an insurgent need to understand what’s going on.
Tossing my coat aside, I head straight to my office and close the door behind me. I take a seat and immediately open the dossier to find a few photos taken of Nina walking out of what looks to be a residential building, most likely McKinnon’s. The thought turns my stomach to think about what she’s been doing with him all this time I’ve been away on business in Dubai.
My suspicions started at the masquerade ball. Something was off with her. I could sense it. Her emotions were all over the place—it was evident in her eyes, yet she played it off well and I never really questioned. When travel picked up and I was away for longer spans of time, I grew lonely and thought she might be feeling the same. There was an instance I arranged to have her favorite meal from Cité delivered to her only to find out from the restaurant manager that it was undeliverable because she wasn’t home. After I called Richard, I found out that Jacqueline had mentioned Nina not being around as often as she used to. The red flags were there, so I admit, I had her followed. It didn’t feel right, but I couldn’t bear the thought of losing her. I needed to know, and now that I do and that it was Declan, I want to kill that son of a bitch.
More pictures of Nina, now with him. His hand holding hers. Her smiling up at him. His hand in her red hair. Her arms around his waist. A hug. A kiss. Hand on her ass. Hand on his face. Her body pressed against his, all while standing among the busy city traffic.
Fuck!
That’s my goddamn wife! The woman I love beyond my own life. What the fuck is she doing? And when I flip to the next piece of information in the file, I’m reminded that she’s not Nina when I see a picture of her. She’s young—really young. A scanned page from a yearbook with her school photo and name printed right beneath.
Elizabeth Archer.
In ink, there’s a note that reads:
Freshman year.
Bremen High School. Posen, Illinois.
Jesus. How did she wind up in Posen?
My eyes are fixed on the grainy black and white photo. She isn’t smiling, but she’s beautiful. I see the woman I married, and when I close my eyes, I can see her—Elizabeth.
And now I feel it.
Guilt.
I set the file down and lean back in my chair while I attempt to grasp on to reality, but my emotions are too conflicting. I can’t even think straight. My wife isn’t who she’s pretended to be since the day I met her. But why? What does she want? I should hate her, be furious, be in a state of rage. Instead, I feel like driving back to the hospital so I can touch her, see her, hold her, and ask her why, and tell her that whatever it is, I’ll fix it for her because I love her.
God, I love her.
What the hell is wrong with me? I should be enraged. Right?
I take a moment and close my eyes when I feel the pulsing of a headache beginning to form. Loosening my tie, I open my eyes and they land on the manila envelope. With curiosity, I open it up to find a flash drive along with a note that reads: