The dread dripping over me pools in my stomach. This is a room of insanity. If I could see into Sam's mind, would this be what I see? Is this the chaos underneath the exterior of calculation and unwavering power?
I look back at him, seeking his permission to explore. For some reason, he's decided this is the time to give me answers. He nods, telling me it's okay.
I gravitate to an article tacked to a hanging quilt. I notice a few of the squares has the same fabric as one of my dresses.
HUNTER-RIDGEFIELD HEIR, 8, RUN OVER AND DRAGGED BY DRUNK DRIVER
Samuel Hunter-Ridgefield, son of Gloria Hunter, one of the heiresses to the Hunter political and business empire, and Andrew Ridgefield, Sheriff of the Sacramento County Sheriff’s Department, is in a coma after being hit and dragged by a vehicle while riding his bicycle near their home. Sheriff Ridgefield is a beloved member of the community, coming from a long line of California politicians and philanthropists. The boy's mother is an heiress to the Hunter fortune. Her great-great grandfather found wealth during the Gold Rush and built a farming chemical empire…
HUNTER-RIDGEFIELD BOY AWAKES FROM COMA
MAN CHARGED WITH HUNTER-RIDGEFIELD BOY ACCIDENT RECEIVES MAXIMUM SENTENCE
BELOVED SHERIFF, ANDREW RIDGEFIELD, OF RIDGEFIELD FAME IS KILLED IN ROADSIDE ACCIDENT
ANDREW HUNTER-RIDGEFIELD, SON OF SHERIFF TRAGICALLY KILLED IN ROADSIDE ACCIDENT 11 YEARS AGO, ELECTED YOUNGEST SHERIFF IN SACRAMENTO COUNTY SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT HISTORY.
I know of these families, their names ubiquitously etched in museum wings, mentioned on the news in business or political dealings. Sam clearly has money, but he's someone who lives by the callouses on his hands, who wears torn jeans and t-shirts, and whose head is crowned in a mess of golden-brown ringlets. I never thought he was part of a political and industrial dynasty.
Some of the articles have unintelligible scribbles on them, words circled, some crossed out, as if a code is being deciphered. While there is so much I don't know or understand, a blurry picture of who Sam is and where he comes from begins to emerge. The scars that run along his body and face, products of a tragic accident. His access to money and land explained by his privileged lineage. And the most shocking and confounding revelation of all: the man who was tasked to save me, is my captor's brother.
Sam waits patiently as I move on to the photos. There is a picture of a blond boy alongside a taller boy in front of handsome couple. His hair has darkened with age, but those eyes, even on a small boy, could not be missed. They are his mother's eyes. A beautiful woman, with dark hair, and an elegance that oozes from the photo. His father, a tall man with a dominating posture, his hair lighter, but his eyes brown, like little Andrew. Sam's mom smiles for the camera, but she looks hollow, as if held prisoner. Mr. Ridgefield doesn't smile, though his squint into the sun might provide that illusion. Little Andrew's smile beams across his face—a little boy who has it all. But Sam, little Sam, before the accident, when his skin was still perfect and unmarred—he looks uneasy, tense. His father's hand is gripping one of his shoulders. It's not a gentle touch like that of his mother's. It's a reminder to stay in line. I browse the photos of the family that should have it all. Over time, there is less and less of the Andrews, and just pictures of Sam and Gloria. She looks increasingly disheveled as Sam grows into a handsome young man, though there seems to be the occasional photo were her eyes are bright again, her hair combed and twisted into a prim updo.
I've gathered as much as my eyes and brain can before turning back to Sam.
“He's your brother?” I ask, already certain of the answer.
Sam nods.
I walk over to him and take his hand. I run my fingers around the stitches on his arm. Last night he reopened his scars. He flinches at first, but then allows me. “This was all from the accident?”
He nods, darting his eyes away.
“I'm sorry that happened to you.”
He shrugs.
“Why am I here? Why now? What's going to happen, Sam? I need you to talk to me. Please.”
It occurs to me that reason he may not speak to me is not psychological, but physical. Damage from the accident, maybe. But it still doesn't add up.
He pulls out his pad, and this time he writes slowly, thoughtfully, not rushing in fragments as he often does.