Present day:
“Miss Tucker? Hellooo? Miss Tucker?”
The unhappy reflection of Lonnie flies away. I snap back to life. The steady voice of Brexton over the intercom shatters my fragile bubble of the past.
I press the button, my palms a touch clammy. Why does thinking of my past always make me kind of nervous and guilty? I know I didn’t do anything wrong. “Yes, sir? Sorry.”
“Come to my office, please. Bring Mr. Franz’s file with you.”
I shoot to my feet, grab the folder, and march out of my private office, forgetting about my shitty past as I go. Thank goodness work offers those types of diversions.
It's been a week since I've started here, and I’m still not prepared for the sight as I open my door.
My blood pressure always spikes.
Today isn’t any different. The bustling environment happening outside my office never changes.
You’d think the setup would be a little more posh, but that white collar feel is saved for the offices of Mr. Hall and Mr. Brexton.
Overall, the top floor is a machine on fire with a winding layout of desks and reception areas. Phones ringing and fax machines dialing sound off at every turn. Televisions playing overviews of the daily stocks and latest world news line up along the walls, with their cords running down the navy blue carpeting.
If Layton's office is Xanax, then this building is a line of speed and coke combined.
Interns buzz around in a fury, attempting to climb the network ladder. All while numerous secretaries handle appointments and lower floor affairs. Thankfully, I’m sheltered from this everyday hodgepodge. Otherwise, I would need a sedative. The open floor plan is too electric.
Chaos falls away as I cross the large span and head toward Brexton’s office. When the continuous gleam of glass windows comes into view, I breathe easier.
I’ve reached the foyer of Mr. Brexton's area and can see Mrs. Rodkins and her desk from here. The ever-faithful secretary is at her post like all other days. I pull on the cylinder handle to the glass door, entering to the luxury black couches and plush blue carpet that provide shelter from the craziness behind me.
Mrs. Rodkins hangs up the phone, giving me a curt smile. Her severe bun and oversized square glasses age her considerably. Unpinned hair suits her better.
“He's waiting for you.” She gestures to the double-wide glass doors clouded for privacy.
“Thank you.” Already, my heart is racing. I can feel it’s quickening beats thudding in my wrists. A step in the direction of the doors doesn’t help. I battle to steady my breath before going into his office, clawing for composure like I do every time before laying my eyes on him.
A week here hasn't lessened the effect of Mr. Brexton. He remains sexier than hell, and now I’m frequented with the smirks of Satan and that deep baritone voice. It’s a lethal combo that hits my common sense with an axial shifting power.
“Breathe,” I whisper right before pushing open the door.
Inside the office, the panoramic view of Seattle is, of course, impressive. The Seattle Needle peaks above the skyline on the left, almost leveled with Brexton’s head as he sits with the city to his back.
My mouth dries up, looking at the man himself. He’s behind his bold, mahogany desk, head down, reading.
You’d have to be blind not to see how muscular he is today. His suit jacket is removed, a black checkered vest and blue shirt on full display. My gaze crawls over his upper torso. I follow the dips and ripples of his arms. The bulge of rounded shoulders, the narrowing below, then the bulking biceps. I settle on that spot for too long.
Not the wisest thing to do with my fingers already itching to trail along the length of his body.
A flex occurs as he fists and relaxes his fingers—a habit he has while reading. The man works out. The thought of his naked body forces my knees together.
“You don't have to stand in the door, you know.” He doesn’t look up. That overtly sexed voice drops into my stomach with a weighted plop. “You can come in.”
Just great. He must know I was ogling, and I’m sure he loves it.
Lusty heat licks at my cheeks while I shuffle inside. It's incredible how the same voice that catapults my insides into a flutter can also embarrass the hell out of me. I walk to stand in front of the desk, but the flickering of the wall-mounted TV to my left, draws my attention away—and not in a good way.
The times I’ve been in here so far, it has played on a loop for the stock market. But the Dow Jones info isn't what's catching my eye right now. My stomach wrings itself into a vicious knot, and I swear the floor beneath me is dropping away.
It's the one-minute commercial that's been running all month.
The one my mom and Pat put out.
The one saying they’re looking for me.
They are on the screen now, pleading for me to come home.
This is how I know they want to reconcile. What I told Roxie was a lie; a fib for her safety. I didn’t want to tell her at all, but this stupid ad. Seeing my mom’s face in particular after all these years put an unshakable weight on my chest. One that stole me of sleep and rest. I needed to tell Roxie just enough, and cryptically, of course.
The solution ended up being a light-hearted sounding confession of: “Hey. Did I tell you I heard from my mom and stepdad? They want to talk to me.” Easy sounding words with such a devastating twist.
They haven't called asking to see me because they don't know where I am. And right now, they don’t even know who I am.
That’s for the best—they’ve never protected me. But for whatever reason, they want to see me. Badly. I think it’s because of Lonnie’s release.
He’s getting out, and knowing Mom’s way of thinking, I think she wants to patch up the image of her broken-up family and make it look like the past can heal.
Lonnie’s in jail, and I’m who-knows-where, so I’m sure that makes her look bad.
Before I ran off, and Lonnie got arrested, they stuck to lies that made it sound like I called once a week.
Pretending isn’t possible now, and I bet it keeps Mom awake at night. Deep in my mind, they haven’t been searching for me all this time, because it was pointless.
We couldn’t be together—we couldn’t be happy. Now we can.
Mom’s put an ad out on every station in the country. Here in Seattle, it airs three times a day: morning, afternoon, and primetime. From what I know, it’s a month-long search. We’re only halfway through.
I glance at Brexton to see if he’s paying attention to me, or signaling me to draw closer, but there’s nothing. He’s still reading, so I watch the screen again.
The camera pans right, closing in on the face of Pat, and my gaze dulls. Frankly, I don’t care about Pat at all. But when the camera zooms in on my mom, a strange part of me aches.
Why do our parents continue to hold some type of emotional power over us, even when they’re wrong? I feel a touch of guilt as I watch her, holding an 8x10 picture of me. I'm young in the photo; seven, maybe eight.
But I know why they picked it—well … why my mom picked it.
It was my favorite picture. I carried it with me everywhere, even as a teen when we took trips. It marks the happiest vacation of my life at Disney World. Dad was alive then, and Lonnie and Pat hadn’t crossed my path yet. So, that’s why I was happy.
Mickey and Minnie stand behind me, their over-sized, gloved hands on my shoulders. Then there's me with my ridiculous smile. All my teeth baring to the camera while I laugh—the Minnie Mouse ears lopsided on my head. Bright blonde hair tumbling out. My hair was lighter then.
Even with the TV muted, I hear every word they speak.
“To Vivian, our daughter. Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, please come home. We love you. We miss you. All we want is to be a family once again. To the world out there, if you’ve met a Vivian Jane Grey, or have any information, please dial this number.”
A shiver runs up my spine, and the sympathy flees. “A family once again.” It's definitely not a coincidence this is airing when Lonnie will be released next week.
Some would question the lack of information in the ad, but I know why it's limited. They don't want people knowing the real reason why I vanished, as it would ruin them. The Greys aren't known for transparency. We operate in secrecy. Under the camouflage of a perfect name and happy faces, and thanks to my mom, with a side of understanding manipulation.
Always have. That’s why that fucking picture is in there. Mom knew what it meant to me. This request is tailored to me and my sympathies.
A bitter taste hits my tastebuds when thinking of the life I had with them. I’ll never go back. That life is dead.
So is Vivian.
“Ahem—” Brexton clears his throat, just enough to command my attention.
My gaze snaps to my boss. I didn’t realize how absorbed I was until now.
He swiftly glances at the TV. “Is locating missing children a passion of yours?”