“I don’t know why you’d come to me with a story like this,” he said with an edge in his voice, starting to stand up, “but you should get some help and—”
“No!” I protested, leaping up. “I know it’s true. I know—because I recently found out that I’m her. I’m Rachel. I’m your daughter.”
Malik paused and stared at me again. I knew some of the evidence was right there before his eyes. We’d found pictures of his wife—my mother—back in her college days when he’d first met her, before she’d had the plastic surgery that’d upturned the elegantly straight nose I’d inherited from her and plumped up the thin lips we’d once shared. Our hair was still the same, black and wavy.
He had to see the truth. I didn’t know how else to convince him. I couldn’t exactly tell him I’d broken into a high-security genetics facility with a crew of hitmen to test my DNA.
A glimmer of recognition lit in Malik’s eyes. Then he closed them and shook his head. “It’s not possible.”
“I had a stuffed tiger,” I said quickly. I was pretty sure the toy had come from my former life, since it’d already looked worn in the earliest videos of my training sessions, before Noelle had stopped letting me bring it along at all. “Orangey-yellow fur with brown stripes and button eyes. My kidnappers—they let me keep it.”
Malik pressed the heel of his hand to the bridge of his nose. As he lowered his arm, he peered at me through his fingers. I thought I saw the doubt in his expression fading.
The tiger hadn’t been mentioned in any of the news reports about the car crash. I shouldn’t be able to know about it unless it’d belonged to me.
I barreled onward, figuring the more I said while he was listening, the better. The Chaos Crew had helped me construct a story that would fit the timeline and sound plausible without getting into the, well, bloodier parts of my role in the household.
“I had no idea I was kidnapped for a long time,” I said. “They told me my parents were dead. I finally figured out that something was wrong a couple of years ago and managed to escape them, but it took me the rest of that time to figure out who my real family was. Where I came from.”
Malik cleared his throat, likely trying to gather his thoughts. Was he going to tell me that he’d finished grieving his long-lost daughter, that I couldn’t be her no matter what I said? Would he send me away in disbelief? Anxiety roared through my veins as I waited for a response.
He hadn’t called the bodyguards yet. That was a small sign in my favor.
Malik took a few slow breaths. Then he fixed a more piercing look on me than he’d given me before in his initial surprise.
“If you are who you say you are, do you remember what you were wearing the day you were taken?” he asked, his gray eyes that were nearly identical to my own intent on mine.
I couldn’t tell whether he really wanted me to answer that question. It’d be easier for him if it turned out I was lying, wouldn’t it? He could go back to his normal life where he’d set aside his tragic loss decades ago.
I sucked my lower lip under my teeth. “I was so young. I don’t remember my life before the kidnapping at all.”
He sighed and leaned back in his seat. I groped for a better answer I could give him, and my mind latched on to my memories of the old videos Blaze had lifted from Noelle’s laptop.
I had been young in them. In the very first one, I’d been just a crying toddler begging for her mommy and daddy. That image was ingrained in my mind now. The clothes I’d been wearing had been dirty and wrinkled, not like the trim tees and sweats I’d been dressed in later.
Was it possible they’d left me in my original clothes for the first few days while they tried to ease me into my new situation? It was worth checking.
“I did have one old set of clothes—an outfit I don’t remember my kidnappers giving me,” I added, improvising. “They were different from the others. A little yellow romper with frilly sleeves and a sunflower embroidered over the chest. Was that it?”
Malik’s stance went rigid again, but this time there was nothing but amazement on his face.
“And a little bow on the collar,” he said, barely more than a whisper.
A smile touched my lips, a wave of exhilaration rushing through me. “Yes.”
He brought his hand to his mouth now and then lowered it again. He couldn’t seem to peel his eyes away from me. “Rachel?”
The name meant nothing to me now, but I nodded. I could hardly tell him I’d rather go by Dess or Decima, the names the household—my kidnappers—had given me. Regardless of its source, it felt like me far more than “Rachel” did. But he’d hardly understand that.
Malik opened his mouth and closed it again. I’d never seen him lost for words in all the videos I’d watched of his political activities.
His bodyguards must have noticed his agitation, because they strode over to our table, glowering at me. “Is everything all right, sir?” one asked.
“Yes,” Malik said, motioning for them to go back to their seats. “Yes, I think it is.” He kept staring at me. “You look exactly like your mother did when I met her.”
“I’ve seen pictures of her in college,” I said, glad I could be honest about that. “That’s part of how I figured it out.”
“You—She’ll be so—” He caught himself and composed his expression. His voice came out more measured, falling into professional mode. “I need outside confirmation. I’m sure you can understand. Can I take a strand of your hair—or you could spit in a cup for me—I’m not sure what would work best.”