The Concealed (The Lakewood Series Book 1) Read online

  “We have a little something for you,” said Jim with a firm voice and pressed an envelope into my hand. “This should get you by for a while.”

  “No, I can’t accept this. You mustn’t . . . ,” I protested, surprised.

  “No buts,” he said and closed my hand around the full envelope.

  “But I . . . ,” I started again only to be rewarded with an unrelenting stare from Jim, who still had a comforting arm around his wife. “Thank you,” I finally said and put the envelope in my pocket.

  “Let me know you made it safely,” Dana said, detaching herself from her husband and pressing me against her for a third time.

  I said, “Of course,” shook Mr. Prescott’s hand, and gave Timmy a big kiss on the cheek. Then I walked with my suitcases into the station, where the monitor informed me that my train would leave from platform 4 in exactly three minutes.

  With my big purse around my neck and a heavy suitcase in each hand, I ran through an underground passage and reached the train just as the doors were closing. That was close—damned good-byes!

  Still out of breath, I entered the next car, looking for an empty seat. I stored my things in the baggage compartment, dropped exhausted into the seat, and pulled my MP3 player from my bag by its headphones. A small dark-blue booklet was entangled in the cords and fell out. My bank account book. I opened it and stared at the amount, shaking my head. I still couldn’t believe it.

  The image of the bank, the broad wooden desk, and the wide chair in which I sat a few weeks ago appeared before my eyes.

  “Ten thousand,” I said in disbelief.

  The notary calmly repeated, “Ten thousand. Your sister made a few preparations. You were to be secure in case something happened to her.” He had just read her will, which simply stated that I was to have all of Zara’s possessions and was registered as the beneficiary of her life insurance, which she had purchased without my knowledge. Though she never said it, I knew how angry Zara was at our parents because they had left us nothing but a few chairs and a worn couch.

  “And a personal note from your sister.” The notary continued reading the will and cleared his throat. “Do something sensible with it. I love you,” he had quoted. I had burst into tears. I love you, too!

  Before sadness could overcome me again, I angrily pushed the earbuds into my ears and scrolled up and down the MP3 player’s display until I found what I was looking for—the rough sounds of “I’m Shipping Up to Boston” by the Dropkick Murphys seemed to be just the right thing for the occasion—and cranked up the volume until I couldn’t hear myself think anymore.

  The four-hour ride was uneventful—I even fell asleep a few times—and when the train finally entered Oxford, darkness shrouded the historic town. Outside the train station, after I had heaved my suitcases from the train, a middle-aged woman called me to her cab. That must be Ruth, Mrs. Prescott’s cousin.

  “Hi, I’m Evelyn Lakewood,” I said as I stood before her. “You’re Ruth?”

  “Yes,” she answered with a beaming smile. “Hello, Evelyn, welcome to Oxford.”

  With our combined strength we stashed the suitcases in the trunk before I got in and gave her the address of my future home, which I had scribbled on a sticky note.

  “One of the university dorms,” she said with a nod and drove off. When she saw that I was rubbing my cold hands, she turned the heat up as high as possible, and an intense scent cloud hit me. Taxis have a very special odor, one that cannot be compared to other cars. An overwhelming mixture of leather and mint was powerfully enhanced now that the hot air was blasting. While I held my hands to the vent, I looked out the window and saw that the beauty of the old buildings in this distinguished town could even be admired in the dark. The architecture of the “city of dreaming spires” had always fascinated me.

  “What are you taking, dear? Dana didn’t tell me much about you,” Ruth said after we’d driven a few miles.

  “Psychology at Christ Church,” I said, returning her smile. She almost appeared motherly, with her soft facial features and light-brown curls rippling out from underneath a red beret.

  “First year?”

  “Yes, it starts tomorrow. I was accepted off the waiting list,” I said and sighed. “The others are a full trimester ahead.”

  “That must make you nervous,” she said.

  “A little.”

  “My daughter graduated from here last summer. She studied medicine. She’s working at St. Mary’s Hospital in London now.”

  “You must be proud,” I said, stating the obvious.

  “Oh, I am,” she eagerly agreed. “Your family must be proud of you, studying at a famous college like this.”

  I swallowed hard; Mrs. Prescott had indeed spilled nothing.

  “I hope so,” I pronounced with a hoarse voice, which caused Ruth to throw me a questioning glance. “My parents died when I was very young,” I explained after a short pause, without knowing why I would tell a stranger something so private. “My big sister Zara looked after me then . . .” I let the sentence hang.

  “Looked after you?” Ruth asked, as if she were unsure whether she should ask the question or not.

  “Zara died three months ago while on duty. She was a police officer.” My voice trembled.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, dear,” she said with sincerity. I just nodded since I was afraid the lump in my throat would overpower me if I kept talking, and for a while neither of us said anything.

  “Here we are,” Ruth finally announced and pointed out a splendid building in a typical early seventeenth-century style. The taxi stopped at the entrance.

  “Thank you.” For simply being a nice person!

  She scribbled something on a piece of paper and got out to help me pull my suitcases from the trunk. Afterward, I tried to pay her for the ride, but she vehemently declined.

  “Here’s my telephone number.” She held out the paper. “Call me if you need to talk.” This sudden familiarity surprised me. She placed the paper in my hand and closed my fingers around it. I wanted to say something but was unable to speak. Though I was embarrassed, I let her hug me.

  “When the pain fades away, love remains in its purest form,” she whispered into my ear. At these words, the dams burst. As much as I wanted to hold my tears back, I could not. All the sorrow, rage, and despair, all those feelings that I hadn’t admitted to for such a long time came crashing on me with full force. There was no point in resisting so I cried on the shoulder of a stranger.

  “Better go inside, Evelyn, or you’ll catch a cold,” she said as soon as I had my tears under control.

  “Thank you, Ruth. For everything.” She stroked my cheek with the back of her hand, got into her cab, and drove off. I breathed a sigh of relief, took my suitcase, and looked around. I was standing in front of the snow-covered entrance to the dorm. Though I had never been here before, I knew the building from pictures I’d seen on the Internet. It was one of those imposing old buildings for which I admired this town so much. A heavy, dark wooden door and tall windows decorated with spires and ornaments gave the building a dignity normally reserved for people. There was something mysterious, almost mystical, about this winter scene.

  A resident assistant was waiting for me in the spacious entrance area. He was a pedantic-looking pimply type with glasses, and he looked somewhat like a youngish professor and behaved that way, too. He led me up a broad, varnished staircase with a wobbly railing that led to my room on the second floor. The RA rattled off the house rules in a surly voice. While I only half listened to his explanations about rules and consequences, I looked around my room.

  It was bright, larger than I expected, and had a small bathroom. I sighed with relief. I had pictured a shared bathroom where I’d have to line up in the morning to wait my turn to brush my teeth. There was also a large, curtained bay window that would let in light during the day.
The bed and nightstand were large enough, the mattress was good as new, and the antique-looking dresser and wardrobe had enough room for my paltry possessions. A narrow desk with a wooden chair completed the furnishings.

  Simple but beautiful. When the RA finally left, I started unpacking. First, I stashed my clothes in the closet, then I put my sheets and blanket on the mattress and put my toiletries in the medicine cabinet in the small bathroom, which was equipped with a sink, a toilet, and a narrow shower. I didn’t expect a bathtub, but I was a little disappointed that there wasn’t one. I loved water and liked to disappear in it. At home in Fleetwood I could be at the water in minutes, but here I would have to do with this tight shower stall. At least I didn’t have to share. I wrote a brief text to Mrs. Prescott to let her know I’d arrived okay. I wanted to spare myself a phone call that could last for hours.

  Finally, I set two framed photos on the small nightstand. One was of my parents when they were about thirty, looking lovingly into each other’s eyes. The other was the snapshot of Zara and me, which her former boyfriend took at the fair. Again I felt the lump in my throat and tears welled up. What was the matter with me today? What was with all the crying? Oh, whatever. Since I had started to cry, I might as well do it properly. Then it’d be done with for a while. I carefully pulled the little black box out of my subconscious and hesitantly opened it. Only one or two memories; I didn’t want to look at more. Only a few images. Images that I normally didn’t allow myself because they were too painful. Because I feared they would wreck me. Now I very deliberately allowed it. I saw Mom and Dad before me. They held hands and smiled at me. Zara. She was with them. Looking happy.

  Sobbing, I buried my face in a pillow. I was all alone in this world.

  CHAPTER 3

  Light shone through the curtain and gently woke me.

  Where am I? Suddenly I remembered—I was in my dorm room in Oxford. What time is it? I reached for the alarm clock on the nightstand. It wasn’t there. Damn! It was probably in my suitcase. I sat up and realized I was still wearing my clothes from the day before. A glance at my phone told me it was a little after 7:30. My first lecture started at 8:00, and I didn’t have a clue where I was supposed to be.

  Great, that’s a nice start!

  There was no time to shower, so I just brushed my teeth and splashed a little water on my face to wake up. Since I couldn’t find my hairbrush, I ran my fingers through my hair and put it in a ponytail.

  I slipped my black boots on, threw on my coat, grabbed my bag, and rushed out the door.

  It was 7:50 a.m. as I charged across the frozen cobblestones of downtown Oxford. I turned a corner and stopped in my tracks. I thought I’d just seen a man out of the corner of my eye—a man with black leather gloves and a blank expression. I spun around, eyes wide, but I saw only an ordinary streetlight. I was starting to worry that I was losing my mind. What would this guy want in Oxford, two hundred miles from where I last saw him? That was completely absurd. I banished the thought and continued walking. I had a blue folder with all the papers I needed for the first day, and I pulled it out of my bag to see where my first lecture was.

  While I ran through the mighty gate of Tom Tower, the main entrance of Christ Church College, and across the courtyard, I scanned the documents in the folder and finally found my schedule.

  Monday, 8:00 a.m., lecture: Narcissism and Destructiveness, Professor Carl Bronsen, hall 7.

  Where the heck is hall 7?

  “Can I help you? You look lost.” A young woman with a Burberry scarf and shoulder-length red hair smiled at me.

  “Yes,” I said. “I have to be in hall seven in five minutes—do you know where that is?”

  “Narcissism and Destructiveness with Bronsen?”

  “Yes, exactly,” I said, relieved. Obviously, she knew her way around.

  “Then you’d best turn here,” she said and pointed in the direction. “Turn right again after about a hundred yards or when you reach the small fountain, then go all the way to the top of the stairs and you’ll be at the door.”

  I tried to memorize the route, thanked her, and ran off.

  “No problem,” she called after me, sounding as if she couldn’t suppress her laughter.

  I almost thought I’d run too far when I finally arrived at the small fountain. Then I turned right, ran up the stairs, and stopped abruptly as I found myself outside the dining hall. I frowned and looked around for hall 7. No, this was definitely the dining hall. There were no lecture halls here.

  I took my phone out of my bag—it was 8:00.

  Did I turn too early? Did the redhead make a mistake? I was definitely in the wrong place. I remembered that I had a map of the campus and went through my folder until I found it.

  Okay, let’s see . . . This is the dining hall, there’s the small fountain that I came by, and that should be hall 7.

  I traced my recent route on the map with my finger, and then it hit me. That redhead bitch deliberately sent me in the wrong direction when I had already been standing in front of the entrance to hall 7!

  I ran back all the way, slipping on the ice and nearly falling. I arrived to the lecture hall out of breath. I was almost ten minutes late.

  Damn! I breathed deeply and slipped through the door as quietly as possible. I tiptoed in, trying not to attract attention. Then I saw an empty seat in the last row. Perfect. So far almost no one had noticed. I pushed down the wooden seat and sat on it, relieved, until the seat collapsed under me and I crashed to the floor with a dull thud. A word I never used in public escaped my lips.

  At once I felt heat spread across my face and color my cheeks bright red.

  This can’t be happening, I thought and carefully pulled myself up. When I looked around, I saw to my horror that almost every head in the lecture hall—and there were at least fifty—was turned my way; I wanted to disappear. Suddenly the ceiling light flickered. Something was probably wrong with it, and fortunately that drew the attention away from me. I looked around embarrassed. The contents of my bag were scattered on the floor. I started collecting my things and attempted to ignore the malicious giggling and a sarcastic “Everything all right, Blondie?” It was the redhead, who now looked down on me from her seat—with no intention of hiding her malice.

  Oh God, this can’t be happening!

  Suddenly a slim hand with short, brightly colored nails held out my copy of Erich Fromm’s Anatomy of Human Destructiveness. Gentle gray-green eyes met my glance.

  “Did you hurt yourself?” the girl sincerely asked, smiling broadly, the stud in her right nostril gleaming. She had a heart-shaped face framed by hair dyed dark red and violet.

  “No, I’m all right,” I said and hastily added, “Thank you.”

  “There’s an empty seat next to me,” she whispered after we had collected my things. And now that we were standing opposite each other, I noticed how petite she was—at most five foot three, because I was taller by at least four inches. She had noticeable breasts, considering her delicate figure. I nodded and followed her. The professor had reluctantly stopped his lecture and was shaking his head, clearly angered by the disturbance I’d caused.

  “Eyes to the front, show’s over,” he said, admonishing his students to concentrate.

  After thoroughly checking the stability of the seat, I sat down beside my helper and, although I was sure the worst was over, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. Searching for the cause of my discomfort, I raised my head—and saw . . . him. His glowing dark-blue eyes were still fixed on me while all the others were looking forward. I felt hypnotized.

  “I’m Sally,” the girl whispered and tore me away from those unbelievable blue eyes.

  “I’m Evelyn. Thank you for helping me,” I added after a short pause. I was truly grateful. Especially because she gave me the feeling of not being completely surrounded by nasty, self-indulgent people who
send you in the wrong direction out of pure spite.

  “Are you sure you didn’t hurt yourself? That looked pretty bad,” she said with concern, but she also looked a little amused.

  “Nah, everything’s all right.” The thought of my fall made me giggle a little.

  “Man, everybody looked your way. Even that arrogant Calmburry. And he’s normally only interested in himself,” Sally said, visibly making an effort to suppress a chuckle.

  “Calmburry?” I had heard the name before. The ceiling lights flickered again. What was going on with that light?

  “You’re not from here, are you?”

  “No, I’m from Fleetwood.” That sounded as if I should be ashamed of it.

  “Jared Lord Calmburry. The one up front there with the short brown hair,” she said, pointing toward the stranger with the indigo eyes who had been staring at me. Now she had my undivided attention.

  “And . . . who’s he?” I asked, trying not to sound overly curious.

  Sally looked at me as if I were from Mars. “He’s the only survivor of the Calmburry clan. His family is one of the oldest in England. Or rather, was. They all died in a plane crash twelve years ago—both parents, his sister, and his uncle. He was the only survivor. It was all over the news.” She looked at me, baffled. “Didn’t you hear about it?”

  “No.” Perhaps because I was distracted by my own parents’ death twelve years ago!

  “I really feel sorry for him,” she continued, “but I still can’t stand him.”

  “Hmm,” was all I could say. A ringing started in my ears. Jared Calmburry was the last of his family . . . like me. He had lost everything . . . like me.

  I looked as discreetly as possible at the stranger sitting four rows in front of me. His gray sweater looked expensive, and his short brown hair, which changed into a dark shade of gold at the tips, was perfect—at least as far as I could tell. I tried to remember what his face was like when we looked each other in the eye.