Chapter 2 Becoming Eva

Ava's Point Of View

The noise of the city awakens me earlier than the sun, honking cars, stepping over me, a baby crying along the hall. Life keeps on, though yours has ended.

I am seated at the little wooden desk before my window and about me lie a pile of debris in the form of papers, empty coffee cups, and the faint scent of rain which is gusting through the half-open window. The business card is in the center of the mess as a challenge.

“Welcome back, Ava.”

I didn’t sleep last night. My eyes shut and I could see him, Liam Hart, standing in the rain and looking at me every time. Or maybe it wasn’t him. Perhaps it was a mere imagination of mine. But that message? It’s real.

I look into the mirror. My hair is knotted, my eyes are bloodshot, my skin is pale. I look like a ghost.

“Eva Moore,” I say softly. My reflection doesn’t blink.

The name tastes awkward in my mouth, seems to be piddly and less fractured. I repeat this once more with greater force, Eva Moore.

It makes me smile a little. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Hart. I’m your new assistant.”

The phrases are now cold and hard. My heart was racing. It is unnatural, and so is breathing these days.

I bend over and rub a line across the mirror. You have stolen my brother, I tell the reflection, I am going to steal everything out of you.

I spend the next several hours creating a new life.

My laptop transforms my former resume into that of a stranger. Eva Moore, Executive Assistant / Design Consultant. I get contacts off of Ethan to create references and credentials. It’s almost too easy. People do not stop believing in the name of Ethan; they never will.

His ghost helps me even now.

I read a page in the Vanguard Industries web site, and with each tap, my stomach is becoming smaller and smaller. Their logo displays on the screen, black, silver, and clean. The mission statement of the company is noble: Innovation through empathy. I almost laughed. He has lost all empathy towards Liam.

A headline catches my eye:

Vanguard Expands Design Department, New Executive Assistant Job Open.

Perfect.

I begin completing the application. My hand is just above the keyboard typing very fast, my name, my false address, my references, everything that makes up a life that is not mine.

However, my hand becomes stuck when I get to the final line Submit Application.

I look at the flashing cursor. My heart pounds. It’s not fear, not exactly. It is the voice in my head saying that there is no going back past this point.

When I hit that button Ava Montgomery dies.

Ethan’s sister. The girl who made sunsets on her bedroom wall. The believing girl. She’s gone.

I shut my eyes and I hit Submit.

The silence is interrupted by a sharp chime. Application sent.

My throat tightens. I mutter to the empty air, Goodbye, Ava.

By afternoon the rain has fallen, and the clouds are still low and heavy. My apartment is smaller than ever. I walk around the house, glancing at my phone periodically.

Then it buzzes.

Unknown Number: Vanguard Industries, Ms. Moore. Mr. Your resume has been reviewed by Hart himself and he would like to have an interview tomorrow at 9 a.m.

My breath catches.

Tomorrow.

My fingers tremble when typing back, Confirmed. I’ll be there.

Liam reviewed it himself. Were his ears in the name? Did he even somehow see the influence of Ethan behind it?

No. He can’t. I’m nobody now. Another face among the crowd of strangers is Just Eva Moore.

Nevertheless, the idea of meeting him after so many years sends a pain up through my chest. Whether it is hate or fear or something more terrible, something softer I dare not say.

I wait at the window and see the city lights coming to life. Out there somewhere, he is in one of those hot towers, drinking costly whiskey, slumbering with peaceful content as my brother decays beneath the earth.

Not for long.

The following day breaks too soon.

I am wearing neatly, a black blouse, pencil skirt, and low heels. My hair is sleek and my make-up neutral. The mirror image might be that of anyone: placid, effective, unmemorable.

I again sound out my voice, low but firm. Eva Moore. Twenty-five. Alumnus of Emerson Business School. Three years of assistant experience. Lies that sound like truth.

My heart races as I grab my bag. I put the business card in my pocket. A reminder. A weapon.

On the outside the streets shine with the wetness of the previous night. Taxi-hacks fly past, sprinkling water on the sidewalks. The air is smelling of coffee and asphalt.

My breath catches when I come to the towering glass building of Vanguard Industries.

It is gorgeous, smooth, frightening, glowing with energy. The door swings round and round, and businessmen clad in business suits come and go.

I stop at the door, and thrust my trembling hands into motion.

“Eva,” I whisper to myself. “You’re Eva.”

The lobby is bright with marble floors and gold decorations inside. All screams perfection. The receptionist welcomes me with a pleasant greeting, and sends me up to the 28th floor.

The ride on the elevator is limitless. The image of me in the mirrored walls is too cool and peaceful to be what is going to happen.

As the doors are opened, I am greeted by a young woman in a navy dress holding a clipboard.

“Ms. Moore? Just go ahead. Mr. Hart will see you presently.

My stomach flips. Mr. Hart.

Every passage along the long corridor is echoed louder than the last. Through the glass walls, rows of offices, people typing, phones ringing, deals being made are seen.

There is a door at the rear of the hall which is slightly open. I peep in, wide-shouldered, dark suit, figure of a man by the window.

He turns as I enter.

Everything is halted for a moment.

Liam Hart.

Three years younger, keener, cold. The man who ruined my life. His hair is shorter this time round. His steel gray eyes look up at me and are firm and unreadable.

I force myself to breathe.

Ms. Moore, he says, in a smooth voice, deeper than I recall. “Please, have a seat.”

I nod, taking care not to make an expression. I am clicking my heels in my walk, heading towards a chair opposite his desk.

His eyes move over my face, as though he is surveying me. Then his lips tilt slightly.

I think I have seen you.

My heart slams.

I manage a small smile. “I doubt that, sir. I’ve never been here before.”

He nods slowly, and continues to look at me. “Perhaps. You simply have a- familiar presence.

My palms sweat. I squeeze my bag, acting like I am tightening it. That is likely to be due to the fact that I have done similar work in other places. The industry’s small.”

He sits back, with the gentlest hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth. “Is that so?”

I do not know whether he is teasing or testing me.

He inquires about my experience, my background, my objectives. There is something beyond politeness, distant, but his tone is polite. Something heavy.

My chest tightens each time his eyes are on me.

He doesn’t remember me. Of course he doesn’t. Why would he? Her sister was a crying girl at a funeral, some years ago to him. Forgettable. Weak.

Good. Let him forget.

When he poses his question, what made me apply to Vanguard, I respond cautiously.

I like the development of your company. You put back together, despite the suffering. Such strength is motivating.

His eyes are jerking at that term, hardship.

Something uncivilized flashes through his features a moment. Regret? Pain? Then it’s gone.

He nods once. “We all rebuilt, Ms. Moore. Some of us from ashes.”

Our eyes lock. The silence is too long. I feel it beat through all my heart, through my ears, throat, my wrists.

Finally, he clears his throat. “You’re hired.”

I blink. “Just like that?”

His lips are lightly smiling. “I trust my instincts. You start Monday.”

I am trying to control a pleasant smile, but my heart is sinking. “Thank you, Mr. Hart.”

As I rise, he extends his hand. I wait a little more and I decide it. His palm is warm, steady. The contact imparts a shock to me, undesirable, disorienting.

“Welcome to Vanguard, Ms. Moore.”

His voice is soft, almost kind.

I pull my hand back quickly. “Thank you.”

He studies me one last time. “And… one more thing.”

“Yes?”