Emily POV The past does not define who you are. My mom always used to say that. I suppose it didn’t really matter to her because she had memories growing up with parents and a sister. When she was in a contemplative mood, she’d regale us with stories of when she was younger. Some stories stayed the same while others gave us some insight into how she was as a kid. I always got the feeling she was wild and rambunctious, the complete opposite of who she was when she became a parent. I wonder when she stopped being a kid and realized being frivolous and fun were character traits only reserved for silly children. One story I remember in particular was when she was about fourteen years old. She and my Aunt Evelyn decided to skip Sunday school and join a bunch of older boys from their church at the corner store, drinking soda and smoking cigarettes. My grandpa caught them and gave them the whipping of their lives in front of their friends. She shared the account as a warning to Liam and

Emily POV Click, click, click. Like a Rubix Cube, all the colors start aligning into perfect symmetry. For the longest time I always felt like I didn’t belong. I felt like an alien, as if my presence was just simply an annoyance. I sensed it mostly with my mom. My dad tried so hard to make up for her shortcomings. And when Liam became part of our unit, I had someone to align myself with—we were both outsiders. But never in a million years would I attribute my emotional isolation to the fact that I was never my parents’ child. The seed was only planted after my first encounter with Thaddeus. Believing the paradox would mean my folks were instrumental in my abduction. I could not allow my thoughts to go there. Thaddeus and Ophelia are watching me intently. I don’t know what to say—I’m still in shock. They sense my bewilderment but don’t press me any further. Instead, they stand to one side and wait for my next move. I can’t stop my hands from shaking, and the sudden urge to start

Jacob POV When I start the car, a love song from the sixties blasts through the speakers. The guy croons on and on about regret and turning back the hands of time. I can’t even laugh at the irony of it. The words hit like a punch in the gut. I turn off the radio and drive in silence all the way to the Hamptons. I used to love taking this road when I was a kid, especially when it was Spring Break. Either we were going to spend the break at my grandmother’s home or with the Mellons. I preferred the latter, knowing that we’d spend hours playing outside in the scrub land, searching for buried treasure or protecting our land from intruders while in the lookout tower. I have so many fond memories of that place. I try to think now why I ever stopped going there after the Jocasta incident. Was being around Thaddeus and Ophelia too overwhelming for me? I was so young, I can’t remember not wanting to be there. Maybe the decision was my father’s. I suspect he felt partly responsible for the a

Emily POV I’ve refused to let my earlier conversation with Jacob dampen my spirits. Still floating on a high, Ophelia and I are enjoying the crisp coolness of the late night air. While Thaddeus is upstairs putting Clarisse to bed, she’s trying to catch up on nearly twenty years of the life I’ve lost. Her excitement tells me she’s desperate for me to remember something, but none of her stories are triggering any memories thus far. “Tell me about our parents,” I eagerly ask her. She gets up and starts walking into the house, “Hold that thought.” A few minutes later she returns with a photo album under her arm. She opens the album to a page and hands it to me. It’s a black and white photo of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, her long, curly hair flowing all the way down to her back. She’s wearing a long dress that reminds me of something from the Victorian era with its high collar and pleated skirt. I wish I could see the color of her eyes. Pointing at the photo, she says, “

Nancy POV Flashback to four years previously My face, still stinging, bears the handprint of Howard’s slap. His sudden outbursts have now become a daily occurrence, and I am his target. It’s not that I’m asking for it. Well, no woman asks for it. I’m his punching bag whenever he needs to get something off his chest. You’d think for an old man like him, there’d be little impact behind his punch. The first time it happened, it was swift and unexpected. We had been arguing over some trivial matter. I told him to go fuck himself and he responded with a punch to the stomach. The blow forced me against the closet door. I sat there for a while, dazed and confused as to what just happened. There was a vacant look in his eye I had never seen before. With no apology, he stormed out of the room. He’s smart, he knows not to hit me in public or around the help. It would tarnish the image he’s projected at the world - a helpless old man who just happens to be loaded with cash. “You silly woma