Complete Me (The Stark Trilogy)

place.”
    “Have you learned anything new?”
    He hesitates, then nods. “About the photos, no. About our leak regarding your portrait, yes. Turns out the ATM camera was very effective.”
    “Seriously? That’s wonderful. Who is it?”
    “I still need confirmation,” he says. “Let me see where it goes, and then I’ll lay the whole thing out for you.”
    “Okay,” I say, though I’m disappointed he won’t tell me right then, even if he is still investigating. I consider pressing the point, but decide not to. I don’t think that his closed-mouthedness stems from the desire to keep secrets but simply from Damien’s innate need to keep control. Of his business. Of information. And, I think, glancing at the doghouse-shaped box, of me.
    The intercom buzzes. “Ms. Fairchild, you have another delivery. May I send them back?”
    “Sure.” I glance at Damien, but he holds up his hands. “This one’s not from me. I swear.”
    I don’t believe him, of course. At least not until I take the envelope from the courier and see Damien’s face. “Let me open it,” he says sternly.
    My chest goes cold. The negligible weight of the plain manila envelope turns heavy in my hand. “You don’t think …”
    “I don’t know.” He reaches for it. “But I’m going to find out.”
    I pass him the envelope, irritated with myself for not having the guts to rip it open, and at the same time desperately grateful that he’s there beside me. He holds the envelope in a handkerchief, then uses a small pocketknife from his keychain to open it. He pushes the envelope at opposite corners so that the slit gapes open, then starts to peer inside.
    “No,” I say firmly. “I want to see when you do.”
    His expression is tight, and I expect him to say no. But then he nods. I move to stand beside him, and then he upturns the envelope over the desk, spilling the contents onto the polished surface.
    Six photographs
. Me in kindergarten. Me in a tiara at my very first pageant, my hair in ringlets. Me, me, me, me.
    In every photograph, my face has been crossed out with a red pen pushed so hard into the photographic paper that the emulsion has been scraped off, leaving a series of ragged red X’s where my face should be. There is one piece of paper mixed in with the photos. Block letters cut like a cliché from newspapers and pasted on the sheet:
YOU DON’T EVEN EXIST
    I stare at it all, surprised that the room is silent. Surprised that I’m not screaming, because this is so very wrong. But the world is as silent as death. Hell, the world looks like death. No noise. No color. No light.
    It’s all gray. Even those red X’s have faded to gray. And the gray room is actually shifting to black. A cloudy, inky black that surrounds me, blanketing me, drawing me down, down, down …
    Nikki!
    Nikki!
    I feel a sharp sting across my cheek. “Nikki!”
    “Damien.” It’s my voice, but it sounds horribly far away. I lift my hand and touch my cheek.
    “Sorry,” he says, though he sounds more worried than sorry. “You fainted.”
    “I—what?” I sit up, groggy, and realize that somehow I’ve ended up on the love seat. I focus on Damien. “Fainted?”
    I haven’t fainted in years. Not since I was accidentally locked in a storage closet during college. Dark enclosed spaces have always freaked me out, and I’d passed out. But never have I simply slipped into a faint like this.
    “You had reason,” Damien says, correctly reading my face.
    Those photos.
My
photos.
    I shiver. Whoever did this is in my life. This isn’t just nasty texts. This is flat-out targeting me. And if I don’t exist, then what the hell does that say about their endgame?
    I draw in a breath and try to calm the machine-gun beat of my heart. I sit up straight, my hands on my thighs. My skirt is hitched up a bit, and I clutch tight to the bare skin above my knees, digging my nails in tighter and tighter, using the pain to help pull me out of this fog.
    I breathe deep. “My mother,” I say. “Whoever is doing this got these from my mother.”
    Beside me, Damien gently plucks one hand off my thigh and holds it tight. Guiltily, I relax my other hand.
    “Your mother?” he says. “What are you talking about?”
    I relay Jamie’s conversation with my mother.
    “This is good,” Damien says, releasing me long enough to type out a text on his phone. “It’s solid information,” he adds, since I must look confused. “A definitive connection. I’m going to