"What?" I ask, holding out my hand to examine it. He's right. The woman with the dark hair
, whose face is obscured is visibly pregnant. The black and white photo makes it more difficult to see the bump since she's wearing a dark dress. "Do you recognize anyone else?"
"The blonde who isn't pregnant looks familiar, but I can't place her. I don't know who the other man is, and the dark haired pregnant woman is impossible to identify. You also have to remember, someone's taking the picture."
"And someone is cut off," I say quietly, squinting at the blur of a figure on the left side. Brendan sits down next to me. "Do you see him, his arm and legs, like he's running to get in the picture?"
"This photographer sucks," Brendan notes. "I wonder if there's another one with everyone in it, where we can clearly see their faces."
"Whoever's doing this is twisted. I don't understand what they want. None of it makes sense." I shift to face Brendan and ask the question I only asked once about my own, "Do you ... know who your father is?"
He shakes his head. "My grandmother says he was a summer tourist. There for the season and never seen again. My mother didn't even know how to contact him to let him know she was pregnant. My grandmother thinks he may have been married."
"How old was your mother when she had you?"
"Twenty."
"So she was nineteen here. And you said she was eighteen in your other picture with my mother. That means they knew each other for at least a year."
"This weekend wasn't the first time your mother came to the island then, because my mother never left it. Not once."
"Seriously?"
"That's what I've been told."
I flop back against the couch. "This has something to do with the Harrisons. I know it." My eyes flip up to meet Brendan's dark gaze. "You said Niall knows who killed your mother. What did you mean by that? I thought it was suicide?"
"I don't think I'm ready to share that yet." His voice is quiet but with a note of anger, deep and menacing. I nod in understanding. "We start with finding out how your mother knew mine and what their connection was to the Harrisons."
He stands and sets down his empty glass on the sleek onyx coffee table. "C'mon. I want to show you something."
"What?"
"The reason this is my room."
Brendan approaches his bookshelf and pushes against a section of it, and it pops open, swinging away from the wall.
"How many secret passages are in this school?"
"A lot," he says over his shoulder as he disappears into the wall.
"And how many of them are you responsible for?" I'm thinking the room didn't come with the bookshelves already in it.
He clicks on a string of lights and illuminates his signature cocky grin, then disappears up a ladder. It's tight. I swallow before following after him, reminding myself to keep breathing as I climb. Thankfully we don't have to go up very far before we end up in a room. Or more like a crevice of an attic. Brendan has to bend over to keep from bumping his head on the slanted beams. He hits another switch and the space fills with the hum of electronics coming to life.
"So this is where the creeping happens," I say, taking it all in.
An old desk and banquet table along with several two-drawer file cabinets outline the perimeter, every surface covered by a keyboard, monitor or hard drive. A three-shelf bookcase is filled with tiny monitors. When I examine the ones that are on, I recognize the feed. It's Blackwood's outer perimeter.
"I thought you said you didn't come from money?" I question, accusation heavy in my voice. Not that I know anything about what I'm looking at, but the equipment appears new and expensive.
"I didn't say I don't make it," he quips.
"You are scary."
"Oh, you have no idea," he replies, still wearing the arrogant grin that causes shivers to erupt down my spine.
I try to convince myself that confiding in Brendan was my only choice if I want to get any answers. But I'm not convinced he's trustworthy. Perception is his curse. He's not at all who he appears to be, but can somehow see right through everyone else. He's so forthcoming with the truth, it almost makes me uncomfortable. Then again, like he said, the truth can easily be manipulated ... by perception. Everyone has their own version.