Lost In Us (Lost 1)

I take a deep breath and shake my head. Jess is not like Kate. Jess is what Kate might have been if she wasn't… Kate. But I never could shake off the feeling that some of the reasons Jess's parents so willingly took me in was because they thought I'd be a good influence on their daughter. I'm not quite sure how much I succeeded, since Jess is still as much of a party girl as she was when I first met her eight years ago.

After Kate passed away, Mum and Dad did something I will be eternally grateful for. They sent me away from London, our hometown. Even though it broke their heart, they did it. They sent me to live with Jess’s family in San Francisco. My mum and Jess's mum had been best friends since kindergarten, and remained close even after Jess's mum moved across the ocean, to San Francisco, while mum remained in their native London. Starting fresh, far away from the city that held so many memories and so much guilt, was the best thing that could have happened to me. I stayed with Jess and her family throughout high school. I haven’t returned to London at all. My parents fly here once a year to visit me.

I take one last look at Jess and smile before leaving the room.

I check my phone while drinking my third cup of coffee today, seated in my second favorite place in our apartment after my bed—the couch. One message from Mum: Dad and I are planting Langloisia today. Talk to you in the evening.

I can’t stop a chuckle. The idea of my parents gardening is something I still cannot get used to. Or rather, the idea of my dad gardening. Mum has always been in love with flowers. But she never had time for gardening, or anything else after her long hours at the design studio where she had worked as a seamstress ever since she graduated from high school.

My dad worked equally long hours on an assembly line. Three years ago he lost all ability to move his legs in a freak factory accident, and the firm offered him a nice settlement if he didn't take them to court. Mum decided to work from home on her own afterward so she could take care of him. Between her sewing and the settlement, they manage to scrape by. I plan to change that to a decent living as soon as I get a job. But the new arrangement has a positive side to it: they started having a lot of time to spend with each other. Somehow Mum convinced Dad they should dedicate most of that time to gardening.

Mum and Dad met in high school and started dating in their junior year. They married after graduation and have lived happily together ever since. Even during those horrible years with Kate, when life was hell for all four of us, their love never faltered.

Michael and I started dating in our junior year and I assumed happily ever after was a given for us. Guess not.

Somehow this thought doesn't seem as painful anymore.

I glance at the clock. Still half an hour left. I toy with the idea of sending a few more job applications before I leave—an endeavor that has taken up countless nights and weekends lately. I decide against it. This is not the time to sink into the usual negativity about my future that inevitably follows the emailing of every batch of applications.

At five to three I'm in the parking lot in front of our building, next to Jess's fourth-hand (though she claims it's second-hand) Prius, carrying a brown cotton blazer on my left arm and fiddling with the strap of my bag, trying to arrange it somehow so it won't cut into my shoulder anymore. There is no sign of anyone in the lot. As the minutes tick by, the irrational fear that last night was nothing but a wishful dream starts creeping back into my mind.

The fear dissipates at three o'clock sharp and nervous jitters replace it, as a white Range Rover makes its way through the lot, standing out in the sea of Priuses and Fords like a whale among baby dolphins.

It stops a few feet away from me.

A tall, slightly older man wearing a black suit steps out of the car. I'm surprised by the wave of disappointment that suddenly overwhelms me. Though James said he would send someone to pick me up, I realize that I still hoped he'd show up, wearing that conceited smile of his.

"Ms. McLewis?" the man asks in an official tone.

I take a step forward. "You can call me Serena."

For some reason I didn't expect James Cohen, the founder of several high-tech and Internet ventures, the epitome of all things modern, to be employing a driver. One that wears a uniform at that.

"Peter Sullivan, at your service. I was sent by Mr. Cohen to pick you up." He opens the back door and gestures to me to get inside.

I nod and hop inside the car.

When Peter takes his place in the driver's seat I ask as casually as possible, "How long will the trip take?"

He starts the engine and drives onto the main street, and though I can only see his eyes in the mirror when he answers, I'm pretty sure he's trying very hard to stifle a laugh. "I was instructed not to give you any information that might disclose our destination."

I lean back, recognizing defeat. What is James playing at? What difference does it make whether I find out now or in half an hour?

But I don't find out in half an hour. Or in one hour. Three hours pass before we finally get off the highway. By that time I’ve bitten all my nails, and the thought of calling the police to notify them of my own kidnapping has passed through my mind at least half a dozen times.

I relax a bit as we enter Nelson Bay a few minutes later. It doesn't take me long to realize this is the wealthiest neighborhood I've ever seen. To my left and right lie houses—palaces really, each more grandiose than the previous one.

But we don't stop in front of any of them. Peter drives by house after house, until the houses get farther apart, and finally fields replace them. It's a while before the first sign of civilization begins to appear: a row of black, spearheaded metal bars—a fence. Behind it lies a neat garden, adorned with so many roses that it looks more like a nursery. There is no house in sight.

The car comes to a halt in front of the huge double gates. I still see no house behind them. My stomach gives a slight jolt when the gates open and we drive inside.

"Wow," I exclaim when the house finally comes into view. "Wow," I repeat as I stumble out of the car.

This isn't a house. It's the ultra-modern, almost futuristic version of a palace. Except for the ground floor, it seems to be made entirely of glass, with the odd wooden wall here and there. Its owners must be fascinated by square forms, because the entire building is an amalgam of smaller and larger cubes, the part observable from here, at least. The place must be swarming with people, judging by the number of cars all around me.

"You are expected inside, Ms. McLewis," Peter says, obviously amused by my reaction.

"I am?" I ask in amazement and start walking with trembling steps toward the entrance.