Isaac reached the Wilson Estate in Trousdale, Beverly Hills. From the outside, the house gleamed with wealth. White columns, manicured hedges, a fountain spitting water into a marble basin. A tall iron fence wrapped around the entire property, the kind that told you whoever lived here didn't want to be bothered.
He stopped at the pedestrian gate and punched in the PIN, his fingers wet and clumsy from the rain. The gate buzzed and clicked open. He stepped through and started down the long walkway that cut across the compound. He looked around as he walked. The grass on either side was perfectly trimmed, not a single blade out of place. At least he wouldn't have to do the lawn tonight. Looked like the gardener had already handled it. But then his eyes drifted to the cars sitting in the driveway, uncovered and collecting rain. Of course. They wouldn't bother covering them. They'd just wait for him to get home and have him do it. That was how it always went.
Even with all this, even with how everything was presented, to anyone passing by the Wilsons were Beverly Hills elite, their fortune built on Andrew Wilson's oil empire. But inside, it was an entirely different story.
Isaac's sneakers squelched on the cobblestone as he reached the front steps. His torn backpack felt heavier than usual. His cheek still throbbed from Derek's punch and anyone could see the swelling. His split lip stung with every breath he took. The weight of the day clung to him like the wet hoodie plastered to his skin.
He pushed open the heavy front door. The foyer's chandelier cast cold light across polished marble. The same marble he'd polished on his hands and knees before leaving for school that morning. Victoria Thompson, his stepmother, lounged on the leather couch in the living room, blonde tinted hair cascading over her shoulders. Once black, it now shimmered like a cheap halo, framing a face too perfect to trust. Her dark green eyes flicked from the TV, rom com laughter filling the air, to Isaac.
She wore a silk blouse and tight jeans. From the look of it she'd probably been dressed to go out before the rain changed her plans. Her figure was undeniably striking, the kind of beauty that turned heads. Every time Isaac looked at her he could see why his father had fallen for her. But he knew better. Anyone with half a brain could see how vile she really was. No matter how she presented herself to Andrew, Victoria was no saint.
"You're five minutes late, Isaac," she said, glancing at the antique clock on the mantel. Her voice was smooth silk edged with ice. "What did I say about being home by five?"
Isaac dropped to one knee, a reflex drilled into him over the past year. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I don't have any excuses." He kept his eyes down, knowing better than to mention the rain or the bullying. To Victoria, explanations sounded like talking back. And talking back meant punishment. Banishment to the garage for the night. No breakfast the next day. His father's allowance was his only lifeline, but even that got hijacked by Victoria's eldest daughter, leaving him with pocket change.
Victoria's gaze lingered on the rain streaking the windows. "Go wash the dishes. When you're done, take out the trash. And don't set foot in the living room today. Have I made myself clear?"
"Yes, ma'am," Isaac said, bowing once more before hurrying to the kitchen. The bruises on his face burned and though he was freezing he dared not show it. This was his life in the Wilson house.
Victoria had probably noticed his swollen cheek but didn't bother asking. She never did. She turned back to her show, sipping orange juice, her laughter blending with the TV's canned soundtrack as if his pain were invisible.
The kitchen was a disaster. Plates crusted with last night's lasagna. Glasses smudged with lipstick. It had all been left this way since morning because his father told him to get to school first.
Isaac set his bag on the counter, the mysterious book's weight making it sag. He started scrubbing. The warm water felt like heaven on his numb fingers after standing too long in the rain. He was pretty sure he'd get sick from all of it. He'd even paused outside the front door to drip dry so he wouldn't soak the floors.
In this house he was nothing more than an errand boy. An invisible son to his father. It hadn't always been this way.
His family used to be whole. Him, his parents Andrew and Evelyn, and his younger brother Ian, now sixteen and a little chubby like their dad. Andrew's oil company had kept them comfortable, everything running smooth. Isaac had figured that was how life was going to be. Grow up, get married, have kids, live easy. But fate had other plans.
One day Isaac came home from school to hear his parents screaming at each other. He didn't think much of it, figured they'd patch things up like always. But this time was different. Things got so bad that both of them filed for divorce. Eighteen years of marriage ending in court battles and custody splits. Isaac went with his father Andrew. Ian went with their mother Evelyn.
It hadn't even been a month after the divorce when Andrew announced he was remarrying. To Victoria, his secretary. Apparently his father had been living a double life at work.
At first Victoria seemed perfect. Sweet, encouraging, trying her best to be a good stepmother. But that facade didn't last long. Everything changed the day Isaac discovered her secret.
He'd skipped school one morning feeling sick and came home to find Victoria with another man. A rough looking thug with a shaved head and tattoos snaking up his arms. They were going at it in the living room, loud and shameless, thinking no one was home.
Isaac tried to sneak past to get some water but the man spotted him and dragged him out from behind the kitchen cabinet.
Victoria didn't even look worried about getting caught. The man pulled on his boxers and stood there like it was nothing. Looking at him, Isaac could understand why Victoria was drawn to him. The guy was built like a freight train.
The thug grabbed Isaac by the neck. "Say, kid. Did you see anything?"
Isaac started to form a threat about telling his father, but then cold metal pressed against his temple. The man was holding a gun.
"Kid, you didn't answer me. I asked if you saw anything."
Isaac's heart hammered against his ribs. "No, sir."
"Good. Seems you're smart." The man leaned closer, breath hot on his face. "Breathe a word of this to your father and you're dead."
He turned to Victoria. "I'll leave this one to you, Vic. Handle it."
"No problem," Victoria said. "I'll make sure he keeps his mouth shut."
That's when the real hell began. She started treating him like a slave whenever Andrew was away. Dishes, laundry, trash, cleaning the entire villa. Andrew was too smitten and blinded by love to notice his son's suffering. Victoria made it sound like "family bonding" whenever he asked. Even her daughters joined in on the abuse.
Halfway through the dishes, footsteps clattered on the stairs. Emily, Victoria's twenty one year old daughter, stumbled down scratching her messy black hair. She wore a bra and shorts that barely qualified as clothing.
"Ugh, my head's killing me," she groaned. "Too much vodka at the club last night."
She spotted Isaac and smirked, but he kept his eyes on the sink. Emily had made it clear. Look at her when she wasn't "properly dressed" and she'd blind him, with Victoria's help covering it up. She was her mother's mirror. Same sharp beauty, same cold edge. If you saw them on the street you'd swear they were sisters. Victoria's age was a mystery. She didn't look old enough to have a college age daughter.
"Morning, Mom," Emily said, flopping onto the couch.
"It's evening, dummy," Victoria laughed. "You slept through the whole day. I already ordered takeout. It's coming soon."
"Thanks, Mom." Emily stretched, then turned to Isaac, voice sharp as glass. "Hey, you. Clean my room when you're done there."
"Yes, ma'am," Isaac mumbled, keeping his eyes on the sink.
Emily didn't spare him another glance. She settled beside her mother to watch the flickering TV.
At 5:30 the front door opened and Emma, Victoria's seventeen year old daughter, stepped in, school uniform damp from the rain.
"You're back," Victoria said, smiling. "How was school?"
"Sucked," Emma said, shaking out her wet brown hair. "The rain was brutal. Thanks for sending the driver though. I wasn't waiting in that mess."
Emma's eyes flicked to the kitchen where Isaac stood shivering over the sink, wet clothes clinging to his skinny frame. She paused. Her expression was unreadable. She traded a few quiet words with her mother and sister, then headed upstairs without saying anything to him.
Isaac caught the glance but kept his head down. Emma was different. Kinder when her mother and sister weren't around. Cold when they were. He couldn't figure her out. Was it pity? Guilt?
He didn't know. But he didn't trust it either, so he kept his guard up around her the most.
Once he was done with the dishes and the trash he dragged himself to his room.
He'd already cleaned Emily's spacious, perfumed bedroom, so different from his own cramped space tucked at the far end of the hall. Emily's room used to be his, but he'd been kicked out of it. His current room didn't have much in it. Just a creaky bed, a chipped wardrobe, and a small table by the side that he used for schoolwork or whatever else needed doing. No phone. No computer. Nobody would believe that someone living in a house like this didn't have either of those things. It made no sense. But the truth was he did have them at one point. Victoria had somehow convinced his father that Isaac didn't need any of it and should focus on his studies. How she pulled that off he still didn't know, but she did.
What hurt him the most though was his phone. That one wasn't even Victoria. Emily had been angry about something one day and with nothing around to take it out on she grabbed his phone and smashed it. Just like that. Gone. His father refused to get him a new one until he was done with this grade. No matter what Isaac said or how he tried to plead his case, Victoria always found a way to twist things. So eventually he got tired of it and just kept to himself.
Looking around, he spotted a new backpack on his bed. Black and sturdy, nothing like his torn one.
Beside it lay a small note in neat handwriting:
Noticed your bag was torn. This is a used one of mine. Bought a new one yesterday. There's balm and meds in there for your injuries and cold. You were shivering like crazy.
Though short, he knew who it was from. This wasn't the first time he'd gotten a note like this, and Emma had been the only one upstairs. The bag looked brand new, not used, but Isaac knew better than to question kindness.
He unzipped it and found bruise cream and cold medicine. Despite everything, his lips twitched into a small smile.
He went to take his shower. The second the hot water hit his skin it stung every bruise on his body. He hated that he couldn't even take his glasses off in the shower. His vision was bad enough with them cracked, but without them everything turned into a useless blur. He'd learned to live with the fogged up lenses and water spots because the alternative was stumbling around blind in a wet bathroom. Just another thing on the list of things that made his life miserable.
He stood before the cracked bathroom mirror and his reflection was grim. Ribs jutting under pale skin, bluish brown eyes sunken, cheek swollen purple. His spiky brown hair looked like it hadn't seen a proper cut in months.
"I look pathetic," he said, forcing a bitter laugh. He barely ate at home. Victoria's rules and Emily's theft left him scraping by on scraps at night. Most of his allowance went to weed, his only escape from reality. It dulled the pain and kept him sane.
Back in his room he blocked the door with a chair, draped a towel over it to muffle sound, and cracked the window. From under the wardrobe he pulled his small stash. A wrapped joint, a lighter, and a mint candy.
He lit it up and took a deep drag, smoke curling in his lungs.
"That's the stuff," he muttered, exhaling toward the window. "Too bad it's my last one. Gotta wait till next month." Another drag smoothed his frayed nerves. "My luck sure sucks."
He took a final puff, sprayed air freshener, and popped the mint to mask the scent. Collapsing onto his bed he stared at the ceiling, the haze softening the day's sharp edges.
"I feel like I'm forgetting something," he mumbled, rolling onto his side. His eyes drifted to the new backpack and something stirred in his memory.
The book.