Episode 35: Assets (Rhyss)

Rhyss pulled the last tray of donuts for the day out of the oven, with a pair of thick padded oven mitts protecting his hands.

He set them on the cooling rack and moved to a different tray. He drizzled frosting and sprinkles over each donut. While he coated the tops of each donut, he wondered what it would be like to paint with donut frosting. He wondered if Antoine would let him make painting displays for the window or if Antoine would think that was a pointless waste of money.

He hadn’t been paid yet for the week, but he was excited. Soon he would have money. Enough for healthier foods, maybe enough to get a little something for Emily.

It was hard to believe how fast that had gone, from Ms. Anney’s living room to Emily sleeping over, in just a few days.

She felt right, to him. She was warm and good and home.

He wanted to talk to her.

The obvious thing would be to pool their money. They could plan their future together. She was open and smart and safe and funny and she understood about his mom and he could talk to her about anything.

It was probably too soon to tell her what he wanted: marriage.

Togetherness, everything but marriage, he could talk about now. Maybe in a year, marriage. He could dream about it now and talk about it later when…

Antoine rapped his knuckles against the metal rack that held all the finished trays. “Hey, Rhyss. How about you take five.”

Rhyss wondered what he’d done wrong. They were allowed breaks, but he’d never taken one before. If Antoine was ever going to fire anyone, he didn’t want it to be him.

“Okay.” He finished the tray and set it on the rack, and went into the room behind the kitchen. It doubled as Antoine’s office and the break room, with a table, a deck of cards, a fridge, and a tv.

As soon as Rhyss crossed the threshold, Antoine looked up from his desk. He muted the tv. “Something came up with your paperwork. You ever go and get a license before?”

Rhyss patted his hand on his back pocket, self-conscious.

Years. It had been years of Jill reminding him it wasn’t safe. It was like she knew she was going to disappear, so she’d take him aside and hold his face in her hands and make him repeat the name of the guy who could get him a fake license.

“It’s not safe for us,” she’d tell him, “because of who our dad was. You have to go to this guy when you turn fifteen, not the Department of Rights and Privileges.

The DORP, as it was called, had a reputation of being biased around cults.

Jill wanted to protect him.

Rhyss had gone to the guy. He’d gotten a fake license.

He guessed technically, he’d gone and gotten a license. “Sort of,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

Maybe his dad’s cult was going to come steal him now. Maybe that was what had happened to Jill.

“Rhyss Hartmann doesn’t exist. Your paperwork wouldn’t go through. You’re someone else.”

Rhyss almost laughed. Of course he existed; he was standing right there. “Maybe I wrote something down wrong.”

“Nah,” Antoine waved his hand, dismissive. “We checked it out. You have a name.”

Rhyss wondered who we was.

Antoine handed him two newspaper clippings. They were old, like the ones about his dad’s death, yellowed and crinkled. They wanted to turn to powder in his hands. He looked at the first: It was an obituary for a toddler boy with brown hair and brown eyes: Zach Lavesque.

Rhyss’ shoulders and back tightened.

Baby Zach.

Lavesque.

The ruling family of Sylem. It was technically a democracy, but somehow they always managed to get the votes. Xander Lavesque, the president, had five kids.

Zach wasn’t some other kid, it was Rhyss. He was the baby his mom didn’t want, because he wasn’t hers. Or his dad’s.

The article under the obituary had a headline that read, “Lavesque Family Dedicates New Wing to Baby Zach.”

There was a picture of the same toddler boy, laughing, with a stuffed owl clutched in his hand. There was another picture of a serious man standing in front of a building. The sign beside him read “Pediatric Oncology.”

Rhyss wanted to crumple the clippings and laugh.

He almost did.

But the face. He ran his hand along his own jawline and looked at the man, Zane Lavesque’s, face. There was no pretending he didn’t look like that man, now that someone had pointed it out.

And the owl in that picture…

“Is this supposed to be me?” Rhyss argued. “He’s dead.” It was impossible. It was obvious.

“Good reason to need a new name,” Antoine pointed out.

Rhyss opened and closed his fists. He needed to get control of his panic before he lost his job over it.

“Why would they fake my death?” he asked.

The Lavesques were so rich that money probably fell down the drain when they showered. Nice houses, nice cars, the best schools for their kids. Everything Rhyss’ life had lacked, they had.

They’d thrown away a kid. Why would they do that? They had enough kids, he knew that. It wasn’t like they hated kids or didn’t want any.

He tried to remember how many they had. Four? Six? A lot. One of them was close to his age.

“It’s why would they bring you back. You should go ask.”

Rhyss looked at the article again. His vision blurred, but the words, “lost his battle with leukemia last year” stood out.

Rhyss touched his chest. He had died, if this was true.

He cleared his throat. “Emily’s coming to dinner. Maybe after.” He knew it wouldn’t be after. She would stay over again, and he would go to work. Maybe he could just avoid this problem forever.

Antoine looked at the door and said in a quieter voice, “Emily had to leave. She might not be back.”

Rhyss had no idea what that meant. Might not be back, mysterious job nannying in a different universe. Antoine had been worried about her job. What if something happened to her?

No. Emily was too smart and careful to let something happen to herself.

He’d just wait it out, whatever it was, and she’d come home and tease him about being worried.

Maybe.

Antoine showed him a note, written in Emily’s handwriting. He was sure it was hers, the archy way she wrote her letters seemed just like her. It said she was choosing to stay at her job for the time being and not come home.

Either she was being held against her will, or she panicked about the pregnancy.

Gone, all his plans.

All he could do was wait, and hope whatever had made her leave – force or fear, would let her come home.

He was sick at the thought that someone could have taken her.

He was sick at the thought of her alone and scared and pregnant, and in danger.

He was sick of the dynamic, sick of the leaders who did nothing. He felt dirty in his own skin. If he was a Lavesque, he was part of the problem.

“So if I don’t exist do I not have a job?” he asked.

Antoine passed him a wad of cash. “We got you.”

“Thanks,” Rhyss said. He pocketed the cash. He stood there, not sure what to do.

“You need a minute? You can go bug that guy or work.”

“I’ll finish,” he said. He looked at the picture again. “Actually. Can I have the last hour off?”

He knew he wouldn’t be paid for the missed hour, but he wanted to put these articles somewhere safe. He wanted to tell the Lavesques in person what kind of people he thought they were.

“Go ahead.”

Rhyss climbed into his car and drove it blindly to the Lavesque house. There were four of them, four Lavesque brothers. Rhyss was pretty sure he knew which mansion was Zane’s.

He parked his car at the bottom of the cobblestone driveway and reread the obituary and the article.

After a few minutes, a car drove past; a kid younger than Rhyss, who looked out at him over the top of the dashboard and craned around to look back at him while the car ascended the driveway. The gate at the bottom opened to let him through.

Rhyss would never get past that gate. He should have known there would be security. No one could get near the Lavesque.

He was a Lavesque, if Antoine was right.

What if Antoine was wrong? He had a job. Why ruin something good?

He needed the money more than he needed this. He started the car again, ready to turn around, but now a guard from the gatepost walked toward him.

Rhyss groaned and rolled down his window.

“Can I help you?” the guard asked.

Rhyss tried to think of a reason to be there. “No. I was just letting my car rest. It’s a steep climb up here.”

The guard raised one eyebrow. “What are you doing in the neighborhood?”

Rhyss knew what it looked like. His junky old car in a place like this…

Maybe the Lavesques wouldn’t need to worry so much if they hadn’t caused the problems to start with. A house like this while the city festered…it should have been a crime.

“I should check your license,” the guard said.

The guard would know it was fake.

Rhyss looked out at the driveway.

He looked at the guard. “Yeah, okay,” he said. He handed his wallet to the guard, who walked up the hill to the gatepost, went inside the little building, and stared straight ahead. After a minute, he put his hand to his ear like he was making a phone call.

Rhyss should just drive off without the license. He still had the guy’s name, the guy who’d made the first one.

But the guard had his name and his car’s information. He didn’t think he’d get far, and then he’d be a fugitive. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He wasn’t a bad person. He could just get through this, and get out of here.

When the guard came out of the guard house, he looked toward Rhyss’ car in a new way. Rhyss tried to figure out what was different.

It was the body language. He was more tense.

A second later, Rhyss heard the sirens.

He gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead.

All he had to do was be honest. He could be home tonight, with his mom. No more mistakes.

He got out of the car when they told him to. He barely heard it when they told him the president just wanted to meet him and he wasn’t being arrested.

The police held open the rear passenger door of their car, and Rhyss slid in. Cooperate. He could get through this.

One of the officers got in his car. He opened and closed his fists and looked down at his lap. His jeans were threadbare; his hooded sweatshirt was worse. It was no wonder they wanted to talk to him.

It was a short drive, which was good. Rhyss didn’t have time to get too mad. He knew, no matter what happened today, that he wasn’t a Lavesque.

Emily was pregnant and gone and Antoine said she might not be coming back.

His mom was sick.

He was Rhyss Hartmann, no matter what some piece of paper said.

He would never be one of them.

The officers led him inside the president’s mansion, into a room that looked just like an interrogation room. They patted up and down his body to check for weapons and secret spells. They told him he wouldn’t be able to use weaponized magic in this room.

Then they reminded him that he wasn’t under arrest.

He almost laughed.

Instead he stared at his hands and waited.

The president walked in. He wore a suit, but as soon as he came in he hung the jacket over the back of his chair and sat down opposite Rhyss.

He offered his hand. Rhyss was pretty sure he said his name too, but Rhyss’ mind buzzed too much to be sure.

“What brings you here today?” the president asked.

Rhyss looked at the way his chin, so much like Rhyss’ chin, angled back a little. The way he sat back in the chair, comfortable, with his hands behind his head, the easy smile.

Xander Lavesque. Rhyss wondered what it was like to be that rich, to have everything in life without needing to struggle or fight for it or be hungry until Friday.

“What brings you here today?” the president asked again.

Rhyss cleared his throat. “I tried to get a job, but my boss says I don’t exist. He thinks,” Rhyss looked up into Xander’s brown eyes, “my real name is Zach Lavesque.”

Xander put his hands flat on the table and looked at Rhyss. Not just his face, but his body too. He breathed out a loud sigh.

“So you thought you’d break into Zero’s house?”

Rhyss didn’t know who Zero was.

“No. I just wanted to see Zane Lavesque. To see if it could be true.”

The president stood. “Well you’re in luck. He’s on his way here now.” He walked to the door. “Relax, kid. You’re not in trouble.”

Right. Rhyss knew about plenty of people who got arrested for not being in trouble.

Xander had left his suit jacket behind on the chair. Rhyss stared at it. Part of him wanted to touch it and see what the fabric felt like. His clothes were all coarse shirts and ripped jeans, but he bet the suit was as smooth and cool as it looked.

He also bet there were cameras in this room, and no way was he touching the jacket.

The door opened, and this time the man himself walked in. Zane Lavesque, even wealthier than Xander, owner of the Sylem Public Hospital.

Xander was arrogant and open, but this man was a walking secret. His face, his shoulders, everything…he was closed. He had a glass bowl in one hand. When he walked in his eyes slid over Rhyss. He pulled a hair out of his own head and dropped it in the bowl. He ignored Xander’s jacket and sat, with the bowl in front of him on the table.

He looked at Rhyss and waited.

He must be used to dealing with angry guys.

Rhyss suddenly remembered why Zane Lavesque’s picture was so familiar. He’d been in the news recently. His son had gotten up on stage at his school (The Sylem Academy, the best school in the country) and announced that he was gay.

No wonder Zane thought he could wait Rhyss out. A kid like that must have been a headache to parent.

That was okay. Rhyss wanted to get out of here and he didn’t want to sit around having a staring contest. He looked at Zane. “What’s that?” he asked, nodding toward the bowl.

“It tests to see if I’m your dad. A formality.”

It wasn’t a formality. It would be life-changing.

Rhyss tried to look in the bowl without letting Zane know he was trying to look in the bowl. He wished he knew enough magic to guess what it meant.

“Did it work?” he asked.

“You have to add a piece of hair or nail…” Zane’s tone had changed, from stiff to softer, when he explained.

Rhyss didn’t want him to be soft.

He stared at the bowl and wondered. What if it was a trick? Some other kind of spell that would trap him and make him a slave to the Lavesques forever?

He wished he knew magic. Enough to know what this was, if it was safe.

Trust. He had to trust this Lavesque guy.

They hadn’t accused him of pretending, so there was that. If they thought he was pretending, they probably would have gotten him in all kinds of trouble. They must see the same thing Rhyss saw, the chins and the eyes and the shoulders.

Especially with how closed this guy was. Rhyss bet he looked just like him.

He sighed and ripped off a fingernail. At least it was clean from scrubbing his hands at work.

They both looked into the bowl. All the stuff inside, including Rhyss’s nail, bubbled for a minute and then turned a bright gold color.

Zane blew out a deep breath of air, his cheeks puffed way out. He looked at Rhyss. “Zach,” he said.

So gold meant related.

He was a Lavesque.

He should have grown up in a house like this. He should have gone to the Sylem Academy and actually done well, not been all dramatic and weird like Zane’s kid had been.

Would he really have wanted that, though? To be one of them?

His life might suck, but it was his life. He had Emily and Ms. Anney. He had his mom to anchor him at home, and Antoine to give him a job. He had everything he needed, even if it was hungry and cold sometimes.

Right then, he made a decision not to resent the life he could have had.

If he’d grown up Lavesque, he wouldn’t be him. He’d be someone else, someone who could lean back in that chair like Xander had, safe and secure and oblivious to all the people who mattered most to Rhyss.

He wouldn’t have Emily, or the twins, wherever they were.

“I guess so,” he said, to Zane calling him Zach. He didn’t feel like a Zach. “Why did you do that?” he asked.

Maybe there was something wrong with him and that was why they’d thrown him away.

Maybe it was a test, to see if he could survive.

He waited.

“Revive you?” Zane asked. Like Xander, he put his hands on the table. Rhyss kept his hands hidden on his lap. “I didn’t. Sam must have, to win over my wife.”

Rhyss deflated a little.

He’d died.

His dad hadn’t wanted him alive.

No, Rhyss reminded himself, Zane wasn’t really his dad. Rhyss had taken care of himself. He didn’t need a dad.

“Okay,” he said.

Zane looked at the table for a minute. He looked at Rhyss again. “How did you find out?”

“I tried to get a job.”

Zane probably didn’t even have a job. He probably just wandered over to his hospital anytime he wanted to feel important, and let people make a big deal about him.

“What about school?” Zane asked.

If Rhyss had gone to school, his serial number would have come up then.

His mom, crazy as she was, had protected him from them.

“I was homeschooled.”

His homeschool experience had started with learning to read the sign at some stores that said he had to have shoes on to go in. When Jill had figured out he could read those, she started teaching him from her magazines about boys.

Rhyss had learned to read words like bustier and orgasm way before he’d learned any of the normal words.

Still, he’d learned school stuff at home. How to count money and tell time. Which streets were safe to walk down at which times of day. Which grocery stores had which foods cheapest. Which cults to avoid. How to cook and take care of the house. Technical homeschool.

Zane opened and closed his fists just like Rhyss did when he was trying not to be angry.

He folded his hands together, rested them on the table, and looked at Rhyss. “What do you want to know?”

Know? Rhyss didn’t want to know anything. He was here to tell them stuff.

“Nothing,” he said.

“What do you need?”

He must have thought Rhyss was here to blackmail them or try to guilt them into giving him a better life. They didn’t know how much he didn’t want anything from them, ever.

He opened and closed his own fists and took a deep breath. “I don’t know. I came to your house to tell you something, but I don’t know anymore.”

He didn’t see the point in talking to this closed, pissed off guy, about his ideas for how to help the bad neighborhoods. He’d never listen to someone like Rhyss.

“You’re not under arrest,” the guy echoed.

Rhyss looked around the room, at the barred door and the cinderblock walls. “Yeah?” he asked.

“Not anymore,” Zane corrected. “What did the job say? Where do you live?” He stood up before Rhyss could answer. “I’ll be right back.”

He left.

Not under arrest, just stuck in a cell with the door closed. He wondered what it was like to be arrested, if this was what not arrested was.

The guy came back in, more purposeful in how he walked. “Your job,” he said, as he sat down.

“What about it?”

“What is it?”

Rhyss didn’t want to get Antoine in any kind of trouble, but he didn’t see how to avoid it. They had the tools to investigate anything they wanted about him.

“I make donuts,” he said. “And on Saturdays I paint downtown.”

“Your mom paints too,” Zane said.

Like Rhyss cared. He did care. He hated the curiosity that welled inside him.

No. His mom was at home. She liked cards and tea and tv and she didn’t know how to take care of herself.

“I like cooking, but I’m a doctor,” Zane added.

Rhyss looked up at him. Somehow this guy thought he needed to be told this stuff. “Yeah,” he said, his voice tight. “I know you’re a doctor. Everybody knows you own the Public Hospital.”

“Yeah, I do,” he said.

Rhyss was glad he’d never had to go to the hospital. What if they’d found him then and kept him? What would have happened to his mom.

“Who raised you?” Zane asked.

“My mom.” Rhyss realized he sounded defiant. She was his mom, no matter what anyone said. Not some woman who painted. “You saved her a couple years ago,” Rhyss added. He wasn’t sure why he said that part.

Zane looked up at the ceiling. “I should have noticed you,” he muttered. It was almost an apology, the way he said it, but he didn’t say sorry. Not that Rhyss cared.

“She had burns and an infection,” Zero remembered.

Yeah, well, there was a reason Rhyss was paranoid about her with a stove. Rhyss stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked down at the table. “So thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Zane said. “I’m glad I helped.”

Rhyss didn’t doubt that. He probably patted himself on the back after every person he saved.

Rhyss shifted in his chair. “Does not arrested mean I can go?”

“Not until my brother gets back.”

Again, with the not arrested but also somehow arrested. That was getting really old. Rhyss slumped in his seat and stared at the table.

At least the buzzing in his mind had calmed down. It was like a flashing strobe light had been focused into a laser point of anger, pointed at Zane Lavesque.

It was kind of nice to have someone to blame all his problems on.

It was also useless. He’d seen other people go through a cycle of blaming and excuses. He wasn’t going to blame anyone for his life. He was going to make it better. On his own, without any of this stuff.

The door opened again after a long silence and President Xander walked in with a fat pile of papers and some keys. He sat next to Zane and handed him everything. “The card will be mailed in a couple of days, but here’s the account info. And the keys.”

Zane slid everything across the table toward Rhyss. “Sam’s assets,” he said.

“What assets.” There was no way…if Sam had assets, why were they living in that neighborhood? Why had he spent most of his childhood hungry and afraid?

“Bank accounts and house. Cars,” Zane added, looking at Xander. “He has a boat, right?”

“Two,” Xander told Rhyss. “A power yacht and a catamaran sailboat.”

Zane looked at Rhyss and explained, “They’ve been frozen since his wife rejected them.”

Ah.

Rhyss got it. This made sense. They were buying him off. And they weren’t even using their own money to do it, they were taking a dead guy’s money, which it turned out Rhyss had no right to.

But his mom, Nora, did. She would have been afraid to take them. She had probably rejected them out of fear and paranoia or even just plain distraction.

Fine. They wanted to buy him off, he didn’t want to be here. He had twins and a soontobe fiance to take care of. “Okay. Can I go then?”

Xander looked at Zane, like Zane made all the decisions around here. Rhyss wouldn’t be surprised if he did. Let the younger brother run the country while you go off and have fun. It seemed like something a Lavesque would do.

Zane opened his folded hands and looked at Rhyss. “Will you hear me out before you go?”

Rhyss looked at the door. He wondered what would happen if he said no and got up. They could make him stay. It wasn’t worth the risk, when he was this close to getting out of here. “Yeah. Sure.”

“You had terminal cancer,” Zane told him. “I didn’t know about the alternatives to blood magic at the time. When you died, I refused to sacrifice someone to bring you back.”

Whatever Zane wanted to say, it didn’t matter to Rhyss. He wouldn’t let it matter. He found himself nodding his head just to get out of there faster. “That makes sense.”

“Your mom must have brought you to Sam. She had two sons with him, in the time we were divorced.” Zane was silent for a moment, then stood. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

The president stood too. “And we’re sending you a new ID card with your real name.”

Great. He wouldn’t be able to go anywhere again as Rhyss Hartmann: He’d always be Zach Lavesque. No more privacy. It wasn’t like Sylem was full of Lavesques. You either were rich like them or you weren’t a Lavesque. This was going to complicate his life.

“Thanks,” he said, more sarcastic than he wanted to sound.

“Ward the house and watch your back,” Zane warned him. “If you want to stay on your own that’s your choice, but we have enemies.”

Yeah. Rhyss knew all about their enemies, since he was one of them. Not like a let’s-go-to-war enemy, but he definitely wasn’t their friend.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He looked at the door again. When were they going to let him go?

“Do you need help with wards? Guards? Security…” Zane listed them all, looking at Xander when he said the security part. Xander nodded his head and Rhyss had a bad feeling he was going to be under surveillance from now on. He wondered how to avoid that.

“Look,” Rhyss said, almost begging them to leave him alone. “I’m just some guy from Clovercrest.” He held up the papers and keys. “I don’t even know what to do with this.”

“Whatever you want,” Zane said. He looked like he wanted to smile for a second, but he didn’t. “I can’t wait to tell Sam.”

Maybe no one had told him. “He’s dead,” he pointed out. For almost twenty years, dead. Not like a recent thing.

“Right,” Zane said. He and Xander shared a smile.

Okay, so Sam was alive.

The guy whose disappearance had ruined his mom’s life, led to Jill’s disappearance, changed Rhyss’s childhood, forced them to grow up in a bad neighborhood…he was alive. They had him, and they thought it was all some kind of big joke. Bastards.

He looked at President Bastard. “Where’s my car?” he demanded.

The president handed him his car key, which looked tattered and loved compared to the shiny keys Zane had given him. “It’s out front.”

Zane gave him one last piece of paper, with two phone numbers on it. “Call me sometime.”

“Yeah,” Rhyss said. Only because he was almost out of here and saying yeah right seemed like it would delay his escape.

He brushed past both of them and walked into the blue and white hallway. A guard there walked him back through the president’s house and out to the circular driveway. His car was there, boxy and discolored and out of place, but it was his.

He’d never loved this car so much. He got in and set all the papers on the seat. He put the key in the ignition and listened to the rumble of the old engine.

He drove down the steep driveway. The guard at the gate waved at him like they were old friends and let his car through without stopping him.

Rhyss scowled at the blurred road in front of him. He could barely see to drive, so he pulled off at a fuel station and sat there for a few minutes, parked.

He picked up the papers. Stocks, bank statements. Pictures of a mansion and a cottage and two different boats, almost a dozen flashy cars.

The yard of the house had a little toddler playground.

Rhyss closed his eyes and moved the papers off his lap so his tears wouldn’t get them wet.

He looked back at the financial numbers again. He tallied them in his head and breathed out the numbers one at a time, barely audible.

Five hundred thirty-eight. Million. Dollars.

And a mansion.

And a cottage.

And all those cars and boats.

He wiped away the tears and drove home, to the yellow-and-orange walls and the ugly furniture and the stink of nicotine in everything.

He missed Emily, more than he’d thought it was possible to miss someone he’d only really known for a few days. Having her to talk to, her jokes and her ideas, and then having it taken away, was almost worse than never having had her at all.

He looked at the papers again.

Like it or not, he was Zach Lavesque. For the rest of his life.

There was power in that. If he got himself some nice clothes, made himself look a little more upscale. Maybe he could go to the places people got kidnapped from and see if he could find a pattern, spot faces that he saw frequently.

Rhyss Hartmann was a nobody. He couldn’t stop the disappearances. He couldn’t protect Emily.

Maybe Zach Lavesque could change the world.

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