Grandpa Calloway is sitting in a wheelchair in front of the enormous oil portrait of Orson's ancestor Horace Calloway, a debonair man awkwardly clutching a floppy-eared, sad-eyed beagle in his lap. Horace has the same exact ski-slope nose Orson and his grandfather share and it looks like he was wearing women's rings on his fingers. Rich people are so weird.

And it gets even weirder, as Orson's grandfather points at me and accuses me of being Orson's mother. Orson's eyebrows knit at his grandfather's confusion as I cross my arms across my body and shift from foot to foot awkwardly, "Granddad, you're getting confused. Mom has been dead for 17 years. The girl you're pointing at is Amory Scout, my girlfriend."

Orson's grandfather scoffs at him. "Don't talk about your mother like that." He then peers at me, a misty-eyed, moony expression adjusting his features, "Deidre, you look stunning."

I step forward, "Thank you," I don't know what to say. I've never met Orson's grandfather before in my life and I have no clue why he's calling me Deidre. "But, uh, I'm not Deidre. My name is Amory."

Grandpa Calloway narrows his beady gaze at me. Orson places a comforting hand on his grandfather's shoulder, "Grandpa, have you forgotten to take your meds?" He asks sympathetically.

"I..." Grandpa Calloway loses his train of thought before he squints in the distance and rubs the side of his temple, "Is it time for breakfast?"

"No Granddad, it's 7:00 p.m. It's time for dinner."

"Who are you?"

Orson's smile dims for a moment. I feel a pinch of sadness for Orson and his grandfather's withering state of mind. "I'm your grandson, Orson Calloway."

"Are you now...?"

As the exchange between Orson and his grandfather happens, my mind flits back to how Orson's grandfather first reacted when I stepped foot in the room. I know he's not exactly sane but the way he looks at me, calls me Deidre with that look in his eyes, rings alarm bells in my head.

Why did Grandpa Calloway look at me like that? Who is Deidre? Is she Orson's mother? Do I look like her? And if that's so, is it why Orson's grandmother has such a bad scare when she looks at me?

"Hey, sorry about that," Orson informs me sweetly, once we've left the library on the way down to the dining room. "My grandfather tends to be pretty confused. You know, he kind of did the same thing when I introduced him to Georgina."

Alarm bells ring in my head. "Wait, Georgina was also mistaken for your mother?"

He nods. "Yeah, as I said, he's got a pretty bad case of Alzheimer's. He once thought Carmen was my father and he calls anyone with blonde hair my mother's name."

I've come to Calloway Manor to be intensely interrogated and scrutinized, only to leave with more questions than ever.

-

Mornings at Calloway Manor are definitely worth the early morning rise as Orson quietly shakes me awake in my sleep to watch the sunrise above the gardens. A calling tray of Twinings' English breakfast tea and milk in an ornate Sevres china cup and saucer has been brought up by Miss Mckinsey; and a fellow footman, along with delicious digestive biscuits Orson says was his favourite. Then Miss Mckinsey announces it was time for breakfast before drawing us a bath in the clawfoot tub, adjusting the old-fashioned shower taps until the water is warm enough.

"Before you know it, she's gonna offer to undress me for bed and comb my hair," I mutter to Orson quietly after Miss Mckinsey dropped off a new batch of freshly laundered fluffy towels smelling of the organic lavender water sourced from Provence.

Orson laughs, his chest falling and rising rapidly. "You never know, she just might."

I'm genuinely surprised at the openness of Orson's grandmother in allowing us to share a room. No one bats an eye at Orson and me sleeping on the same bed; though I do not miss the way Grandma Calloway side-eyeing me, as if she knows about the encounter I had with Orson's grandfather.

The last twenty-four hours have been somewhat of a fever dream. Despite Orson's grandparents being whack around me, the whole affair has been grand with each meal more extravagant than the next, each relative snottier than the last. And yet with all the exclusive pampering, the decadent treatment, I can't help but feel the biggest sense of unease in my stomach.

Which is strange.

I've entered this vendetta with the utmost sense of sureness. I've never doubted a single move. I did not hesitate when it came to drugging Luciana- from that very night, I haven't stopped to really reflect on my actions. Not even when Georgina found me out. I just rectify the problem without a moment's notice. I never felt uneasy about this whole ordeal.

But ever since I've stepped foot in The Calloways's sacred estate, it's like a cavern is slowly opening inside of me. And I don't like the feeling that's coming, that prickling in my forehead. The stones are being thrown into my ocean.

Like something is very, very wrong here.

I try to push it out of my head as Orson is nibbling on my jaw, peppering kisses along my neck. I squirm out of his touch, giggling as I nestled further into the thick Egyptian cotton duvets, "Stop," I tease as I feel his fingers go up to my Olivia Von Halle slip dress, "We're literally in your grandmother's house."

Orson's mouth hovers from my ear as he kisses me, 'Didn't stop you last night."

"That was the whiskey talking."

"I'm sure." We spend the next thirty minutes rustling about, kissing and fooling around but not really going too far before we both eventually and reluctantly got out of bed, especially after our stomachs growl in calls for breakfast.

I walk into the dressing room adjoining the bedroom and discover that Miss Mckinsey has prepared a fire burning in the fireplace, a vase of freshly cut Juliet roses arranged on the dressing table and a morning silk robe provided by Calloway Manor already hanging against the copper warming rack. I slip on the robe, which is black silk with white lace trim, and marvel at how warm it is. Typically, weekends at English estates mean bedrooms that feel like iceboxes in the morning and frozen clothes but the highly Swiss-trained staff and English manor-house traditions equal insane hospitality standards.

"Holy shit," I whisper to myself as I notice they've unpacked my suitcase and ironed the fucking shoelaces on a pair of New Balance sneakers I've packed with me in case I wanted to sneak in a run.

Once I've put on my robe over my slip dress, Orson leads me downstairs to the grand dining room where the flow of morning conversation follows up the hallway.

"Orson and his blondes. Each one uglier than the last."

"Oh come on, Chiara. Amory's quite pretty actually. A little manufactured if I must say and so LA. Sure, Georgina's ethereal and timeless, like a Grace Kelly clone, but come on, she's so boring." I hear Ava's voice whine diplomatically.

I can practically picture Naomi nodding as she interjects. "I know what you mean. Amory's pretty but in a very conventional, Instagram model way."

Ava sighs. "I wish I could tell her that she needs to chop her hair in a little bob. That wavy beach hairstyle is just so American."

Chiara snorts, followed by clinks of spoons stirring tea or coffee in a cup. "Her hair colour is so obviously fake. I can tell when it comes from a bottle."

Orson and I appear by the doorway; I look coldly toward the three girls having their breakfasts on the long banquet table. The adults are nowhere to be seen in the formal dining room.

"Orson," Chiara greets warmly, and her tone drops a decibel with every syllable of my name, "Amory."

I ignore her and smile sweetly at Ava and Naomi. "What's for breakfast?"

"Eggs," Naomi tells me. "Try them, Grandma's chef makes the best scrambled eggs. They're divine. Fluffy, creamy and just the right amount of runny."

As Orson and I take our seats opposite of each other, a footman approaches, deftly placing a pair of clean plates in front of us, Orson's morning cappuccino (made with small-batch, single-origin beans) and my cup of orange pekoe tea (which they somehow manage to figure out was my favourite) next to me.

I bite into eggs and savour the mouthful of the creamy, buttery texture. "Wow, what's the secret," I marvel.

"The cream. Grandma's chef uses the cream from the Guernsey cows in the scrambled eggs," Ava pipes up as she helps herself to a single toast point, a dollop of Marmite, and some fresh prunes.

Then Esther Malborough, Orson's great aunt, enters the room, cheeks still flush from her morning ride. Yesterday, when I was introduced to the Marlboroughs, Esther had her hair parted down the middle and pulled into a tight coil at the nape of her neck in Frida Kahlo–style. Now it is braided intricately along the sides but flowing free down her back.

Esther Malborough is related to the Calloways through Orson's grandfather. Orson's grandfather is Jeremy Calloway, whose sister, Esther, has appropriately married into the imperial Marlboroughs, a family as old as nobility itself. Hugh Malborough, Esther's husband, is a notable MP and a terribly recognizable figure in British politics himself.

She registers the room with one thorough sweeping stare before landing on me for a moment, then she takes her eyes off me and focuses on taking an empty seat on the head of the table.

"Children, how are we doing this afternoon?"

"We're doing good."

"That's brilliant," she sighs, "I wish all my children were here. But God, they're all bloody wastes of space, I swear."

Ava giggles, "Oh yeah, I forgot to ask. Are Lucian and Tobias coming?"

"No. All this money and grandeur and you know what they're doing? Lucian has decided to start a research institute on the Amazon rainforest. He's determined to save all the trees and the poor little animals. Do you know how much the Brazilians love burning down their forests for more mining land? The rainforest is already doomed! But no, he's still determined to save the forests. And my other son? He is thirty-six years old. Do you want to know what he does?"

"No ... I mean, yes," Naomi says, fighting to keep a straight face.

"He has a rock-and-roll band in London. Not even like those Beatles, who at least made money. This one has long oily hair, wears black eyeliner, and makes horrible noises with home appliances."

"Well, at least they are being creative," Ava tries to put in politely.

"Creatively wasting all my hard-earned money! At least you and Naomi are in Oxford, studying useful things like Business and Accounting!" Esther Malborough readjusts her bifocals as she turns to Orson and I. "Don't be foolish, Orson, and don't pursue useless endeavours. What about you....uh..."

"Amory," I finish for her.

"Amory," she repeats, "What are you thinking of pursuing?"

I haven't even had the time to think about University. Even though my SAT score is near perfect, I've already missed the deadline to submit my application. It doesn't matter. I can apply against next year or something, once I've finished with Orson's head on a stick.

"I'm not too sure yet," I twist the ring on my finger, "I may consider going into tech, possibly. The future is there."

Esther pins her lips together, "As much as I hate those bloody iPhones and texts, I have to say I agree. Are you two planning to go together?" She is talking about Orson and I. Going away together for college. Like an actual couple. The future. I don't tell her that if it's up to me, Orson wouldn't have a future.

"We haven't really discussed the future," Orson admits to his Great-Aunt. Chiara looks satisfied, entirely smug at that, and I send her a look of distaste before continuing.

"We're just taking it easy," I confirm smoothly; I take Orson's hand, squeeze it and look adoringly into him. He has to believe I'm in this and so does his whole family. "And going along with whatever happens."

-

It's three twenty-five a.m and everyone's dead asleep.

The Irish whiskey has knocked Orson out cold; he's snoring peacefully beside me, his arms coiled around my naked form. He doesn't even stir when I shake my body away from him the minute the clock hits three. Even though I chug the same amount of whiskey, they don't make me sleepy.

My little pills are working way too well; the Adderall is keeping me up, making my brain speed up and helping me focus. I quietly dash away from the bed to grab my robe and my phone before opening the door slightly, hearing the hinges creak with movement.

The sound makes me wince, raising hairs on my arms. I quickly throw a glance at Orson's sleeping form, his snores calming me. I make a silent prayer before I sneak out of the room and close the door behind me, my eyes training carefully on Orson's sleeping figure as I flee into the darkness of the corridor.

Calloway Manor is even more terrifying in the dark. The weak beam from my iPhone flashlight guiding me through the house cast a ghostly light onto the paintings decorating the corridor of the second floor- paintings of Orson's dead relatives looking at me, following me as I stealthily and quietly walk through the manor. I'm starting to familiarize myself with most of the Manor. The second floor is dedicated just to guests while the third is for close family. Means Orson's father and his stepmother are cosily ensconced in those rooms, along with Esther and her husband. Delia's private residence, however, has the entire fourth floor dedicated to her, a space sprawling throughout the whole width of the house.

I find the grand staircase with much ease and begin the descent up to the fourth floor. The uneasy feeling of being in a darkened, old Manor expands in my stomach with every step I take; my breath is cold in the air when I reach the fourth floor, my bare feet touching the lush carpet and holding my phone tight.

There are only two doors. One is the master bedroom. And the other must be some kind of study.

But which one?

I go for the first one. I put my ear up to the door and listen very faintly. In the quietness, it's not too hard to pick up sounds emitting from the other side- loud snores from Grandpa Calloway determine it as the master bedroom for me. So I choose the other door. It's silent. No one is in. Perfect. My hand slides across the cold gilded door and turns the knob. Locked.

Damn.

It's fine. I have the right tool for it but it might make a little bit of a noise- which isn't good for a mission stealth-like this.

I undo the phone cover for my iPhone and unveil a small little lockpick I've dismantled from a lockpick gun. With as much care as possible, I wiggle the lock pick in and fiddle with it. In a few tense click-clacks, I manage to successfully unlock the door and swing it wide open.

It's an ornate study room with tall bookshelves, a singular long white-wood desk that holds a sleeping MacBook Air laptop and a printer, and red, plush couches. It must be Delia Calloway's study. I gingerly pick up a red folio from one of her bookshelves and examine the content.

It's in Latin, talking about Caesar's campaign in Gaul, copied on vellum. Handwritten by a scribe from 1500, easily worth more than my life.

My hand runs along the spines of her books- Machiavelli, Melville, Milton, while the other closes the door behind me and locks it. Even if a pesky maid or butler is making rounds, at least with Mrs Calloway's study room locked, they won't suspect I'm here.

After looking through her bookshelves for any noteworthy pieces of literature, like maybe a family history book or something that can tell me more about Orson's mother and her mysterious death, I decided to comb through her desk. I do it with precision though. Every book ruffled through is put together back like it's never been touched, and any pen accidentally moved is adjusted back to its original place. I trawl through the drawers- only to find a folder of birth certificates of every living Calloway.

This is a start.

It's a big ass folder. The Calloways have had such a history that it's so arduous, reading through names until my eyes are strained. When I finally see Orson's father's name pop up, I get a sense of breakthrough. Orson's birth certificate should be here somewhere.

And then, with a leap inside my heart, I found it! Only...

I frown at Orson's birth certificate. It's weird. Why does Orson have an English birth certificate when he has an American passport? I've never seen Orson own an English passport- his true blue American passport is his only known citizen document. Unless...unless... unless what? I ask myself.

My brain is hurting.

My eyes gloss over the names listed on the parents' section. Elijah Calloway. Deidre Hollows.

Bingo. That's what I came here for. Orson's mother's full name. I snap a quick picture with my iPhone.

I spend a few more minutes rustling through Delia Calloway's things, looking through more drawers for any potential hunches. Considering Delia keeps a whole folder of birth certificates of descendants and fellow ancestors means she must be a sentimental woman. A kind of woman who keeps records, and tracks bills. Paper trail.

I manage to find another folder. Financial transactions. Major ones- acquirement of a bank in Germany, horse stables in Geneva, sale of palm oil trade in Malaysia, holdings of investments across the Atlantic. Then a printout catches my eye.

RETRIEVED, GAMBINO INDUSTRIES, AUG. 25. 10. 99. 23:52 UPLOADED VPN AUG. 26 10.99 :14:27 E.M CALLOWAY

April 22, 1999

 Dear [blacked out]

Target will be arriving on 15:07 Delta flight, Idlewild Airport in New York, May 11 from London. Booked a car from the airport to Steinway Tower. Target is scheduled to meet the car in front of airport at 7:15 P.M. Driver is [blacked out]. Will take the route across 45th Street. Upon completion of mission, payment will be forwarded by the expected means. Please confirm $10K US as the proper amount..

My first reaction after reading all that is huh? Then after re-reading it a few more times, the words and everything start to make more sense. It sounds like...it sounds like this is a receipt of a hit. But for who? And who the fuck is E.M Calloway?

I check the time on my iPhone. Shit. I've been gone for almost thirty minutes.

I scrunch up the printout into my hand and chuck it into the pocket of my robe. Hurriedly arranging everything back to place, I made sure to organise the folder and return it back where I found it before making a quick run for it back to my own room.

When I reach the second-floor corridor from the long windy flights of stairs, a dark shadow from the other end of the corridor looms closer. A scream is strangled from my throat as the figure materializes and my phone beams upward, sliding across the ground towards the dark figure. I let out a relieved, shuddering sigh.

It's Miss Mckinsey. Thank fucking God.

"Miss Scout," she frowns at me, "I'm so sorry for frightening but why are you out of bed?"

"I- I couldn't sleep." I shift from foot to foot, playing the clueless girl. "I was trying to find the kitchen and get me something to eat. But I just got lost."

Warmness seeps into her eyes. Her face softens. "Well, that's alright. Why don't you come with me? I can fix you up with a warm glass of milk. It looks like you got quite the fright." 

-