Me: We need to talk about Mom and Minxy. She’s covering something up. Call me.
The message sends. No read receipt. I shove my phone in my pocket and look down the hallway where Mom disappeared.
Penelope left last night with two men she trusts.
Fine. Good. Because she’s going to need them. And I’m going to need them too.
Mom thinks she can bury this forever.
She’s wrong.
Her heels click on the floor near the foyer. I freeze mid-step. She’s talking to herself as she goes, the same irritated tone she uses with customer service reps or service staff who don’t jump fast enough.
The breezeway door opens and then shuts, and the garage door hums to life. I bolt for the nearest window like I’m twelve again, checking if she’s finally gone so I can breathe.
Through the blinds, I watch her car back out perfectly centered between the hedges she makes the gardener trim twice a week. She doesn’t even glance at the house, just puts the car in drive and glides down the driveway like she owns the whole neighborhood.
When her taillights disappear past the gate, something in my chest unclenches.
Good. She’s gone.
I don’t waste a second; I bolt for her bedroom. It still smells like her perfume—sharp citrus and vanilla glossed over by money.
Her dresser is a shrine to control. Organized piles. Color-coded calendars. A small stack of papers on the right.
I scan the open papers first. Financials, school invoices, receipts.
Minxy’s school name at the top:St. Helen’s Institute for Girls.
A place I’ve never been allowed to visit. There’s a sheet clipped to the invoice—a disciplinary note:
Unauthorized phone call. Subject contacted family. Redirected to counselor. Follow-up recommended.
My breath goes shallow.
This is about our call.No wonder her voice sounded weird on that last call. I flip through more pages until I find something that makes my blood freeze.
A list. A goddamn list. Students flagged for “behavioral irregularities” and Minxy’s name is highlighted.
Below it:Witnessed incident. Unverified. Uncontrolled speech when stressed. Requires monitoring.
They’re not schooling her. They’re suppressing her.
I stand back, pulse hammering. I need help. Not just any help.
My uncles.
I grab my phone before I can talk myself out of it.
I text Silas first.
Me: We need to talk. Now. It’s about my mom and Minxy. I found something in her bedroom.
He replies faster than I can blink.
Silas: Where are you?
Me: At her house. I stayed here last night after the party. She just left.
