When we pull up to the house, the driveway feels longer than usual. I grit my teeth. Talon opens the door before we can knock. His hair’s tousled like he’s been pacing. His shirt’s wrinkled. He looks tired but wired.
He looks atmefirst.
Not them.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “You came.”
“Of course she did,” Silas says, guarded.
Talon’s eyes flick between them, then back to me. “Bedroom’s this way.”
Bedroom. Right. The epicenter of Abi’s insanity.
We walk up the stairs and down the hall. My skin crawls with every step. Childhood photos line the walls, but the frames are all new, and she’s added pictures of her and my dad but none of us together or of Talon and Minxy.
Talon pushes open the bedroom door. It shouldn’t feel like a crime scene. But it does.
The room’s huge—vaulted ceiling, pristine king bed, matching nightstands, a ridiculous chandelier. Everything’s emerald and gold, the colors my mom picked just with new furniture. The air smells like citrus perfume and vanilla…not a good combo.
I swallow hard.
“It’s all over here,” Talon says. He points to the dresser, and the neatly fanned stack of papers he left out, plus a manila folder sitting half-open. “Figured you’d want to see it exactly how I found it.”
“Perfect,” Gideon murmurs.
We get to work.
Silas puts a pair of gloves on and heads to check the drawers on her nightstand. Gideon goes straight for the papers on the dresser, and I follow him Gideon, feeling like I’m a kid in my parent’s bedroom searching for birthday gifts. Talon just stays near the door, listening, eyes constantly flicking toward the hallway. Together we work like a well synched machine seeking the evidence we need to uncover the lies and betrayal woven around our dysfunctional little family.
The papers on the dresser are incriminating.
St. Helen’s Institute for Girls sits bold at the top of every invoice. There’s the disciplinary sheet about Minxy trying to make a phone call. There’s the “behavioral irregularities” list with her name highlighted like a warning sign.
“Here,” Talon says, stepping closer to Gideon. “That’s the one that says ‘witnessed incident.’ And that.” He taps another line with his knuckle. “That’s the part about monitoring her speech when she’s stressed.”
Gideon’s mouth tightens. “I see it.” He starts taking pictures of everything. Every page, front and back. Every scribbled note in the margins. Every highlight. Each click of his phone sounds too loud in the quiet room.
“They’re not teaching her,” I say, my voice smaller than I mean it to be. “They’re holding her academically hostage.”
Silas pulls open a nightstand drawer. Neatly folded hand cream tubes, a rosary that Abi definitely only uses for aesthetics, a little notebook with a gold clasp. He flips it open and scans quickly.
“Appointments,” he mutters. “Names. Initials. Payments marked off. I’ll take photos.”
“Do it,” Gideon agrees. “We need to know everything about that school.”
I pop the lid on the storage chest. It smells like cedar and expensive fabric softener.
There are blankets, yes, but tucked under one is another file folder. Thinner. Tighter. I pull it free.
Inside are printed emails. My heart stutters as I read.
From: A. Hall
To: Headmistress, St. Helen’s
Subject: Minxy – continued placement
Given Minxy’s recent behavior and her sensitivity around certain topics, I request that she remain with your program through the duration of my upcoming wedding. I don’t want her exposed to additional stress or influences that could undermine her progress.
