Samantha rushes toward her. “Abbie, what’s wrong?”
“It’s Staci,” Abbie sobs. “She’s dead.”
Chapter twenty-nine
Laurel
I’m in our room, huddled under the covers. I stare out into the night. I didn’t bother to turn on any lights, just let the darkness fall, let the shadows stretch across the floor until they swallowed me whole.
A storm has kicked up outside. It’s raining, like the whole world is in mourning. I can hear it through the window, the walls, and it matches my mood perfectly. The wind howls along the eaves, shrieking like something wounded. Lightning flickers, sharp and violent, a jagged flash that burns my vision and chases the shadowsaway before they come rushing back.
I pull my pillow over my head to block out the noise and close my eyes, but all I see is her.
Staci.
Sam and I had rushed up the stairs to Staci’s bedroom after a distraught Abbie told us that’s where she was. We’d pushed past sisters crying on the staircase, past the ones who stood pale and stricken in the hallway. Turns out we were the last to find out the truth.
Staci was dead.
Hanging from the ceiling fan with a brightly colored scarf wrapped tightly around her neck, blue with purple butterflies. The contrast struck me, that something so pretty was used to do something so ugly.
Staci’s feet dangled inches off the floor, pale and pointed like maybe she’d had second thoughts, like she’d reached out, tried to find a toehold. Like she’d almost escaped. Her face was grotesque, swollen with her lips tinged purple. One arm hung loose. The other was curled, fingers clenched into a final fist. The room had been still. Horrifically quiet. Except for the soft, steady creak of the fan blades, which strained under her weight.
A sound I’ll never forget.
I remember covering my mouth to trap the scream that wanted to escape.
Abbie had come into the room with us and had immediately sunk to the floor. She sobbed silently on her knees with her eyes closed, like she couldn’t bear to see. She clasped her hands around her necklace, the cross of The Order. Her lips moved, whispering silent prayers.
Samantha had just stared up at the corpse. For a second, barely that, her face had flickered with emotion, grief, guilt, maybe even fury. She buried it fast. Shut it down like flipping a switch as her expression went blank, totally unreadable. As always, she was the strong one, the leader, proving to the rest of the sisters she had it handled. That even this, the worst kind of crisis, was under control.
I had stared at Staci, slowly turning with the fan, for so long it made me dizzy. I’d stumbled and placed my hand against the wall to steady myself. That’s when I noticed the details. The glass of water half-full on her nightstand. Her bed neatly made like, any minute now, she would pull back the covers and slide between sheets cool and soft.
Whatever happened, it didn’t seem planned. It felt sudden. An act of desperation.
I wondered how long it took her to die. How long she dangled there, alone and kicking.
How many sisters in the house walked right past her door and never knocked.
A rage had risen in me, hot and bitter. At the unfairness of it. The senselessness. I wanted to hurl that feeling at someone, spit it out before it poisoned me, ate me alive from the inside. I almost turned to Sam and asked ifthiswas part of the price The Order pays.
But I didn’t.
Sam was hurting, even if she didn’t show it.
Another sister had run into the room. “He’s coming,” she’d said breathlessly. “Carrson’s on his way.” She said it like he was a savior, come to make everything right again.
I couldn’t face him. Not after what he did to Richardson. I also couldn’t stomach the thought of watching him cut Staci down. I left. I gave Sam’s shoulder a squeeze on my way out. She met my eyes and nodded, understanding without a word why I had to go.
Now, the door clicks open. I squeeze my eyes shut. His scent hits me first, the forest at twilight. The bed dips as he sits down beside me. There’s a long silence as I wait for him to justify what he did to Richardson, for him to explain away what happened to Staci.
That’s not what he does.
“Your father’s in upstate New York, a place called Shady Grove Treatment Center,” Carrson says, his tone flat, cold, distracted, like his mind is elsewhere.
“What?” I sit up slowly, my heart pounding, and look at him.
His hair is damp, darkened from the rain like he walked straight through the storm to get here. Water beads on his collar, drips down his jaw, but he doesn’t seem to notice. His gaze is locked on his hands, fists clenching and unclenching in his lap. His shoulders are rigid, his jaw tight, as if he’s physically holding himself together.
