All my life, I’ve had this feeling that there’s a way I’m supposed to be, a role I’m meant to play. Not the upstanding citizen Anne and my father claim to want me to be. In fact, I think, theywantme to be the family fuckup; theyneedme to be, a distraction from their own shortcomings.
But I took it too far, played my part too well: I was meant to do poorly at Eton so the press could call me theDunderhead Duke, not get kicked out. Meant to get a reputation for partying just a tad too hard so the press could label meOvereager Eddie, not for falling down drunk. Meant to casually date inappropriate girls (Lord Lays-A-Lot), not fall deeply in love withone of them. Meant to damage expensive cars (Fender-Bender Eddie), not destroy them. I’m supposed to be a laugh, a lark, a clown rather than a cautionary tale.
Instead, I’ve done such terrible things thatI’m sorry, no matter how well-intentioned, isn’t nearly enough.
64Lord Edward
I limp from one side of my room to the other, inhaling deeply. All I smell is my own animal sweat.
Is Dr. Rush awake by now? Amelia said he killed her mother, and something in the way he held her, the way he said her name, even, at times, the way he spoke to me, hiding his accent and dressing like he was playing a part, makes it easy to believe.
Perhaps he’ll tell Anne that I assaulted him. Perhaps I’ll be arrested or sent to some other facility like this one. Anne will scramble to secureanothercover-up.
I dig through my sock drawer, reach into the pockets of my coat, my jeans, my pajamas, desperate to find a forgotten pill, an overlooked crumb.
Nothing.
Fuck.
I wish I’d searched Dr. Rush’s pockets before we left his cottage, rooted around until I found my medication.
How could Amelia leave me here alone, without even saying goodbye? I chose her over freedom.
I have no right to be angry. With all that happened, of course she wasn’t thinking about me.Selfish, just like Anne always said I was. Putting my needs before the family—moving to the wrong country, loving the wrong girl.
It’s not selfish to want a life of your own,Harper once told me. She said,Anne and your father are the greedy ones, asking you to puttheirneeds first, to build your life around them.
I direct some of my anger toward Dr. Mackenzie, for the way she saidLord Edward, for the way she was able to crouch beside Amelia when I couldn’t. I send some to Dr. Rush, not only because of what he did to Amelia, but also because he locked me in my cottage, because he was pleasedwith theprogressI was making, because, even now, he has the power to send me home to Anne with full marks or a failing grade.
My phone is ringing. I look at the screen, my hands slick with sweat, expecting to see Anne’s name, ready to be scolded for embroiling myself in yet another problem for her to solve.
It’s not Anne, but that bloody unknown number again.
I’ve had enough of this.
“Hello?” I answer roughly. I decide that this time, I will answer every question the journalist on the other end asks. They deserve some reward for their persistence.
A familiar voice, one I thought I’d never hear again, says my name softly.
65Amelia Blue
Dr. Mackenzie stops abruptly at a narrow gap in the trees on either side of the driveway. Carefully tucked between evergreen foliage, perfectly hidden year-round, is a small parking lot. There are three black Range Rovers with tinted windows (one of them, I suppose, is the car that drove Edward and me here), but Dr. Mackenzie walks past them to open the door of a dark-green Suburu. She helps me heft my duffel bag into the back seat alongside a child’s car seat. I see a handful of Cheerios scattered on the floor. Real Cheerios, I bet, not whatever organic alternative Dr. Mackenzie tried to feed me.
I sink into the passenger seat and close my eyes, running my fingers over the rough tan upholstery. It’s so cold that I can see my breath. Dr. Mackenzie puts the car in drive, pausing to type a combination into a keypad at the gate so that it swings open.
“How did Sonja get out?” I ask.
“Apparently she bribed her housekeeper to give her the combination,” Dr. Mackenzie explains. “They had some kind of arrangement.”
Got someone looking for me, if you know what I mean.
I close my eyes. Should I go to the police with what I know? Andrew said that my word, his mother’s word, would be worthless. Evelyn’s notes might be useful; Andrew said they were protected, but medical records can be subpoenaed. There’s also the police report Sonja found, further proof of Georgia’s sobriety.
But all that proves is that she was sober for one night before she came to Rush’s Recovery and appeared sober during treatment. Like Andrew said, plenty of addicts fall off the wagon after rehab.
“You can stay on my couch tonight.” Dr. Mackenzie’s offer shakes me from my thoughts, and I blink my eyes open. “It’s not exactly professional,but technically you’re not my patient anymore.” She shifts her gaze from the road long enough to smile at me.
By the time my mother died, she hadn’t put out an album or had a successful tour in years. She popped up on celebrity worst-dressed lists, was included in only the D-list nineties tribute events. Nonetheless, her funeral was packed. Strangers I’d never met hugged me, murmuring about her magnetism like they assumed I’d recognized it, apologizing for my loss like they knew what I’d be missing without her.
