“Adult-adjacent, please. I’m not sure I can claim full adulthood yet.”
Half of a smile curls across her face, our path leading us down to the dock, the usually calm water choppy from the wind across the lake. She kicks off her shoes, plopping down at the end of the dock, dipping her toes in the water. After a glance at Smith on shore, I do the same.
“So, how’s your fancy prison?” she asks.
“Fancy. A prison.”
Leaning back, her auburn hair caught in the wind, she looks like a wild thing, some fey creature that should dance barefoot on the moors, not live locked in a silent house of secrets and abuse. “Do you hate him now?” she asks.
“Hate who?”
“Archie?”
Tuesday morning comes back to me, and a little of the tension she’s holding vanishes as she sees my face. “No. I don’t hate him. This isn’t his fault.”
“It’s our fucked-up family.”
“It’s your fucked-up dad. But we’ll figure it out.”
“You have a lot of blind faith in the future if you believe that, Clara.”
I say nothing, not sure how much I can trust her. Trips trusts her, but she’s still a fifteen-year-old girl.
Although, the longer I’m here, the more I feel like Westerhouse ages are like dog years—each day feels like a week, and each month like a year.
“It’s not just blind faith, is it?”
I glance at her, but she has her head tipped back and eyes closed, like she’s sunning at the beach instead of waiting on a storm, thunder muttering from the southwest.
Following suit, I take a risk. Today’s the day for them. “No, it’s not.”
“Do you really think you can go head-to-head with my father and come out the winner?”
“Not solo.” I stare at the dark clouds across the water. “It’s only possible if your dad’s weakness becomes my strength.”
“He doesn’t trust anyone.”
“Exactly.”
A flash of lightning has me pushing to my feet, Mattie slower to follow.
Before we step off the dock, she squeezes my hand. “I’m not on my father’s team.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I reply, the phone heavy in my bra as the wind tears across the water, the storm closing the distance fast.
With a split second to decide, I pull her into an awkward hug, transferring the phone from my bra to the pouch of her green sweatshirt, the weight of it registering as a slight rounding of her eyes. “Keep my team safe? Maybe hang out outside a little more often?” I ask, knowing my best chance of working with the phone is out here on the grounds rather than my prison indoors.
This grin of hers is wild and real, the smile of the girl she would have been, had life not dealt her a shit set of cards. “Definitely. How else am I going to get to know my new sister?”
She takes my arm in hers, and together, we race the rain back to the house, the first fat, cold drops soaking us as we stumble into the kitchen, real laughter worth the pain in my ribs.
I won’t let the silence win.
Chapter 72
Jansen
The therapist keeps preaching patience, like that’s something I’m good at. Patience, relaxation, regular sleep, exercise, and a balanced diet.
