I make it to the powder room across the hall only a moment before my vision narrows, forcing me to slide down the wall and sprawl on the floor. Reality expands and contracts around me, my heart and lungs and tingling fingers and toes all sending conflicting messages to my stupid, damaged brain.
But I breathe, tears blurring my vision, and wait as I flash from hot to cold, sweat and shivers mixing like a panic-fueled spa treatment.
I don’t know how long I lay there, my hands trembling and the gaudy chandelier mocking me with its undimmable lights, but eventually, my fight-or-flight fades to anxious exhaustion.
I’m not broken,I chant to myself, Maria’s voice reminding me again that this is normal. That when a body has too many shocks, it assumes the worst, even if nothing bad has happened right then. That I’m sane, I’m capable, and most of all, I’m surviving.
I probably never had a chance at a non-responsive body—my struggle predestined by some combination of genetics and my mother’s abuse. But I’m still here. I’m still fighting for what I want, even if my adrenal system overreacts.
Once I’m mostly in control of myself, I push to my feet, splash cold water on my face, and grip the icy porcelain like an anchor. “I’m fine,” I whisper. “I’m fine.”
And I’m not lying to myself. If after all this shit, this is the worst panic attack I’ve had here, then I’m doing better than I imagined I would. Better than we’d planned for.
I’m fine enough. And we’re only a few weeks from the wedding. I’ll make it. I won’t crumble, and crying isn’t weak—getting back up makes me strong. So I do exactly that. I visit the absurd library I found on my way to the gallery, then settle onto one of the cushy chairs in the blue room across from the unlit fireplace and read until it’s dark enough that I can’t see my charcoal scratches on the walls.
A buzz from my Westerhouse-approved cellphone breaks my recovery, the quiet hum of Trips in the shower encouraging the electricity under my skin as I open the message we all knew was coming.
And there, at the top of the list of organ donors, is Bryce Mason.
Chapter 42
RJ
My Saturday 10 am alarm goes off and I send a message to Mattie, wondering if she’ll show up today.
Between her Thanksgiving break and missing our check-in last weekend after dealing with my dad for half the night, I haven’t heard from her in a while. And while we can send messages back and forth with Clara now, I still want her perspective. There’s so much going on in that house that coded missives and fifteen-second conversations with Trips before his guard asks him to keep moving can only convey so much. And I wouldn’t put it past Clara to avoid telling us the worst of what she’s dealing with.
As I wait for her to reply, I open the invitation to the pedo party. I got access by gluing myself to the digital footprint of one of Bryce’s old contacts, following him into the bowels of the dark web. Today there’s updated information about the auction, as well as a lottery for the first choice of ‘dates’ withthe underage girls. The listing jokes it’s a test-ride, and I have to work hard not to vomit.
I can’t help but imagine one of my sisters caught in such an awful situation. It’s crazy, but I send out a quick message to each of them. I’ve been a shit brother for the past year. That’s not fair to them.
Hoping that Reed has seen the updated landing page, I toggle through the rest of the site, wishing the girls dolled up like models had someone to protect them besides me. They have no idea what they’ve signed up for.
Mattie finally responds, and I try to figure out what to say after so long.
Hey. Just checking in. How are things at the house?
Fine
This isn’t the chatty girl I’m used to. And I’m not sure if it’s me, or something else.
Sorry I’ve been MIA for the last few weeks.
It’s okay.
I’m not the best at reading people, but this feels weird. Wrong.
Are you okay?
I’m fine. Listen, I’ve got to practice, and then I want to sneak in some time with my boyfriend before winter break. I won’t be aroundfor a while.
Sorry.
Alarm bells ring at her brush-off. This isn’t normal. If it weren’t for that last response, I’d think someone else had the phone.
As it is, I’m worried about Mattie. Standoffish and meeting with her secret boyfriend? It doesn’t feel right. Now that I have access to the whole Westerhouse network, I went through her photos late one night and didn’t find a single one with her boyfriend in it. Then I dug through her socials and texts. I was lucky enough to catch a single message between the two of them before it was deleted—and the number relayed through the internet. Perfectly anonymous.
High school students aren’t known for that level of caution. Which makes me even more suspicious than I was a month ago.
