Even as his sister, his twin, I don’t.
Oliver is dangerous in a way that even Dray isn’t.
Dray’s mask is fitted to suit him. He wears it thinly, and he also wears the threat that he is.
Oliver doesn’t always do that. He sometimes likes to lure people in with the promise of friendship in a smile, kindness in his laughs. He has a way of making people relaxed, when they should be on guard.
But I know him.
What Ididn’tknow was that he was able to just pick up and leave Bluestone whenever he fancied.
I stare at him, wondering how often he’s done that, how many more of these privileges and freedoms does he get that I don’t?
If Oliver reads me, traces my thoughts, then he diverts with, “You were missed.Imissed you. You should have been with us.”
My lashes flutter.
The sudden pivot to the things not said.
It surprises me.
I almost expected he wouldn’t mention it at all, just drop off the gift, then leave.
But he means to stay.
That’s obvious when, the moment the words are out of his mouth, lingering between us, the rattle of a trolley comes up the corridor.
Mere seconds tick by before Abigail wheels in a fresh serving of tea and coffee.
My gaze lands on the two cups and saucers set out beside a plate of scones and lamingtons.
I hate lamingtons.
I hate coconut. Not the taste or the smell, but the flakiness of it, the chewiness.
Oliver, on the other hand, loves coconut.
If he picks out a chocolate bar, it’s a Bounty or a Summer Roll—but his absolute favourite sweet is traditional Scottish macaroon, a potato fondant bar mixed in with a bucketload of icing sugar, then coated in coconut flakes.
Grandmother Ethel says that stuff rots the insides just as much as it does the teeth.
Mother calls it Oliver’s ‘diabetes bar’.
Today, though, he goes for the softer option, the spongey lamington bites.
And that means, he ordered it before he even came to my bedchamber. He knew he was going to stay long enough for a snack and a tea.
Cheek turned to me, he is quiet as he watches Abigail set out the tray on the short table.
She butters the scone for me, spreads the tiniest bit of jam and cream over it, then pours me a coffee before she leaves.
Oliver sets down the envelope, the brochure and the plane tickets on the coffee table.
He swaps them out for the teacup.
“I don’t want you here.”
The bluntness of my objection stills him.
