What’s the likelihood that it’s Emily? And if it is … who would deface her image this way?
I turn the photo over, and I’m shocked when I see the words written there, scratched in faint blue ink.
FUCKING BITCH!
Whoever wrote this clearly had a problem with Emily Wells. But did they hate her enough to push her off a cliff, and my sister with her?
Despite the fact that I know this picture can’t be more than a year old—in it, Isla is wearing the diamond-and-garnet earrings Whitney gave her for Christmas last year—it feels like I’m holding a relic from another era.
And why was this picture stuck in Emily or Isla’s desk? It’s not something either of them would want to keep, unless …
Unless they knew who defaced the photo and needed evidence.
Girls, what the hell were you up to?
I’ve watched enoughLaw & Order: SVUto know the handwriting on the back of the photo is my smoking gun. I reach for my backpack, mentally crossing my fingers that Isla passed her yearbook around for signatures at the end of last year. I pull the book out of the manila envelope and center it on the desk. The front has the same gold embossed lettering as the dossier. Rich people love glitzy shit, apparently.
I flip through the pages, skimming for signatures or messages I can compare to the caption on the back of the photo. But I pause at a two-page layout with candid shots around campus. One photo in particular draws my eye, with the faces of each student circled in red. Their names are listed in the caption below.
Abigail Roth. Priya Shah. Arlo Davies. Freddie Pembroke.Julian Ashworth. Connor Wells.
In the margins, scribbled in loopy cursive, are the letters “LL” with a question mark.
I press my lips together, swallowing down the sudden lump that forms in my throat. I feel like a little kid dressed up as a detective for Halloween. But the stakes are so much higher than seeing how much candy I can collect in a single night. If I can’t figure out what all this means, the world is going to think my sister is a murderer.
And the worldcan’tthink Isla is anything but the incredible human she is.
My shoulders sag, and I blink back tears. If I fail Isla now, I’ll never be able to apologize to her or tell her how badly I screwed up our relationship. I’ve seen the way losing my father’s love has destroyed my mother’s life. What will losing Isla’s do to mine?
I reach back into the bag to pull out the picture from home next—the four of us standing underneath a tree blossoming with new growth, oblivious to the family rotting from the root in its shade. Even the knowledge that this is the last picture we took together as a family doesn’t dull the peace I get from seeing Isla cradled in Mom’s arms, full of life and vigor.
Does she feel that same loss of a parent like I do, when I let myself think of who Peter should have been to me? Missing what we could have been runs deep inside me, like a wound that can never heal. So while I’m tempted to put the frame on my desk as a reminder of why I’m here and who I’m doing this for, in the end, I decide to drop the frame into a drawer and slam it shut. The photo could invite questions from Priya—questions I don’t know how to answer.
“You’re sitting at a ghost’s desk, you know.”
Heart hammering, I slam the yearbook closed and whirl around at the deep voice, shocked to find a boy standing in front of me, inmy room. And not just any boy, either. He’s tall and broad, his body filling out the Wickham uniform to perfection. Inky black hair flops over his forehead, brushing the tops of brows that frame piercing eyes more grayish than blue. Almost silver, they’re so light. His high cheekbones and sharp jaw make his face look like a work of art, which is not typically the phrase I’d use to describe someone who sneaks up on me in my personal space.
But this guy didn’t sneak up on Billie.
He crept up on Belinda.
I paste on a bright smile and tilt my head to the side, like I’m confused. “Oh, but a good haunting can be so invigorating. Don’t you think?”
His expression remains impassive, though his gaze roves over my body, taking in every inch of me, leaving me flushed. “Where’s Priya?”
He doesn’t acknowledge my question. As a matter of fact, his entire demeanor is dismissive. Like I don’t matter. This type of attitude is something I’ve dealt with my entire life, and I thankfully stopped caring what people think a long time ago. Doesn’t mean I go down quietly.
“She just left.” I keep my smile pinned in place, even as my tone sharpens. Irritation buzzes under my skin. “Who are you? And who gave you permission to waltz into my room?”
He holds my gaze, his eyes sharpening at my tone like he’s not used to being questioned.Well, get used to it, buddy.
“At Wickham, door open means come on in,” he says eventually, then turns, giving me his back. He leaves, pulling the door shut with a loud slam that has me jumping.
I’ve met two students at Wickham so far—and both are assholes. Lovely.
…
Priya doesn’t return to our room until long after dark, a large satchel hanging from her shoulder and exhaustion hooding her eyes. She barely acknowledges me, doesn’t even speak to me as I watch her from where I’m perched on my freshly made bed, my laptop balanced on my bent knees.
