Not long after Mystery Boy left, Lurch delivered my bags to my room. He then awkwardly handed me a sack with a sandwich and bag of chips inside. I don’t know how he knew I was hungry or where he got the food, and he left before I could ask. Or say thanks.
I scarfed the food down and spent the rest of the afternoon putting my things away and rereading the dossier, paying close attention to the details of the fictional past life Peter and Whitney created for me. The story I made up for Priya was way off base, but it’s too late to change it now. Looks like I’ll have to retrofit my newest lies to match up with the totally separate set of lies I’m supposed to be peddling.
I had the good sense to store the entire folder under my mattress before Priya returned. And because only dumbasses keep their whole stash in one place, I tucked the yearbook into the back of a throw pillow shaped like a bottle of hotsauce. Not totally sure what Whitney was thinking with that one, but maybe she assumes Americans naturally gravitate toward fast-food icons. As much as I wish I could spend more time with the book—including the notes Isla wrote in the back about the secret project Peter warned me away from—Priya finds me casually looking at cat videos on my laptop like a totally normal human teenager, and not at all like someone assuming a whole-ass fake identity in order to prove her sister’s innocence in the face of alleged murder. She doesn’t need to know these videos are my one and only guilty pleasure in the world.
No one needs to know that.
Once Priya tosses her bag on the bed, she grabs her bathroom caddy and heads out again. Fifteen minutes later, she returns from the hall bathroom, face scrubbed clean and hair piled on top of her head, wearing a pale-pink pajama set. She tosses her uniform in a hamper, puts the caddy away, and falls into bed, her eyes tightly closed.
“I’m exhausted,” she declares, eyes still shut.
I’m guessing this means she wants to chat. “Long day?”
“The longest. I’m president of the debate club. The meeting went on for almost two hours, and then I had to finish an essay.” She remains quiet for a moment, and I start to think she’s fallen asleep when she speaks again. “I don’t know how rigorous your American school for feral girls was, but don’t expect to ace classes at Wickham without putting in the work.”
Why the concern for my academic performance? I get the sense she cares about school and nothing else.
“I’m not worried.” My tone is easy breezy. I couldn’t care less about my so-called studies. I’ve already graduated highschool in the States, and enrolling at a university, even one in the city, is nothing but a faraway dream for me. The grades I receive at Wickham won’t matter.
“Must be nice.”
I say nothing because I don’t know how to reply.
“Good night, Belinda,” she murmurs.
“Good night.” Leaning over, I set my laptop on the floor and slide it half under my bed, then turn off the lamp on my nightstand, plummeting the room into darkness. Within minutes, Priya’s deep, even breathing fills the room, and I close my eyes, wishing I could fall asleep as easily as she does.
But I don’t. My mind is racing with too many questions, all of them without answers.
Rolling over onto my back, I open my eyes, watching the play of shadows and light that dance across the ceiling from the glimmering moon through the thin curtains. It’s cold in this room, a lingering dampness in the air making me shiver. I reach for my phone, tugging the covers over my head so I won’t disturb Priya.
I open Instagram, using the new Belinda Winters account Peter linked me to this afternoon. I didn’t ask questions about how he got this set up so quickly, because frankly, I don’t want to know. But my new profile is filled with pictures of New York cityscapes and artful-looking lattes. Peppered among the stills are videos of dark club interiors full of pulsing lights and dancing bodies, and concerts at the Garden or across the river in Jersey City. There are also a few moody-looking selfies with enough filter magic applied that I doubt anyone will question why none of them show off my entire face. Whatever tech wizard put this together for Peter was smart enough to hedgetheir bet on AI-generated images of Belinda Winters.
It’s good work. Scary good.
Most of the Wickham Academy kids have their profiles locked down with privacy settings. I send a follow request to Priya, then spend a few minutes studying the profile pictures of the students Instagram thinks I should follow next. Freddie Pembroke. Abigail Roth. Arlo Davies. Julian Ashworth. These must be the people Priya interacts with most on the platform, through likes and shares and comments. When I scroll to reveal more of the suggested follows, I suck in a breath.
Isla.
I swap from my Belinda account to my Billie one. I’m a nameless, faceless avatar on this profile, which is exactly what I need to be to safely engage with my sister’s page.
She posted a lot, and I recognize plenty of the scenery on campus after just half a day spent on the property. Her subjects are fairly predictable: fit checks, selfies with and without smiling friends crowded into the frame, photo bursts of random birds in trees, all captioned #WickhamBirbs, #BirbsOfWickham, and #birdwatching. I can’t help smiling at my sister, the bird nerd.
There’s one image I keep circling back to, a selfie of Isla and Emily standing together in their uniforms, their heads close as they face the camera. Isla’s eyes are closed, but Emily is looking at her, adoration in her gaze.
Zooming in, I see someone standing in the background, glaring at them. Two someones. Their arms are crossed defensively, disgusted expressions on their faces. One of them is Priya. The other I don’t recognize. Probably the best friendWhitney warned me about. Abigail.
Coincidence? Maybe.
But I can’t help seeing an eerie contrast between Isla and Emily, radiating joy in the foreground, while Priya and her mystery friend seethe in the background. What else was going on behind the scenes that Isla didn’t know about? Unless …
I pull the phone away from my face, taking a wider view of the shot. From the angle of the camera, it’s clear Isla was holding the phone. She framed this shot with her and Emily slightly off-center. Are they the real subject of this picture, or was Isla purposefully capturing Priya and her friend behind them?
I stare at the picture for another minute, but the balance of what I don’t know versus what I do doesn’t shift.
“I’ll find out who did this to you,” I whisper, my heart aching.
I log out of my Billie account, then quietly set my phone on the nightstand. Rolling to my side, I face the wall and close my eyes, practically forcing myself to fall asleep.
