Across campus, the old iron bell in the tower rings once. Long and low, the ominous sound drifts through the air.
Like a warning. Like a promise.
CHAPTER FIVE
Iwake with a jolt thanks to the loud bang of a door. Jerking into a sitting position, I glance about the room and realize Priya is nowhere to be found. She must’ve left and slammed the door behind her. Did she do that on purpose to be an asshole? Well, it worked. Guess I won’t need to set an alarm if that’s how she leaves every morning.
It’s when I check my phone that I realize if I don’t get ready soon, I’m going to be late to my first day of classes at Wickham. I scramble out of bed and grab my clothes before I head for the communal bathroom to take a quick shower. Lucky me, no one’s in here, since I woke up late. As I stand under the lukewarm water, I think about how shitty it is that Priya didn’t even bother trying to wake me up. Not that it’s her job or anything, but wouldn’t she show some common courtesy to her new roomie?
When I reenter my dorm room a minute later, I freeze when I see what’s lying on top of my bed. My heart rate skyrockets, beating in my chest like a wild thing. I hurriedly close the doorand lock it. No way can it be what I think it is, could it?
But when I approach the bed, I realize that yes, it is. Isla’s yearbook from last year—the one I hid in the back of a throw pillow—is on top of my thin comforter and wide open. I tug it closer, squinting at the list scribbled on the page. AUTOGRAPHS is printed in the gold script Wickham seems to love so much. The rest of the glossy white page was left blank, presumably for Isla’s classmates to cover in variations of “Have a great summer!”
But that’s not what’s written on this page.
Instead, it’s a list of names, a few dates, and lots of question marks. All in my sister’s loopy, lopsided script.
What does it all mean?
I slam the book shut and slip it into my backpack. Since there’s apparently no such thing as a safe place to hide anything in this room, I’ll have to keep it with me until I find somewhere else for it. I grab the dossier while I’m at it, grateful that it seems undisturbed. Leaving the yearbook wide open for me to see is some kind of message. And I’m guessing it’s most likely Priya who’s sending it to me.
Well, that’s just fucking great. I have one job here, and I’m already messing up big time. How could I let this happen? Priya must realize I’m connected to Isla in some way, but did she figure that out before or after she decided to snoop through my stuff?
I thought I was being careful, but I’m going to have to do better. I can’t trust anyone here. Not a single soul.
Isla’s life may depend on it.
The realization leaves me cold, my skin like ice. Dread settles heavily onto my shoulders, and I hang my head. Thetruth is, there’s no way I can manage this. I’m not qualified to help my sister. I’m not qualified to helpanyone. Why do Peter and Whitney think I’m capable of figuring out who might’ve hurt Isla and killed Emily? Look at me—I’m on campus less than twenty-four hours and someone has already found the yearbook and most likely figured out that I’m somehow connected to Isla.
Meaning I fucked everything up. All of it. I’ve probably just set a new record for fastest failure in the history of covert operations.
There’s only one thing left to do: I need to get out of here.
Now.
I grab my backpack and leave the room, forgetting about all of my other belongings. I don’t need anything—what Idoneed is to get the hell out of here. If all I get out of this brief trip to England is my rich-girl blond hair, then so be it.
The moment I’m outside, I’m shivering. Maybe I was a little quick to abandon the new wardrobe? But I can’t worry about that. I keep my head bent against the cold wind, my hurried steps taking me straight to the administration building. I can feel the curious stares of other students as I speed past them, but they say nothing to me. I remain quiet, too, not wanting to bring attention to myself. If I’m lucky, my time at Wickham will be nothing but a distant memory for all of us. No one will remember my name or that I was even here.
I barge into the admin building, ignoring Mrs. Brown when she calls out a panicked greeting. She even gets up from her chair like she’s going to try and body-block me, but I’m too quick for her. Whitney’s office door is shut, but I throw it open without knocking and march inside, coming to a stop in frontof the desk where she’s currently sitting.
“I can’t do this,” I blurt, my voice, my entire body shaking from a mixture of nerves and fear.
Whitney remains quiet, gently setting her phone down before she stands. She goes to the wide-open door and shuts it, the snick of the lock sliding into place loud in the otherwise silent room. I grip the back of the chair that’s directly in front of me and lock my trembling knees so I don’t slither to the ground.
“Sit down,” Whitney says as she rounds her desk once more and settles into the massive leather chair. “Please, Billie.”
It’s Whitney calling me Billie in that calm tone that has me automatically sitting in the chair. Hearing my actual name grounds me. Helps me realize that she sees me for who I really am, and not the poseur I’m already failing to be.
“What happened?” she asks once our gazes meet. Her eyes are full of sympathy, which brings me up short. “You seem quite … rattled.”
“I can’t do this.” I’m repeating myself, but I don’t care. There’s no point in beating around the bush. “I want to go home. This campus sucks. Everyone here sucks, and no one is going to believe I’m some Manhattan socialite who only cares about parties and boys. They’re going to see right through me. And I’m definitely not equipped to figure out who did this to Isla.”
Whitney clasps her hands together and rests them on the desk, her expression solemn. “Why do you believe you’re not equipped?”
“Because I’m not, okay? I’m just—I’m just a kid.” I slouch in the chair and cross my arms, pouting like the sullen teenthat I am. “Why can’t you hire a private detective to do this? Peter has more money than God. I’m guessing he can employ an entire team of detectives to find out what happened to his precious daughter.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and force the tears back. I hate how I sound, like a jealous asshole. Which I so am. Isla got everything, and I’ve got nothing, but who actually wins in the end? This isn’t a competition, but hey. At least I’m not in a coma.
