“Terrible choice.” I smile back, and his fades. “Let’s just say my time at Wickham so far has been … interesting.”
“I can only imagine.” He scans the room before bringing his attention back to me. “Not too many friendly sorts here.”
“But they used to be your friends, right?” I steer the conversation back in the direction I need it to go. Connor, once part of the inner circle and now an outsider, might be far enough beyond the circle of trust that he lets something slip. I’m sure he doesn’t know exactly what happened, because he’s still convinced Isla hurt Emily. If he had some idea of who was really responsible for his sister’s death, there’s no way he’d peddle a false assumption like it’s the truth. He’dwant justice for Emily.
Just like I want it for Isla.
Connor averts his gaze, lost in thought for a moment. “They were. Most of them still are. Somewhat.”
“Then why do you seem to be on the outs? Why are you the brooding artist loner when you could be the brooding artist social butterfly?” That earns me the smallest upward tilt at the corner of his lips. I ignore the fizzy feeling in my chest at the sight. It feels like I’m wearing Belinda Winters like a costume as I force myself to take a calm, cavalier sip of coffee and pop another croissant fragment in my mouth.
Miracle of all miracles, he starts talking.
“Things got weird after what happened with my father. I’m sure someone’s told you.”
I slowly shake my head. No one needs to know about the half dozen articles in the dossier about the Lumateg Group scandal, or how I practically memorized their details. “I don’t know much—just the basics.”
“My father worked for the Lumateg Group. He was a fiduciary wealth manager, and his clients were mostly Wickham alumni. Parents of students who are currently enrolled, so many of them his friends. The Pembrokes started the company twenty years ago, and my father came on board almost immediately. He helped grow that company to what it is, until everything that happened,” Connor explains, his voice hollow.
“You mean when he got arrested?”
He nods, swallowing hard.
“Pembroke? Any relation to Freddie?” I ask.
“His father. Our dads went to Wickham together. They’reclose. Well, they used to be.” Connor’s expression is grim. “I understand why Freddie had to create a boundary with me. I felt the same way. I didn’t expect everyone to swing to his side, though. My father may be the one behind bars, but it’s not like I helped him embezzle money.”
His tone and expression are bitter. I can’t blame him, but also …come on, guy. Does he really think kids who have only ever eaten off silver spoons are going to excel at emotional nuance? Expecting his former friends to show him compassion is like expecting a hungry lion to spare a baby gazelle separated from the herd just because it’s really cute.
“So tell me: Why do you stay here at Wickham? You’re ostracized by your friends. And then everything that happened with your sister …” I press my lips together, not wanting to say anything else about Emily. It’s a sensitive subject, and I understand his grief somewhat. At least my sister is still alive, even if she’s in a coma.
“I’m on an arts merit scholarship at the moment. Someone in admin pulled that together after our family’s assets were frozen. I’ve got nowhere else to go, so I stay here. My mother is an absolute wreck, and I told her I would come home and help her, but she wouldn’t let me. I should ‘stay here and complete my education’ were her exact words. She even mentioned how I’d have to figure out my future on my own now that the money is all gone.” His lips twist into a wry smile. “Think I can make it as an artist?”
“Maybe?” He chuckles at my response, and I feel like I insulted him. “From what I saw, you’re very talented.”
“Talent isn’t worth shit if I can’t manage to actually createanything. I’ve been blocked creatively since Emily died, which has brought my term project to a screeching halt. Not quite sure how I’ll manage to qualify for the scholarship if I don’t turn that in.”
“I saw you working on something just yesterday,” I remind him. “Doesn’t that count?”
“Not really. I was just … messing around. My normal medium is hyper-realistic oil paintings, but ever since what happened to Emily, it’s as if my fingers are detached from my body. Everything I try to paint becomes a mess. I keep my hands busy with the charcoal sketches, but that’s not going to help my chances of maintaining my scholarship.” He shrugs, and I can practically feel the hopelessness radiate off his body in waves.
I’m filled with sympathy at his plight. If anyone can understand what I’m going through, I think it’s this boy. Everyone else I’ve met at this school seems like they have their shit together for the most part—or maybe it’s more accurate to say that they operate with the certainty that their lives will be as easy as they’ve always been. Life hasn’t given them a reason to question their luck, so they’ve started to believe it will last forever. If I was ever lucky, I don’t remember it. And Connor’s luck ran out big time this past year. The bubble he was in didn’t just pop—it imploded.
“It’ll come back.” When he sends me a questioning look, I continue. “Your artistic … spirit.” I grimace and shake my head. “You know what I mean.”
“Right. Not so sure about that, though.” A ragged exhale leaves him. “Guess it wasn’t enough for Isla to kill my sister. Her actions also killed my creativity and my only chance atcontinuing my education.”
“Are you serious?” I squeak. His remark has me instantly on the defensive. How dare he blame Isla for something she has no control over? And does he really believe Isla killed Emily?
From the serious expression on his too-handsome face, I’d have to wager yes. Yes, he does.
“Of course I’m serious,” he snaps. “An unexpected tragedy has a way of affecting all aspects of your life. The grief counselor Mum made me talk to said tragedy is a rock thrown into a still lake. Its ripples keep multiplying all the way to the shore. Her advice was mostly useless, but that, at least, was true.”
I know all about a tragedy affecting my life, though I wasn’t necessarily close to Isla. And that’s on me. That’s the regret I’ll live with for the rest of my life, especially if she never comes out of this coma. But that tragedy, should it ever come to pass, will have to get in line behind all the other rocks thrown into the lake of my life.
Connor’s words and attitude fill me with simmering rage, and I clutch my fists in my lap. I feel like I might explode. And then, when I see the arrogant expression on his face, I do.
“Must be nice, not taking any responsibility for your shortcomings and blaming them all on a girl who’s fighting for her life while in a coma,” I retort, not caring that my annoyance is on full display. “She can’t even defend herself against your accusations.”
