But damn, the Harrington house is something else. We pass through a living room with pristine white couches that look like clouds. There’s a full wall of built-in shelves to the left, filled with knickknacks. Figurines of various sizes and colorful stuffed animals accent the room. At first it seems refreshingly whimsical, not the kind of thing I’d expect tofind in a stately mansion, but why would I presume to know anything about the interior decorating habits of the obscenely wealthy? But then I take a second look. And a third. And that’s when I realize that all this quirky charm is … llamas.
Any other time, I’d think it was some eccentric rich-person collector fetish, but not after seeing the word “llamas” written in Isla’s yearbook. There’s a connection, I just know it.
We enter the giant kitchen, and Sophia heads straight for a refrigerator paneled to look like a large cabinet door. I imagine Mom, drunk, standing in the middle of this room, trying to find the fridge so she can grab a diet soda. All these smooth, white surfaces, pristine and indistinguishable from one to the next, would have her absolutely floundering.
I fight back a hysterical giggle at the absurdity of it all, but only just. Here’s Sophia, moving through a kitchen that could eat mine and Mom’s entire apartment for breakfast, and she’s just opening the fridge like it’s no big thing. People really live this way—like their money and comfort is as natural as breathing. If I think about it too hard, I fear my brain will fracture into a million jagged pieces, unable to reconcile the life I’ve had with the one I’m living right now.
Without even realizing it, Sophia saves me from a thought spiral that could have gotten very dark, very fast. “Want a Coke?” she asks.
“Whatever caffeine you have on hand, I’ll take.” I offer a grateful smile. The one person I like spending time with is Sophia. Everyone else can suck it, even Connor, because that boy leaves me so on edge all the time.
Not Sophia, though. She’s sweet and thoughtful and genuine. Which is a lot more than I can say about anyone elseon Wickham’s campus. Even myself.
I’m immediately swallowed up with guilt, and I put on a brave face when she hands me a frigid can of Coke. Not bothering to wait, I crack it open and take a few gulps while Sophia rummages around in what I assume is a pantry. Within seconds, she’s approaching me with two bags of chips. She hands me one and grabs her own Coke. “Let’s go to my room and get this over with.”
We head up the stairs, and I quietly marvel at the smooth, polished wood railing. There’s not a speck of dirt in the place, and I can’t help but ask, “Do you have servants?”
“What? Servants?” Sophia laughs and shakes her head. “If you want to call my mother a servant, then yes. She’s the one who keeps this place spotless. She’s made the house her full-time project.”
“Well, it’s beautiful,” I say, but inside, I’m wondering what it must be like to have a mother so devoted to home and family that just keeping the house pretty is a full-time gig. If Sophia weren’t so nice, it would be too easy to let jealousy make me hate her.
She leads me to her bedroom, and I restrain myself from saying anything when we enter. It’s done up in a tasteful mix of various pink shades, but it’s not overbearing in its pinkness. An open door on the far wall reveals a walk-in closet stuffed full of clothes.
“Your room is beautiful. I see why you stay here instead of on campus.” If I were Sophia, I would never set foot in my dorm room again. Compared to this, it’s practically a box under a bridge.
“Thank you. I love my room, but I’m already a bit of anoutsider among the student population because of my father. I try to blend in as much as possible,” she explains as she sets her soda can and the chip bag on top of her desk.
I do the same before I drop my backpack on the floor next to the desk. “Has it always been a struggle? Fitting in?”
“At Wickham? Yes. Once anyone finds out who I’m related to, everything changes. Their body language. The tone of their voice. At times they’ve even seemed … afraid? I can see it in their eyes.” Her tinkling laugh is pleasant, but I see the pain flash in her gaze. She just wants to be accepted.
I can totally relate.
“It doesn’t matter to me if your dad is the headmaster,” I reassure her, and it’s true. I actually prefer it because it’s a good connection to potential information. Not that I’m using Sophia—okay, maybe I am a little bit—but I do like her. She’s the most relatable person on this campus.
We spread out on the floor with our history books open to the latest chapter we’re supposed to study, but through some unspoken mutual agreement, we totally ignore the task at hand. Instead, we crunch our chips and chat about meaningless stuff until I take my opportunity and ask her about what’s on my mind.
“What’s up with the llama collection downstairs?”
“Oh, you noticed that, huh?” She rolls her eyes, but she’s also smiling, which she does a lot. “Everyone on the Legacy List calls themselves ‘llamas’ because of the double L. My father started a llama collection back when he went here, and now it has a life of its own. He receives llama gifts all the time. Birthdays. Christmas. Graduation. A class a few years ago even adopted a llama at a rescue center in the States. Theynamed it Perceval Hairy-ngton.”
That gets a genuine laugh out of me, but I can’t lose sight of my purpose. “But like … what exactly is the Legacy List, anyway? Like a secret society thing?”
“Kind of? But also … it’s a totally open secret. Probably more accurate to say it’s an elite club of sorts, started ages ago. Students from royal lines are automatically in, of course. Super- wealthy families usually maintain their spots, too. It goes back generations. A spot is saved at every top uni and on every bank board of directors for a Legacy List member. Once you become a llama, your future is set,” Sophia explains.
“So … what? You’re either born onto the list or you’re fucked?” I lift my brows.
“Of course not. You can marry in, too. Or, you know, earn your place. The top performer from each year gets on, so their kids get on, too, but in that case, it’s more probationary than anything else. They have to be high performers for at least three generations before it’s like, a foregone conclusion.” Sophia munches on a chip.
“What about other kinds of scholarships? Like … art?” I think of my mother. Could she have been on the Legacy List thanks to her talent?
“Are you referring to Connor?” I nod at Sophia’s question because obviously I can’t tell her about Mom. “That’s a tricky situation. He was a family legacy, but with his dad’sthing… that sort of fell apart. Some folks at the top pulled strings to get Connor on an arts scholarship. It’s the only reason he hasn’t been turned out on the street. If Emily were alive … that would be a different story. But she’s not. So I guess it doesn’t really matter.”
“What do you mean? Because Emily wasn’t an artist?” I don’t have to feign my confusion.
“More like Emily wasn’t that great of a student.” Sophia winces as if the thought pains her. “Though things did seem to be turning around for her right before the … incident. Isla was on her case all the time, reminding her she needed to keep up with her studies.”
I revel in that bit of information because it’s proof Isla was a good person who cared about her best friend’s grades. What murderer would give a shit about GPA?
