“Thank you,” I mumble, afraid to speak too loudly or I might blast her with my bad breath.
“Would you care for something to eat?” Her lilting British accent makes my chest ache, and I realize it’s because she reminds me of a version of my mother I knew a lifetime ago. “Some fruit? A croissant, maybe?”
“Do you have any coffee?” When she nods, I go on. “I’dlove some. And yeah, croissant, please.”
The flight attendant beams. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll bring it to you. You should be able to eat before we finish taxiing.”
My stomach growls the moment she mentions eating. I will most definitely be able to get it down before we finish taxiing.
Once I get caffeine coursing through my veins and some carbs in my gut, I feel a little more alert. By the time the door opens and the flight attendant leads me out of the plane, I’m almost able to convince myself this whole charade isn’t going to be an abject disaster.
A sleek black car sits on the tarmac, the engine purring and the windows tinted so dark, I can’t see who’s inside. My pulse races and my hands start to shake as I wonder if Peter is waiting for me in the back seat. I haven’t seen him in almost twelve years, and I’ll admit—I’m not looking forward to a reunion. As I head for the car, the wind whips my hideous hair across my face, and I peel it away from my eyes, shivering from the chill in the air. I come to a stop when the driver’s side door opens and a tall, lanky man in a black suit climbs out.
My shoulders sag with relief.
“Miss Belinda Winters?” His voice is deep, and his accent is different from the flight attendant’s. More polished somehow.
“Yes.” I nod. My backpack nearly slips off my shoulder, and I readjust it, ignoring the way he’s staring at me. Well, staring at my hair. It must look atrocious. “That’s me.”
“We have a stop to make first.” His smile is pleasant, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Before we head to Wickham Academy.”
I frown. “Where are we going?”
He doesn’t say a word, just holds his hand out for my backpack. I shake my head, because no way am I letting Lurch abscond with all my worldly goods. He nods, somehow managing to convey both acceptance and judgment at the same time. He holds the back passenger door open for me, and I slide inside. During the thirty seconds it takes him to round the front of the limo and get behind the wheel, I entertain a fantasy about sneaking back on the plane, barricading myself in the bathroom, and refusing to come out until we touch down again in the States. But with the press of a button, the engine roars to life and the opportunity to escape fades like exhaust from a rusty tailpipe.
We slog through city streets crowded with cars, all of them driving on the wrong side of the road, and I can’t get over how weird it looks. There are classic red double-decker buses and black taxicabs, and I feel like a little kid with my face pressed to the window, watching it all go by. At one point, I spot the giant London Eye wheel, Big Ben not too far past it, and I stare unabashedly. It’s almost surreal, being here. Like something from a movie. When I catch the driver watching me in the rearview mirror with amusement in his eyes, I pull away from the window, pretending I’m too cool to act like such a tourist.
The drive is long because of traffic, and it feels like it takes us forever to get anywhere. Eventually the gentle rocking of the car makes me sleepy. I only fell asleep the last hour on the plane, unable to get comfortable enough in my chair to doze off. Though I noticed later there was a whole-ass bed in the back of the plane. I missed out.
Although honestly, I doubt I could have slept much, even in the bed. Seeing Peter has always been the least interesting part of this arrangement, but the prospect of coming face-to-face with the man who separated me from my baby sister and left me stranded halfway around the world with a mom struggling with addiction started to feel too real at thirty thousand feet up. I hate myself for wondering what he’ll think of me. Probably not much.
By the time the car comes to a stop, I’m exhausted and my thoughts are fuzzy. The driver once again opens the door for me, and I step outside to find we’re in front of a large hospital. This is when it hits me and my hands start to really shake.
He brought me here to see Isla.
My baby sister—who I haven’t seen outside a phone screen since our parents split us down the middle like property in a divorce when I was six.
I follow the driver from the car through the sliding glass doors of the hospital, grateful he knows where to go because I don’t have a clue. He stops to talk to the woman behind the reception desk, speaking in low tones I can’t decipher. Within minutes, I’m being whisked down several narrow hallways and into an elevator, a nurse as my guide.
“We’re taking the service elevator,” she explains, talking slowly, like I might have trouble understanding her. “We’re keeping her whereabouts private, as her father requested.”
It takes everything inside me not to grimace in disgust at the words “her father.”
“The media has been unrelenting since the news broke. The scandal surrounding what really happened on that cliff is just …” She clamps her lips shut and shakes her head. I’mgetting more and more pissed with every word she says. I can’t believe this woman is practically gossiping about my little sister to me.
Time to take Belinda Winters for a spin.
“Your discretion must be such a comfort to the family.” My voice is sharp as I try to contain my anger. But my words are a reprimand, and the woman realizes it. She stands a little straighter, averting her gaze.
We don’t say another word to each other. When the elevator comes to a stop and the doors slide open, I stride forward like I own the place.
“She’s in room twenty-six,” the nurse calls after me.
Still simmering with annoyance, I don’t so much as acknowledge her. I keep my chin up, though my nerves want me to hunch my shoulders and cower. I can’t remember the last time I was in the same room as Isla. Though whenever it was, at least she was conscious.
We’ve drifted apart over the last year—missed calls, half-written texts I never sent. My chest aches for all the almosts between us. Somewhere along the line, it got too hard to pretend my life was holding steady while hers kept shining. And yeah, I’ll admit it—jealousy crept in. Dad fought to keep her. No one fought for me.
Now I’m on my way to see her again, and the irony burns. After all this time, I finally get to be reunited with my sister … and she won’t even know I’m there.
