Billie:
That you two were friends.
After waiting for a few minutes and receiving no response, I leave the library and head outside. The sky is clear and the air is crisp and cool, but most of the campus is quiet. Almost peaceful.
What a crock of shit. There is no peace on this campus. Too many people are keeping secrets and faking genuine friendships to maintain any sense of calm around here.
As I head for the dining hall, my gaze snags on the alumni garden. I remember the epitaph on the boy’s statue:The only danger in Friendship is that it will end.
Is the real danger never knowing who’s your friend or your enemy? I thought I was good at reading people. That I had solid common sense coupled with street smarts. But the people at Wickham—in every generation, it seems—are on another level. It’s like you don’t even know someone’s stabbing you in the back until the blade is already sinking into your flesh. I’m always watching, always listening, but it feels like someone is lying in wait. Just dying to trip me up and call me out as the fraud that I am.
At least one person here on campus knows about my connection to Isla—they found the yearbook and left it out so I’d know my cover was blown. But I’ve been here long enough that if the culprit wanted me to know their identity, they could have approached me at any time. Hell, they all think I’m an American socialite with deep pockets; I would have expected an extortion attempt at the very least. But it’s been crickets from whoever snooped through my stuff that first day.
The shrill ring of my phone startles me, and I pull it out of my sweater pocket, shock streaming through my blood andleaving me cold.
Peter Vale’s name flashes across the screen.
This is only the second time he’s voluntarily called me in my life, and it throws me completely off-balance. I slide the answer button and lift the phone to my ear, and he’s already talking.
“You should know better than to put things like that in writing, Belinda.” His tone reeks of frustration and annoyance.
“Well hello to you, too, Peter.” I let my sarcasm fly because why not? We’re way past niceties here.
“Why are you asking about Maximillian? Everything between us was so long ago, it’s ancient history. You need to be focused on the present. On Isla. We’re running out of time. I warned you not to become distracted.”
Now I’m mad. “Iamfocused, Peter. In fact—”
He cuts me off. “Are you telling me you believe Max Ashworth could’ve … hurt Isla? Because so help me God, if he’s responsible, I will rip him limb from limb and bury the pieces—”
“Peter!Calm down. I’m not saying he did or didn’t. You brought me here so I could dig into the culture here, try to understand what was really going on with her life and who might’ve wanted to hurt her and Emily. But did you ever stop to consider that someone hurt her because they wanted to get toyou?”
He goes silent, though I can still hear him breathing. It’s possible that for the first time in his life, he’s considering how his actions might have put his daughter in danger. God knows he didn’t think about that when he shipped me to Americawith Mom. But now that his beloved youngest child might have suffered the consequences forhismistakes, he might suddenly care. If someone other than Isla was lying in a hospital bed as part of Peter’s great awakening, I might be able to take some satisfaction in it.
But it’s not someone else.
It’s my sister.
And even Peter discovering he’s not invincible isn’t enough of a reason for her to be hurting.
When Peter begins to speak again, his voice is taut and hushed, like a rope so frayed it’ll break with the next strong gust of wind. “You’re asking if I’ve ever thought someone would hate me enough to throw my daughter off a cliff? No, Belinda. The thought never even crossed my mind. But …”
Maybe it should havegoes unspoken. Does he have regrets? Does he feel foolish for not considering that everything happening to Isla could be because of him? He’s a powerful man, and you don’t become that powerful without making a few enemies along the way. Enemies who would do anything to take you down.
Like try and kill a beloved family member.
I notice that when Peter talks about Isla, he refers to her as “my daughter,” and never “my youngest daughter” or “one of my daughters.” Like I’m never on his mind at all. Even now that we’re on the same continent and working together(ish) toward a common goal, he still talks as if he only has one child. And that hurts.
Oh, how I wish I could point out that little factoid, but now isn’t the time. He’ll just say I’m distracted. Ask me why I’m thinking of myself when I should be thinking of Isla.
And he’d be right.
“Look.” I clutch my phone close to my face, my lips practically brushing the screen. “I have to go. I’ll let you know if I discover anything else.”
