And that just about breaks my heart.
I pull up short at the sight of the police officer standing outside Isla’s room. For a second, I let myself believe this is just Peter being overprotective of the daughter he actually caresabout. But the truth rushes in like a tidal wave, destroying all my illusions.
The officer isn’t here to protect her.
He’s here to arrest her if she ever wakes up.
I approach warily, but after checking my name—Belinda’s name—against a list on a clipboard tucked into a holder on the door, he lets me in.
I creep into the cold, silent room, coming to a stop when I see Isla lying in the bed. She looks like an angel, her blond hair spread across the pillow, her lips softly parted. The blankets are tucked around her, and it feels like she could wake up at any moment. Could laugh and smile and greet me in that sunny way of hers, the one I ignored far too many times.
She’s hooked up to a monitor, the subtle beep keeping time with the steady beat of her heart. My baby sister is in a coma, and the guilt nearly causes my knees to buckle.
Grabbing a nearby chair, I pull it close to her bedside and settle in so I can watch her, staring at her face like I could make her wake up with my thoughts. She doesn’t move. She’s like a perfect wax statue, a sleeping beauty unaware of all the trouble that surrounds her. The rumors and the lies and the accusations. Does she remember what happened? Who did this to her?
The sight of Isla so defenseless makes my heart crack, and I reach for her hand, cradling it between both of mine.
“Isla. I’m here. And I’m going to help you. I promise.”
No response. Just the steady beep of the monitor. Her hand is frail, her skin chilled, and I clutch it tighter, desperate to warm her up.
“I know we haven’t talked much and that was—that wasmy fault. But I’m here now. We’re reunited at last.” I grimace at the last statement, hating how corny I sound. Worse, hating that she’s not awake to give me shit for it. It’s pointless, this one-sided conversation, but I don’t know what else to do. Or how I’m going to actually manage this—my new life. But seeing my sister in this bed, knowing she’s in a coma, that someone did this to her … It shores up my resolve to clear her name. To be the big sister I should have been all along.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I whisper, the words more air than sound.
“You’d better,” says a deep voice from behind me.
Dropping Isla’s hand, I turn to find Peter Vale standing in the doorway of my sister’s hospital room, his expression unreadable. His features are sharp, his eyes the darkest blue I’ve ever seen against his lightly tanned skin, and I’m breathless for a moment. Scared of my own father.
But then my anger comes roaring back to life. I rise from my chair, making my way toward him with measured steps. I cling to the rage, needing it to fuel me. I come to a stop directly in front of him, tilting my head back so I can stare into his eyes. Breathing the same air for the first time I can recall.
“I’m surprised you actually came.” His voice is like ice. Sharp and bitterly cold.
“Some of us keep our promises,” I say, and it brings him up short. The silence stretches so taut between us, it feels like the air itself might tear in two.
But then Peter breaks our eye contact to gesture toward the three shiny black suitcases to his right. “You’ll find everything you need in these.”
I stare at the luggage, wondering what the hell I could needthat fills three huge suitcases, but I suppose he knows best.
“I’m sure I needn’t remind you that my wife had to pull a number of strings and call in quite a few favors to get you into Wickham Academy. If you reveal yourself, or if anyone discovers that we’re related, the entire plan will be ruined,” he says. “And whoever did this to Isla will get away with it. Because of you.”
I scoff. The nerve of this man. “Like I’d tell anyone we’re related. I’d rather be in a coma myself than consider you family.”
His gaze flickers with irritation, but that’s his only reaction. The dude is ice-cold.
“Whitney wanted me to give you this.” He hands over a matte black folder that practically begs to be called adossier. Inside, I find a letter welcoming me to Wickham Academy, printed on heavy, textured paper. Nice to see my new school spares no expense on the details.
“Great.” I rifle through the other documents inside, but I don’t really read them. “Can’t wait.”
Peter’s gaze has gone from assessing to penetrating, like he’s trying to see through my skin to the blood and bones underneath. I resist the urge to squirm, because if someone in this room should feel uncomfortable, it definitely shouldn’t be me. “There’s something else,” he says, his words cutting through the tension in the air like a hot knife through butter.
His eyes flick to Isla behind me, and the sight of her melts the stern disapproval right off his face. He keeps his gaze trained on her, and I don’t know if it’s because he’s drinking in every second he can with her, or if he’d just rather look anywhere but at me. I don’t usually celebrate how similarMom and I look, but if seeing her features on my face reminds my father of the woman he abandoned, I call it a win. Let him remember. I’ve never been able to forget.
A glimmer of smug satisfaction is just starting to warm me from the inside out when he clears his throat and hands me a large manila envelope.
“What’s this?” I ask, when what I want to say is,do you realize you’ve given me more things in the past minute than you have in the past dozen years?
“Isla’s Year 11 yearbook. Whitney and I thought it might help you understand who’s who at Wickham. And …” He closes his eyes and heaves a heavy sigh, like what he has to say next might sting on the way out. I sure hope it does. “Isla was working on a project of sorts. About the history of the academy. She’d started asking questions about things she probably should have left alone. Some of her notes are in the back of the yearbook. You should probably ignore them.”
