When he shifts his attention from the envelope to my face, his stare is hardened, icy.
“You’re here for one reason, and one reason only. I want to know who’s responsible for this—forallof this,” he says. “My network and Whitney’s connections can only get us so far. But someone on the inside will have access we don’t. Keep your eyes and ears open. Don’t get distracted.”
“One job, don’t screw it up—got it. Anything else?”
His gaze narrows, composure clicking back into place like a suit of armor. “Yes. We learned today that Isla will be formally charged with the murder of Emily Wells in two weeks. At that time, she’ll be moved to a facility in the north—not the kind of place you’d like to be if you were unconsciousand unable to defend yourself. Two weeks, Belinda. After that, she’ll be beyond my reach.”
I fight to keep my expression neutral when inside, alarm bells are blaring and strobe lights are flashing, and is that a foghorn? Two weeks until my sister is officially charged with the murder of her best friend. And I’m just supposed to stay standing, like the ground is trying to swallow me up?
Peter clears his throat. “You’re supposed to be the jewel of New York’s next generation. Would it kill you to look the part?”
I almost roll my eyes, even though all I want to do is scream. “I tried to dye my hair on the plane. It … didn’t go exactly to plan.”
Shaking his head, he wanders toward the window at the side of the room, his phone already in his hand. “Wait outside for a moment,” he says over his shoulder, pressing the phone to his ear.
I kiss my fingertips and press them to Isla’s cheek, then shove the folder and yearbook in my backpack. I head back into the corridor and approach the gangly nurse who just sat down behind the counter across from Isla’s room. “The person in room twenty-six is my—” I catch myself. I’m sure my father wouldn’t want the hospital staff knowing we’re related. “My dear school friend. Can I add my number to the call list if she wakes up?”
She runs a hand through her dark hair, her brown gaze bouncing between my father and me. “I’ll need to get permission from her father—”
“No need. He’s right over there,” I say, a wide smile stretching my lips. “Talking to Tokyo. Some big business dealor other.” I glance back at him and toss over my shoulder, “Almost done, Mr. Vale?”
He scowls in my direction. “Hurry up, Belinda,” he barks, then goes back to his call.
I startle at my father’s use of my full name. But only for a second. Then I channel my quick anger into my performance. He wanted a Belinda so badly, he can have one. I turn back to the nurse, putting on an over-the-top snooty accent I’ve heard Isla use a thousand times when she’s imitating her teachers. “Sorry, dear. In a rush.” I reach over the counter, grab a pen, and scrawl my number on the back of a notepad. I hold the paper out. “Here you go. Just give a ring if she wakes, yes? Thanks so much!”
The nurse blinks at me, then reaches for the number. I mean, what else was she going to do, leave my hand hanging in the air? Put people in an awkward position, and nine times out of ten, they’ll take the path of least resistance.
I blow her a kiss and twirl around, bouncing up to Peter. Maybe it will be easier to fake rich-and-entitled than I expected. “Ready when you are, Mr. Vale.”
He puts his phone away. “Whitney just arranged an emergency appointment for you at her salon.”
I frown. I’ve never met my stepmother before, but I’ve heard stories. All from Isla.
“The state of my hair is an emergency?”
“You can’t show up on campus looking like that. No one will believe you come from money.”
I grit my teeth. “Gee, that’s so crazy, considering I don’t.”
My father ignores me, snapping his fingers once. Two guys stride over from the waiting area nearby, their expressionsexpectant, like eager dogs. “Take the luggage to the car.”
They do so immediately, leaving us alone with my father still just inside the room, me just outside. Like always.
“You’ll get your hair fixed and then you’ll head to campus. The drive is long, and the road is windy. You’ll most likely become carsick. I recommend—”
“I’ll be fine,” I snap, cutting him off. I don’t want any sort of fatherly concern or advice from this man. “I guess I’ll be on my way.”
I head for the elevator, my steps slowing when my father calls my name. His voice is soft. Almost paternal. The sound throws me for a total loop.
Stopping, I glance over my shoulder to find he’s watching me, his expression a mask. Unreadable. No emotion whatsoever. “Two weeks, Belinda. Isla’s counting on you.”
Jaw clenched, I rip my gaze away, square my shoulders, and stride through the open elevator door. “No shit, Sherlock.”
CHAPTER THREE
My father wasn’t lying. The road to Wickham is windy as shit, and I’m clutching my stomach, eyes squeezed shut, praying I don’t lose my lunch all over my new sweater. Orjumper, as the hair stylist called it, her eyes glowing when she took it in.
Peter texted to ask that I change into more “suitable clothing” for my arrival at Wickham. I threw on the first sweater I found in one of the suitcases, quietly marveling at how soft and luxurious it felt on my skin. The hair stylist told me it was cashmere, and I believed her because why would she lie?
