Why?I want to ask, snidely.It isn’t like she gave a damn about them or her little sister.
Rage swells inside me, vaster and more unstable than any of its predecessors. It surges through my chest like a volcanic eruption. Reaching through time and space to devour my memories of Mama, burning through them with molten red fingers. In the ash, my mother’s face appears as it had in the photo Jesse showed me. Cold and clinical.
A stranger.
The woman from my memories doesn’t exist anymore. She never did. Nadine Mansour was a character, an actor reading lines from a script, and I was the only one who bought the act.
If only I could understand why. Why leave the villa and come to Ward if she had no issues with satisfying the demands of the creature? If she was so proud to be Nadine Haikal, why would she marry my father and become Nadine Mansour?
Why would she pretend to love me for nine years before going back?
Jesse raises placating hands. “We’ll see what we can learn from the journal.”
Appeased, I pull the carafe toward myself and pour a fresh round of murky black coffee. The bell over the door jingles, bringing in another blast of cold air. I lift the mug to my soon-to-be-frostbitten cheek.
“Mina?”
The mug jerks in my grip. Hot coffee spills onto my lapel, but I scarcely notice it.
Frozen next to our booth are Rainie, Aida, Alex, and Lucia.
I stare at them, stunned. Despite twenty-four hours of shadows and mortuaries and curses, somehow, their presence feels like the most unrealistic part of the entire ordeal. Figments of my imagination sprung straight out of my head and dropped in the middle of the morning rush at Grease & Grind.
“Well … this is a development.” Rainie pushes bright purple strands from her eyes, cocking a hip. “So when you said you wanted to be left alone, you meant you wanted to be left alone by everyone except Future Inmate Number Twelve?”
Apparently, Jesse doesn’t find insults as amusing coming from Rainie, because he raises a cold brow. He gives Rainie’s tattered T-shirt and beige leather jacket a dismissive once-over. “You usually stop for breakfast after robbing a Hot Topic?”
Rainie opens her mouth, but Lucia wedges her elbow into Rainie’s side. “Are you okay, Mina? You look … rough.”
Her gentle concern pricks new tears in my eyes, and I wipe my nose with a napkin. Looking at Alex is out of the question; just having him this close risks unraveling me. “Just a long night, Luce.”
Aida wraps her arms around her sketchpad, pressing it tight to her chest. She’s studying Jesse with an intensity I’ve only seen her wear when she sketches.
Lucia fidgets with the bottom of her fuzzy cardigan. I would bet every hair on my head she’s resisting the urge to pull me into a hug. “Well, we’re going to be just over there, if you need anything.”
Before Rainie can do more than curl her lip, Lucia ushers her away, Aida trailing behind them. Alex lingers by the table, and I force myself tolook up. But his attention isn’t on me—he’s glaring at Jesse, pure murder glistening in his eyes.
“What did you do to her?” Alex growls.
Most people, when confronted with a fuming athlete slotted for D1 stardom, might take stock of the situation and decide it would be best to proceed carefully. Even if Alex couldn’t win an outright fight against Jesse, he could cause some serious damage.
Jesse sets an elbow on the table, propping his temple against his fist. A lascivious smirk twists his full lips. “Nothing she didn’t beg me for.” It emerges low and husky, the meaning unmistakable. A flush of aggravation—and something else I refuse to examine closely—heats my skin.
Alex reddens. Before he can make a move toward Jesse, I catch his wrist, forcing his attention to me.
“There is nothing going on between me and Jesse. I promise you.” I pray it isn’t a wasted reassurance. It shouldn’t be—I was Alex’s girlfriend for three years. Surely that’s earned me more credibility than the obvious jibe of a guy he doesn’t even like.
Alex yanks out of my grasp. His glower burns me, loaded with a scorn I have never seen him aim in my direction. “Don’t make any more promises, Mina. Haven’t you broken enough?”
The waitress swerves out of Alex’s path as he turns to storm away. He mutters an apology, polite even in his fury, and rounds the row of booths to the other side of the restaurant, where Rainie and the others have claimed our former Sunday table.
I knead the booth’s cracked leather cushion to distract my hands from their urge to wrap around Jesse’s throat. The current bane of my existence drops his chin on his open palm, watching me beneath infuriatingly long lashes, looking for all intents and purposes like I’m his favorite cable network and not ten seconds away from attacking him with a crusted ketchup bottle.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say.
“True.”
When my mask of rage refuses to crack, Jesse sighs, slumping back in his seat. “Don’t be mad, Sour Patch. The guy just rubs me the wrong way.”
