He squeezed my hand back but didn’t say anything. What did that mean?
Chapter 38: Chloe
The bell over the bookstore door chimed when I pushed it open. It shouldn’t have sounded that loud. The space smelled of old paper and overpriced coffee.
Every head didn’t turn—just a few at first. The right few. People who knew how to look without making it obvious. The store was packed, bodies pressed against bookshelves and people standing on tiptoes. Elara had done her job well; there were more press badges in the room than fans. She had texted me from Florida just before I walked in, wishing me luck.
I felt Killian behind me, a silent, looming presence. He was still in his feelings after our talk on the jet. I wanted to push him, to tell him again that he was the choice, but I left him alone for now. I couldn't force him to be with me, and I understood his hesitation. I looked back, and he was scanning the crowd. Cartier had said Ava and my father were still in Florida, but it seemed Olivia hadn't heeded the warning to stay away.
On the small wooden stage, Olivia sat in a velvet chair, looking radiant in a cream silk suit. She held a copy of her new book,Life, like it was a holy relic. It had only been a week longer than a month since she’d been trying to pull the hair from my scalp in that attic. It felt like a lifetime.
She was just finishing a poem. "...and so, we find that the silence isn't an ending, but a beginning."
The actual readers erupted in polite, reverent applause.
"Thank you," Olivia beamed, the stage lights catching her fake smile. "Now, before we move to the Q&A, I’d like to share one final piece. It’s a poem about the rooms we leave behind."
I didn't wait for her to start. I stepped into the center aisle, the olive polka-dot Hanifa dress hugging my curves like armor, my Aminah Abdul Jillil heels clicking against the hardwood floor with a rhythmic lethality, my hair silk-pressed down my back, and my nails painted blood-red. The crowd hushed. Olivia opened her mouth to speak, but I cut her off.
"Corners hold what was said in them," I began, my voice clear and projecting, slicing through the silence.
Olivia froze. The book in her lap slipped, hitting the floor with a heavy thud.
"Halls remember footsteps not meant to stay," I continued. I started walking toward the stage, handing out photocopies of my original draft so the audience could see the proof in my words. Mary had mailed it to me days ago—I’d always kept two notebooks. One for Olivia to steal, and one for Mary to hide.
I didn't look at the cameras. I looked only at her. "Language lingers where it was first born. Others can carry it out—but they can never erase it."
The crowd started to whisper, a low hiss of static. I saw the press moving, cameras swiveling toward me.
"Every room I lived in still answers to me," I finished.
I reached the front of the stage. Olivia’s face had gone a sickly, translucent white. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She looked like a doll with its strings cut. I reached into my bag and handed out the last of the copies to the journalists and critics in the front row—the people who had just been clapping for a thief.
"My sister is a very talented performer," I told the room, my voice flat and clinical. "But she isn't a poet."
"Chloe?" Olivia finally whispered, her voice trembling. "Chloe, honey, you're... you're supposed to be in treatment. You’re having an episode."
I ignored her, stepping onto the stage and taking the microphone from the stand before she could reach for it.
"The poem I just recited is in my sister’s book. It’s an acrostic. She doesn't even know what an acrostic is, or she would have been too afraid to use it." I turned to the audience, pointing to the sheets. "If you read the first letter of every line in the original draft—the one I wrote in the attic while Olivia lived comfortably on the other side of the door, living my life—it spellsC-H-L-O-E."
I looked directly into the nearest lens.
"My sister was so eager to steal my 'genius' that she didn't realize she was publishing my life," I said. "‘Midnight Mourning,’ page forty-two, details my mother’s murder."
A small, laugh slipped out of me. Nothing about this was funny, but the irony was a poison. "She was so vain she turned evidence into a bestseller."
Olivia scrambled to stand. "This is a lie! She's sick! Security!"
Security didn't move. Killian was standing at the edge of the stage, arms crossed. He had called in a favor; three of his men stood flanking him, their eyes fixed on the bookstore guards. Those guards stayed exactly where they were.
"I have the original notebooks and a blog filled with my words that will go live the second I walk off this stage," I said over her frantic protests. "Imprisonment, drugging, abuse, fraud. My sister and father will deny it all, but the facts don't lie."
I leaned in close to Olivia. The scent of her expensive perfume made me gag. She was shaking so hard I could hear her jewelry rattling.
"Tell your father that as of three hours ago, he is no longer my guardian."
I straightened up, looked into the camera, and spoke one last time.
