I shouldn’t. I don’t have it in me to spend the afternoon hiding the truth of what I did behind laughter, jokes, and a fresh suntan. Yet I can’t bring myself to leave him either.
Without fully deciding, I slip my foot back into the water and flick a small splash his way. “All right… as long as you didn’t plan on swimming.”
Edmund laughs, relief easing the hard lines of his face. “Speaking of that—” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a thin band— “do you know what this is?”
“A Rippletone, right?”
“Yeah.” He slips the band onto my wrist and tugs it to test the security of the clasp. “Don’t take it off until you’re back ashore.”
“I won’t,” I promise, watching as he pulls out another band and fastens it to his own wrist.
The device looks delicate—a fine gold circle with a small conch-shaped charm—but I wouldn’t want to fall overboard without it. The moment the Rippletone touches the lake’s bioluminescent water, it emits a low-frequency pulse that scrambles the piranhas’ lateral lines. The disruption gives you a minute, maybe two, to climb out before the piranhas regroup. I’ve seen the footage: a ripple, a splash, then hundreds of jeweled bodies scattering like a net ripped open. You’re only safe if you don’t tempt fate by staying in the lake too long.
Edmund pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and turns to me, his eyes tracing my face with an open affection that makes it clear he doesn’t care if Irene is nearby.
“You look beautiful,” he says. “… even when you’re sad.”
I smile faintly, not bothering to hide it. Over the past week, Edmund has slowly begun to sense the change in me, the same way Charlotte has. But he doesn’t understand why. I’ve condemned him to witness a vast, nameless grief he’s meant to decipher on his own. And he tries, always with a gentleness that makes it easy to forget I’ve seen those same hands stained with blood.
“Are you worried about your dad?” he asks. “About him running for Governor?”
“Yes,” I reply. Even if Dad’s upcoming campaign isn’t the reason for my sadness now, it isn’t a lie either. Edmund knows how much Dad means to me, that I could survive almost any failure as long as he never stopped being proud of me.
“Don’t be. He’ll do fine. Especially if Reeve endorses him.”
I know Edmund is right. If Reeve endorses Dad, he might even get a few Blue votes. Still, the answer surprises me. I realize I’ve never asked Edmund about Dad’s politics before, whether he agrees with his views or not.
When I do ask, my legs drifting in the warm, bubbling water, he looks at me with surprise, as if it were obvious.
“Yeah, I agree with him. Especially on the Bliss ban because—” Edmund pauses, his eyes tightening at the corners. “My sister… well, she wasn’talways like this. Before she started using, she was different. Pretty sweet, actually. And, ironically, happier.”
I can’t picture Rosamund as sweet. It seems impossible that she was ever anything other than what she is now. But I don’t say that. There’s too much sincerity in his voice to undermine it.
“It’s not just her, though,” he goes on. “I had a friend who got addicted. Even lost a cousin to an overdose.”
Cousin? My fists clench against my thighs because I know who he means. But Charlesdidn’tdie of an overdose.
I hunch slightly, my chest roiling as I realize it’s time. I can already feel the horrible, ruinous truth rising fast, and I have to say it.
“Edmund, there’s… there’s something I have to tell you.”
He turns and frowns as his eyes catch mine. “Sure, but are you okay?”
“Y-Yes.” I can almost feel how pale I’ve gone. “It’s—I should’ve told you weeks ago, but I—” My voice breaks off in a heavy rush of air.
Edmund’s frown deepens, and he leans in, his hand at my waist. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything. I—”
The panic slams into me like a tire-screeching crash. My lungs seize, heat clawing through my chest until I’m choking on it. No matter how hard I try, I can’t pull in a full breath. Edmund sees what’s happening, just like in his hovercar at the Speakeasy. Only this time, he doesn’t offer me his watch.
Waves ripple across the hot tub as he slides in, facing me, his hands closing carefully around my arms. “Loredana,” he says, his tone steady, as if trying to ground me. “Loredana, look at me.”
The sound of it draws me out, spoken softly but striking violently all the same.
“Don’t say that.Please.”
“Say what?”
