Page 236 of Sinister

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs at last. And to my shock, she does seem rather apologetic. “May I come in?” she asks.

I give her a small nod and scoot over on the bed, making space for her.

She closes the door and takes a seat next to me. She stares straight ahead, almost as if she doesn’t dare look me in the eye.

“I realize now that perhaps I shouldn’t have reacted like that,” she starts. “You know, we had you when we were very young, and we were poor. We could barely afford the roof over our heads. It was only after you were born that our fortunes changed, and we were able to provide for you.

“Maybe because both your dad and I grew up with nothing, we became too focused on providing. And somewhere along the way, we forgot to actually be there for you. I’m sorry. I realize now that our approach wasn’t the best.”

She takes a deep breath.

“You never talked about being poor before,” I mention with a frown.

“We didn’t come from money. Even though we started this company early on, it wasn’t a success until after we had you. The company was dying. We were in deep debt—until an investor stepped in and helped us turn things around. He was a godsend, the only one who believed in our vision. If it hadn’t been for him, we never would’ve gotten where we are today.

“I guess I never talked about it because it was such a hard time in our lives. I didn’t want you to think about money the way I did growing up: as something that’s always slipping through your fingers. I wanted you to always have what you needed. The best things.”

My mind is going in circles trying to make sense of everything she’s saying—some of it that I’m hearing for the first time. Yet it’s one piece of information that gives me pause.

“An investor?” I repeat slowly. Another piece of information I’ve never heard about before. “Who was this investor?”

“Oh, dear,” my mom says, thinking. “He was an alum of St. Anselm Hall, actually. He not only invested in the company but also introduced us to people in the field who helped us expand. He was the one who recommended we move to Radcliffe, so you could attend his old school.

“You know how competitive St. Anselm is. They mostly take legacies. He was the one who vouched for you and sent a letter of recommendation.”

I stare at her.

“That’s news to me,” I say suspiciously. “You never mentioned that before.”

“I didn’t want you to feel bad. I know how hard you worked, even though you were homeschooled. You were always such a good student, always going above and beyond. When you submitted your art portfolio, I didn’t want you to think it wasn’t good enough.”

“But still,” I say, “you should’ve told me.”

“You got in. That’s all that matters.”

“No. Because I didn’t get in. That man got me in.”

“Well, he may have helped, but it was still all you. Your grades have been impeccable—that’s all you.”

I narrow my eyes.

Before we moved to Radcliffe, I thought I would finish my education being homeschooled and taking my GED. Suddenly, though, my mother pivoted and suggested I might benefit from going to a regular school and making some friends.

She gave me a stack of brochures, encouraging me to consider high schools that offered the best education. She made it seem like I had a choice, but clearly, I didn’t. I chose St. Anselm Hall for its art history program and its gorgeous Gothic architecture—but now I learn it was all part of some plan?

Something about this feels too orchestrated. And lately, coincidences have stopped feeling like coincidences.

“Tell me more about this sponsor. Why would he recommend me if the school only takes legacies?”

“His name is Kimaris. We haven’t spoken to him in a long time. He’s a very successful businessman—reclusive, but kind. He helped us find our house here, introduced us to some very influential people. You know how many important families live in this town. He thought Radcliffe would be perfect for us, and we agreed. After all, he saved the company.”

“Kimaris,” I echo, my blood running cold. “Did you just say Kimaris? What was his full name?”

“Oh, dear, I don’t remember,” my mom replies. “We haven’t heard from him in ages. It was right before we moved here that we last spoke. He helped us get the house and then disappeared.”

A shiver runs through me.

The implications are unmistakable. If he’s been around long enough to influence my parents, convince them to move here, get me enrolled into St. Anselm . . .