Page 93 of Queen of Nothing

Face twisting, sobs swallowed down.

No one says a word.

It’s only when we’re on the highway that Father speaks—and it isn’t to me.

His phone buzzes in his hand.

It vibrates just once before he’s bringing the phone to his ear.

His voice is low, a murmur, and I can only make out a word here and there.

That resurges the tears through me, because I know, I know, he’s talking to Mother.

My sobs are choked—and they continue long after Father gets off the phone.

And still, not a word is said to me.

Not even when the cars come off the highway, and pull into the small private airport, hobby airports.

Parked there on the tarmac is a black plane… much, much bigger than the jet I remember.

It’s as large as the commercial planes Serena and I took to get out of Europe.

But my awe is hesitated when the car doors are pulled open from the outside, and the crisp night air strikes me.

Oliver steps out first, his shoe thudding down on the concrete.

He pauses, turns to me, and offers his hand.

I avoid his cold stare.

I smack my hand down on his—and the slap steals me back to the corridor at Bluestone, when Dray’s hand came cutting through the air, and he struck me right across the face.

My lashes shut on the memory.

And when I open my eyes, Oliver has firmed his hand on mine, almost like he’s reassuring me with an imperceptible squeeze.

It works.

I get out of the car and look over at the other.

Father has wandered to that BMW.

He stands with Dray, and though Father’s mouth moves around words, I can’t hear anything he says, not over the winds lashing down the tarmac.

Dray nods at something my father says—and his eyes find me over the hood of the other car. His eyes are as sharp and piercing as the cold air.

I turn my cheek to him.

Nothing kind in that gaze, not with the tension stroked along his cheeks, a quiet rage contained behind a mask.

At the nose of the car, Mr Younge clears his throat, and it’s an obvious nudge-along.

Oliver’s hand tightens on mine before he leads me to the stairs leading up to the plane.

Without a glance back at Mr Younge, I know he follows. Probably treading all over my shadow.

Oliver’s fingers slip away from mine. He lets me go, and I climb the stairs before him.