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“Let’s go home and get packed.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

London

Ilearned this morning that the Matei family, despite their loss, were arrested for blackmail, embezzlement, and covering up murder. Both of Micah’s parents are currently in prison until the trial.

The entirety of their estate, including the company, is in the possession of Micah. Ezra’s parents want blood for what Micah did to him. However, they have no case because, despite all the hatred between them, Ezra is refusing to press charges.

The media is buzzing from this story. Between the death of Olivia, the plane crash, and Micah’s miraculous resurrection, he is the most recognizable face on the planet right now.

He’s become the face of tragedy and hope—a miracle. The world worships him as if they believe he is the modern-day incarnation of Christ.

My heart twists with every mile as we grow closer to New Ocean, my stomach coiling as if my phantom hunger pains have returned.

The trees. The trees here remind me of the Arctic. The same tall pines and gnarled branches that covered and surrounded us for miles. While in the depths of those trees, I simply couldn’t see past them. In many ways, I’ll be in their prison for the rest of my life. My body has not yet adjusted to life outside them.

I stare at my phone the entire five-hour drive to New Ocean, thinking I might miss a call or a text from Micah—which is silly because he doesn’t even have my number, and I’m not sure he will be here. From what I gathered on the news, no one has seen him since he returned nearly a week ago. And if Micah was desperate enough to find me, he would find a way.

I can’t imagine getting a text message from him—like we are normal. What would he even say?

My nerves are nearly shattered as we drive into the town I vowed never to return to. I almost ask my mom to turn around twice, and by the time she pulls into the circular driveway of my father’s mansion, I’m nearly drowning in a pool of sweat.

One year. One year on this very day, I was lying on the beach, watching a careless group of teens enjoy their final days of summer. I didn’t belong here then, and I don’t belong here now.

I don’t know why I thought I could do this.

Everyone else has told their story. They sat with that blonde reporter who chased them down, and she peppered them with questions about who turned on who, when it shifted for us, and why we did it. Each of them recounted their versions of the truth, as bullshit as most of it was. As if we might understand the why behind any of it.

She’s relentless in her pursuit. She managed to find my phone number and location just fine, and when she came knocking on our door, my mom told her that if she came near me, she’d scratch her eyes out. Now I know where I get it from.

I hide in my father’s house for the next five days while the media swarms the town, trying to pull any information out of anyone who will talk to them.

My phone doesn’t ring.

I haven’t put makeup on in over two years. Even when I started at New Ocean Prep, I didn’t exactly want to be seen. I’ve spent the last hour readying myself to face the world and attend the first public event since our rescue. I’m ready to be seen and come out of hiding, but I still refuse to talk.

I’m clinging to whatever scraps of hope that Micah might show up for this event, but truly, I’m doing this for Maison. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.

I pull on a little black dress and frown as my boobs spill out of it. I adjust them as much as I can and apply some red lipstick. My mom had to help me with my hair because I still can’t use my hand. She curled it in little ringlets and pinned it in a half-updo.

I hate how nervous I am. Micah always witnessed me in my lowest moments, yet now I find myself more concerned with Micah’s perception of me when I am at my very best. It was the broken part of me he fell in love with, and no amount of lipstick will fix the shattered fragments of my being.

Even from the beginning, all I wanted was for him to see me.

“Oh honey, you look amazing,” my mom says as I carefully step down the stairs in my awkward three-inch heels. My dad and stepmom pull up next to her. It’s weird seeing my mom here, but she and my father have been communicating since the day the plane crashed, so it’s weirder for me than it is for them.

My dad arches his eyebrows, likely from the amount of skin I’m showing. “Are you sure about this, London? We don’t have to do this, and you can leave any time,” he says.

My pulse kicks up a beat, and I work to steady it. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

I’ll never be ready, per se. But I owe it to the deceased to go and honor them. I just hope the world doesn’t discover my secrets as if they were written on my face.

My dad drives us to the tennis club where the wake is being held. It took months for this town to come together. The grief bleeds everywhere. Every park, stone, planted tree, bench, and small shop is a memory for their loved ones lost. It took those months for everyone to come together and grieve while dealing with trials and investigations.

It’s nothing but bricks and mortar for me.

The parking lot is already full by the time we arrive, and the local media is swarming. They aren’t allowed inside, but they will be parked out here all night, so there is no avoiding them.