Chapter Two #2
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I whisper, the words more air than sound.
“You’d better,” says a deep voice from behind me.
Dropping Isla’s hand, I turn to find Peter Vale standing in the doorway of my sister’s hospital room, his expression unreadable. His features are sharp, his eyes the darkest blue I’ve ever seen against his lightly tanned skin, and I’m breathless for a moment. Scared of my own father.
But then my anger comes roaring back to life.
I rise from my chair, making my way toward him with measured steps.
I cling to the rage, needing it to fuel me.
I come to a stop directly in front of him, tilting my head back so I can stare into his eyes.
Breathing the same air for the first time I can recall.
“I’m surprised you actually came.” His voice is like ice. Sharp and bitterly cold.
“Some of us keep our promises,” I say, and it brings him up short. The silence stretches so taut between us, it feels like the air itself might tear in two.
But then Peter breaks our eye contact to gesture toward the three shiny black suitcases to his right. “You’ll find everything you need in these.”
I stare at the luggage, wondering what the hell I could need that fills three huge suitcases, but I suppose he knows best.
“I’m sure I needn’t remind you that my wife had to pull a number of strings and call in quite a few favors to get you into Wickham Academy.
If you reveal yourself, or if anyone discovers that we’re related, the entire plan will be ruined,” he says.
“And whoever did this to Isla will get away with it. Because of you.”
I scoff. The nerve of this man. “Like I’d tell anyone we’re related. I’d rather be in a coma myself than consider you family.”
His gaze flickers with irritation, but that’s his only reaction. The dude is ice-cold.
“Whitney wanted me to give you this.” He hands over a matte black folder that practically begs to be called a dossier. Inside, I find a letter welcoming me to Wickham Academy, printed on heavy, textured paper. Nice to see my new school spares no expense on the details.
“Great.” I rifle through the other documents inside, but I don’t really read them. “Can’t wait.”
Peter’s gaze has gone from assessing to penetrating, like he’s trying to see through my skin to the blood and bones underneath.
I resist the urge to squirm, because if someone in this room should feel uncomfortable, it definitely shouldn’t be me.
“There’s something else,” he says, his words cutting through the tension in the air like a hot knife through butter.
His eyes flick to Isla behind me, and the sight of her melts the stern disapproval right off his face.
He keeps his gaze trained on her, and I don’t know if it’s because he’s drinking in every second he can with her, or if he’d just rather look anywhere but at me.
I don’t usually celebrate how similar Mom and I look, but if seeing her features on my face reminds my father of the woman he abandoned, I call it a win.
Let him remember. I’ve never been able to forget.
A glimmer of smug satisfaction is just starting to warm me from the inside out when he clears his throat and hands me a large manila envelope.
“What’s this?” I ask, when what I want to say is, do you realize you’ve given me more things in the past minute than you have in the past dozen years?
“Isla’s Year 11 yearbook. Whitney and I thought it might help you understand who’s who at Wickham.
And …” He closes his eyes and heaves a heavy sigh, like what he has to say next might sting on the way out.
I sure hope it does. “Isla was working on a project of sorts. About the history of the academy. She’d started asking questions about things she probably should have left alone.
Some of her notes are in the back of the yearbook. You should probably ignore them.”
When he shifts his attention from the envelope to my face, his stare is hardened, icy.
“You’re here for one reason, and one reason only. I want to know who’s responsible for this—for all of this,” he says. “My network and Whitney’s connections can only get us so far. But someone on the inside will have access we don’t. Keep your eyes and ears open. Don’t get distracted.”
“One job, don’t screw it up—got it. Anything else?”
His gaze narrows, composure clicking back into place like a suit of armor.
“Yes. We learned today that Isla will be formally charged with the murder of Emily Wells in two weeks. At that time, she’ll be moved to a facility in the north—not the kind of place you’d like to be if you were unconscious and unable to defend yourself.
Two weeks, Belinda. After that, she’ll be beyond my reach. ”
I fight to keep my expression neutral when inside, alarm bells are blaring and strobe lights are flashing, and is that a foghorn? Two weeks until my sister is officially charged with the murder of her best friend. And I’m just supposed to stay standing, like the ground is trying to swallow me up?
Peter clears his throat. “You’re supposed to be the jewel of New York’s next generation. Would it kill you to look the part?”
I almost roll my eyes, even though all I want to do is scream. “I tried to dye my hair on the plane. It … didn’t go exactly to plan.”
Shaking his head, he wanders toward the window at the side of the room, his phone already in his hand. “Wait outside for a moment,” he says over his shoulder, pressing the phone to his ear.
I kiss my fingertips and press them to Isla’s cheek, then shove the folder and yearbook in my backpack.
I head back into the corridor and approach the gangly nurse who just sat down behind the counter across from Isla’s room.
“The person in room twenty-six is my—” I catch myself.
I’m sure my father wouldn’t want the hospital staff knowing we’re related.
“My dear school friend. Can I add my number to the call list if she wakes up?”
She runs a hand through her dark hair, her brown gaze bouncing between my father and me. “I’ll need to get permission from her father—”
“No need. He’s right over there,” I say, a wide smile stretching my lips. “Talking to Tokyo. Some big business deal or other.” I glance back at him and toss over my shoulder, “Almost done, Mr. Vale?”
He scowls in my direction. “Hurry up, Belinda,” he barks, then goes back to his call.
I startle at my father’s use of my full name.
But only for a second. Then I channel my quick anger into my performance.
He wanted a Belinda so badly, he can have one.
I turn back to the nurse, putting on an over-the-top snooty accent I’ve heard Isla use a thousand times when she’s imitating her teachers.
“Sorry, dear. In a rush.” I reach over the counter, grab a pen, and scrawl my number on the back of a notepad.
I hold the paper out. “Here you go. Just give a ring if she wakes, yes? Thanks so much!”
The nurse blinks at me, then reaches for the number. I mean, what else was she going to do, leave my hand hanging in the air? Put people in an awkward position, and nine times out of ten, they’ll take the path of least resistance.
I blow her a kiss and twirl around, bouncing up to Peter. Maybe it will be easier to fake rich-and-entitled than I expected. “Ready when you are, Mr. Vale.”
He puts his phone away. “Whitney just arranged an emergency appointment for you at her salon.”
I frown. I’ve never met my stepmother before, but I’ve heard stories. All from Isla.
“The state of my hair is an emergency?”
“You can’t show up on campus looking like that. No one will believe you come from money.”
I grit my teeth. “Gee, that’s so crazy, considering I don’t.”
My father ignores me, snapping his fingers once. Two guys stride over from the waiting area nearby, their expressions expectant, like eager dogs. “Take the luggage to the car.”
They do so immediately, leaving us alone with my father still just inside the room, me just outside. Like always.
“You’ll get your hair fixed and then you’ll head to campus. The drive is long, and the road is windy. You’ll most likely become carsick. I recommend—”
“I’ll be fine,” I snap, cutting him off. I don’t want any sort of fatherly concern or advice from this man. “I guess I’ll be on my way.”
I head for the elevator, my steps slowing when my father calls my name. His voice is soft. Almost paternal. The sound throws me for a total loop.
Stopping, I glance over my shoulder to find he’s watching me, his expression a mask. Unreadable. No emotion whatsoever. “Two weeks, Belinda. Isla’s counting on you.”
Jaw clenched, I rip my gaze away, square my shoulders, and stride through the open elevator door. “No shit, Sherlock.”