Chapter Three
My father wasn’t lying. The road to Wickham is windy as shit, and I’m clutching my stomach, eyes squeezed shut, praying I don’t lose my lunch all over my new sweater. Or jumper, as the hair stylist called it, her eyes glowing when she took it in.
Peter texted to ask that I change into more “suitable clothing” for my arrival at Wickham.
I threw on the first sweater I found in one of the suitcases, quietly marveling at how soft and luxurious it felt on my skin.
The hair stylist told me it was cashmere, and I believed her because why would she lie?
The stylist was nice. Incredibly chatty and constantly trying to dig for information, but I remained tight-lipped.
Not about to give away a thing. She fixed my hair like a miracle worker, the color now a soft, butter yellow she called “trust fund blond,” instead of brassy streaks of orange and gold—like a stray ginger cat I once fed.
“You look just like Carolyn Kennedy,” she told me as we both stared into the mirror to check out the results, her hands on my shoulders making me uncomfortable. I don’t like it when strangers touch me.
I don’t like it when anybody touches me.
Other than JFK and Jackie O, I can’t tell one rich, beautiful Kennedy from another. But I put on Belinda’s voice and said, “Carolyn! I was thinking the same thing.” The stylist beamed a too-white smile at me through the mirror.
My phone buzzes, and I check it to find another notification from Peter.
Peter Vale:Read the dossier.
Dossier. Called it. Snobs are so predictable. I scowl at the folder already open in my lap.
Me:Do you mean all those papers you gave me? Sure. I’ll read them soon.
I’m lying. I read as much as I could before the road turned into nothing but nausea-inducing curves.
I can’t imagine why knowing the history of Wickham Academy is pertinent info when my goal is finding out who tried to unalive my sister, but maybe knowing this stuff is second nature to the students here.
It’s ABCs and 123s for us public school kids, while it’s family trees stretching back to Queen Elizabeth I and obscure histories of private schools for kids to the manor born.
Whatever.
If Belinda needs to know that Wickham was founded in 1879 by the families of a few Harrow School dropouts whose sons kept getting “sent down” for misbehavior, so be it. My takeaway? Wickham Academy has always been a safe haven for kids whose families have too much money and way too much privilege.
Though to be fair, an article in the dossier claims the current headmaster, Percy Harrington, has done the most to solidify Wickham’s reputation as “an institution for rigorous academic excellence.” I guess being infamous for sheltering the children of the rich and lazy isn’t good for long-term endowment.
My stomach twists as we take another hairpin turn, and I wrap one arm across my waist. How am I going to pull this off? I have no idea how to act like some fancy rich person, and no amount of reading school histories is going to help with that.
For a moment, I want to fling open the door and jump out of the car.
No need to even slow down. The urge to run away is so strong, even a broken leg sounds appealing.
At least I could get a room alongside Isla to recover in.
But just thinking her name, remembering her helpless body in the hospital, has me squaring my shoulders.
Determination fills me, and I take a deep breath, holding it for a second before I exhale. I need to remain strong so I can figure out what happened and who might’ve done this to my little sister. The sweetest girl ever, who wouldn’t harm a soul.
I glance down at the most recent news article Peter included in the dossier. The headline reads MURDER-SUICIDE AT WICKHAM CLIFFS.
Two black-and-white pictures are framed on the left.
One is Isla, smiling brightly with her blond hair in a thick ponytail, and the other is her best friend, Emily Wells, with dark hair cut just above her chin.
I scan the article and frown. Nothing I haven’t read before since the night my father called, but still, seeing my sister’s name splashed throughout the article as an assumed murderer leaves a bitter coating on my tongue.
The reporter claims police are investigating a theory that the two girls went up to a cliff near campus, got into a fight, and Isla pushed Emily.
Isla allegedly jumped after her in an attempted suicide.
I read the whole article, though my stomach heaves at the words: “A source close to the investigation who asked to remain anonymous shared that the police had ruled out a suicide pact based on the position of Wells’s body.
‘She couldn’t have fallen as far as she did if she jumped.
She was thrown or pushed, no question.’”
But I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it.
Neither does Peter.
The car eventually comes to a stop, and I glance up from the papers to find we’re idling in front of a closed gate. Tall, spindly wrought iron poles brace the name of the school stretched in an arc in fancy script, the letters rising toward the cloudy sky, gleaming wet from the drizzling rain.
The gates slowly open with a groan, and the driver accelerates, heading down the long drive. I sit up straighter, staring at the landscape, hating how … charming it is. Like something out of a movie or book.
Cobblestone paths wind their way through the sweeping, lush green lawns toward what I assume is the main building on campus.
It appears ancient, as if it’s stood here for centuries.
A gothic monolith of crumbling brick, stained glass, and climbing ivy.
Turrets crown each corner of the towering structure, the lead mullioned windows reminding me of watchful eyes that never sleep.
Behind the building looms a massive, brick bell tower, a tall black column against the darkening sky.
I roll the window down and take a deep breath, savoring the cool breeze.
The air is sharp with the scent of wet leaves and something I can’t place.
Dirt, maybe? The steady drizzle splats my face, and I immediately close the window, reaching for the door when the car comes to a stop.
I’m conflicted. I want to both get this started and run away at the same time.
I’m nervous. Scared. What if I mess this up?
“Hold on, miss. Let me help you.”
I wait for the driver to open the door but bolt out the moment he does and run up the stone steps to large wooden double doors to get out of the rain.
Under the relative shelter at the top of the stairs, I look back to find the driver still standing next to the car, holding an umbrella big enough to keep us and our five closest friends dry.
Oops.
The campus is eerily quiet, and I pause, checking my phone. It’s almost noon. My hair appointment made me late, and I’m glad I can take in the school without hundreds of interested eyes watching me.
I slip into the building, glancing around until I find a door with a brass sign above it that says ADMINISTRATION. I slowly open the door to find a matronly receptionist sitting behind a desk, a reserved smile on her face.
“Hello. You must be Belinda,” the woman says.
I blink at her, surprised she already knows my name. That she’s expecting me. But then remember they had to open the gates for me. “Um, yes. I am.”
“Right. A little late, aren’t you? Never mind.” The woman shakes her head, shuffling through some papers on her desk. “You’re here now, and that’s what’s important. Mrs. Vale has been waiting for you.”
I frown. The only Mrs. Vale I know is in New York in a rehab facility. Which means—
“Belinda. Darling.” A door swings open, and a slender, raven-haired woman with the most precise bob haircut I’ve ever seen in my life sweeps in, a cloud of expensive perfume filling the room and making my nose twitch.
“There you are. We’re so delighted you’ve chosen to attend Wickham.
Please step into my office so we can discuss a few things before Mrs. Brown gives you your room assignment and class schedule. ”
I’m as stiff as a board when Whitney Ashbourne-Vale pulls me in for a hug, her hands barely touching me when she presses her soft, acacia-brown cheek to mine.
She pulls away quickly, a bright smile curling her perfectly pink lips, and she waves me toward an open doorway, which I assume is her office.
I look back over my shoulder to see the driver rolling my bags into the reception area as I follow her. I jump when she slams the door shut. When I turn to face her, all remnants of the overly friendly woman are gone, replaced by a sour expression and a narrowed gaze.
“You’re late.”
“Thanks for the reminder, Mom.” My stepmother is the worst. I don’t actually know her at all, but I’ve heard stories. Isla regularly complained about Whitney and her constant demands for perfection.
She “works” at Wickham, according to my father and the brochure I read in the limo.
She is head of the board of trustees and is deeply connected to the administration and Headmaster Harrington.
Isla told me Mommy Dearest rarely comes into the office for a regular nine-to-five, but I guess she’s here today to greet me.
I’m so lucky.
Whitney glances around the room as if she expects to find someone lurking in a corner before she stalks toward me. She comes way too close, but I refuse to take a step back as she thrusts her finger in my face. “Don’t ever call me that. No one is supposed to know we’re … related.”
I press my lips together so I don’t say something I’ll regret, staring at the finger in my face like it’s a snake about to bite me.
She eventually drops it, resting her hands on her hips, showcasing the elegant cut of her simple navy dress.
It looks expensive. As do the giant diamond earrings she’s wearing and the thin gold bangles on her wrist.