Chapter Nine
I’m in the dining hall earlier than usual, eating my breakfast alone, thinking.
I figured I would be an emotional wreck from spending the night in my sister’s bed, but I woke up feeling refreshed despite the nightmares.
Maybe being in the space Isla used to occupy every day inspired me, or maybe sleeping in a room by myself behind a locked door finally allowed me to catch up on deep sleep.
Either way, I’m ready to tackle the day.
It’s blessedly quiet in here, with hardly any students eating this early.
I don’t want to run into anyone who’ll ruin my day before it’s even begun.
Just as I start to congratulate myself for discovering a brand-new life hack (eat early, avoid assholes), a certain someone spots me right away and heads in my direction with determined steps.
Connor Wells.
Nerves flutter at the intense expression on his face, and I brace myself for his approach.
He drops his tray onto the table right next to mine before he pulls out the chair and settles in.
I hide my shock under indifference, not so much as turning my head in his direction.
The scent of his cologne wafts toward me, and I inhale as subtly as possible so he doesn’t figure out I’m a complete freak who might grow addicted to his smell.
Ugh, I’m ridiculous.
Seriously, though, he is the last person I believed I’d start my day with, and I’m going to run with it.
“You figured out the secret,” is how he greets me before he grabs a fruit-filled pastry on his plate and sinks his teeth into it.
“What’s that?” My appetite vanishes at his question—and from having him so close. He leaves me breathless. Confused. Last time I saw him, he was a mixture of rude and flirtatious—heavy on the rude. I don’t like how unsettled he makes me every time I’m in his presence. He’s no one special.
“Eating in the dining hall early before all the arseholes come in.” His words echo my own thoughts so closely that I can’t help the laugh that escapes me.
He smiles, the sight of it making my head spin. I remind myself I can’t read into this interaction. He’ll probably treat me like shit the next time we’re together, which I’m thinking is his usual mode of operation.
“The arseholes, huh?” I laugh, shaking my head as I tear my croissant to shreds.
“I think you Americans pronounce it assholes.” His tone is flat, like he’s trying to imitate me. “But yes. Beat them to the dining hall and you get to enjoy your breakfast in peace, stress-free.”
“Do they stress you out? Your former friends?” I send him a look, shoving a few torn pieces of pastry in my mouth.
“Everyone stresses me out.” He scowls as he scans the mostly empty dining hall.
“Even me?”
“Especially you.” He directs that scowl straight at me before his gaze drops to my plate. “What did that croissant ever do to you?”
I’m about to make some flippant remark when he grabs hold of my hand, shaking it a little to get me to release the torn pastry. His fingers smooth over mine. When he presses his big palm against my smaller one, I can’t contain a quiet gasp.
He drops my hand like it’s on fire, returning his attention to his breakfast. I reach for the steadying warmth of my coffee. “Are you enjoying your time at Wickham so far?”
I nearly choke on the bitter sip I just took. “Enjoying?” I manage to sputter after I swallow.
His smile returns. “Bad choice of words?”
“Terrible choice.” I smile back, and his fades. “Let’s just say my time at Wickham so far has been … interesting.”
“I can only imagine.” He scans the room before bringing his attention back to me. “Not too many friendly sorts here.”
“But they used to be your friends, right?” I steer the conversation back in the direction I need it to go.
Connor, once part of the inner circle and now an outsider, might be far enough beyond the circle of trust that he lets something slip.
I’m sure he doesn’t know exactly what happened, because he’s still convinced Isla hurt Emily.
If he had some idea of who was really responsible for his sister’s death, there’s no way he’d peddle a false assumption like it’s the truth. He’d want justice for Emily.
Just like I want it for Isla.
Connor averts his gaze, lost in thought for a moment. “They were. Most of them still are. Somewhat.”
“Then why do you seem to be on the outs? Why are you the brooding artist loner when you could be the brooding artist social butterfly?” That earns me the smallest upward tilt at the corner of his lips.
I ignore the fizzy feeling in my chest at the sight.
It feels like I’m wearing Belinda Winters like a costume as I force myself to take a calm, cavalier sip of coffee and pop another croissant fragment in my mouth.
Miracle of all miracles, he starts talking.
“Things got weird after what happened with my father. I’m sure someone’s told you.”
I slowly shake my head. No one needs to know about the half dozen articles in the dossier about the Lumateg Group scandal, or how I practically memorized their details. “I don’t know much—just the basics.”
“My father worked for the Lumateg Group. He was a fiduciary wealth manager, and his clients were mostly Wickham alumni. Parents of students who are currently enrolled, so many of them his friends. The Pembrokes started the company twenty years ago, and my father came on board almost immediately. He helped grow that company to what it is, until everything that happened,” Connor explains, his voice hollow.
“You mean when he got arrested?”
He nods, swallowing hard.
“Pembroke? Any relation to Freddie?” I ask.
“His father. Our dads went to Wickham together. They’re close.
Well, they used to be.” Connor’s expression is grim.
“I understand why Freddie had to create a boundary with me. I felt the same way. I didn’t expect everyone to swing to his side, though.
My father may be the one behind bars, but it’s not like I helped him embezzle money. ”
His tone and expression are bitter. I can’t blame him, but also …
come on, guy. Does he really think kids who have only ever eaten off silver spoons are going to excel at emotional nuance?
Expecting his former friends to show him compassion is like expecting a hungry lion to spare a baby gazelle separated from the herd just because it’s really cute.
“So tell me: Why do you stay here at Wickham? You’re ostracized by your friends.
And then everything that happened with your sister …
” I press my lips together, not wanting to say anything else about Emily.
It’s a sensitive subject, and I understand his grief somewhat.
At least my sister is still alive, even if she’s in a coma.
“I’m on an arts merit scholarship at the moment.
Someone in admin pulled that together after our family’s assets were frozen.
I’ve got nowhere else to go, so I stay here.
My mother is an absolute wreck, and I told her I would come home and help her, but she wouldn’t let me.
I should ‘stay here and complete my education’ were her exact words.
She even mentioned how I’d have to figure out my future on my own now that the money is all gone.
” His lips twist into a wry smile. “Think I can make it as an artist?”
“Maybe?” He chuckles at my response, and I feel like I insulted him. “From what I saw, you’re very talented.”
“Talent isn’t worth shit if I can’t manage to actually create anything. I’ve been blocked creatively since Emily died, which has brought my term project to a screeching halt. Not quite sure how I’ll manage to qualify for the scholarship if I don’t turn that in.”
“I saw you working on something just yesterday,” I remind him. “Doesn’t that count?”
“Not really. I was just … messing around. My normal medium is hyper-realistic oil paintings, but ever since what happened to Emily, it’s as if my fingers are detached from my body.
Everything I try to paint becomes a mess.
I keep my hands busy with the charcoal sketches, but that’s not going to help my chances of maintaining my scholarship.
” He shrugs, and I can practically feel the hopelessness radiate off his body in waves.
I’m filled with sympathy at his plight. If anyone can understand what I’m going through, I think it’s this boy.
Everyone else I’ve met at this school seems like they have their shit together for the most part—or maybe it’s more accurate to say that they operate with the certainty that their lives will be as easy as they’ve always been.
Life hasn’t given them a reason to question their luck, so they’ve started to believe it will last forever.
If I was ever lucky, I don’t remember it.
And Connor’s luck ran out big time this past year.
The bubble he was in didn’t just pop—it imploded.
“It’ll come back.” When he sends me a questioning look, I continue. “Your artistic … spirit.” I grimace and shake my head. “You know what I mean.”
“Right. Not so sure about that, though.” A ragged exhale leaves him. “Guess it wasn’t enough for Isla to kill my sister. Her actions also killed my creativity and my only chance at continuing my education.”
“Are you serious?” I squeak. His remark has me instantly on the defensive. How dare he blame Isla for something she has no control over? And does he really believe Isla killed Emily?
From the serious expression on his too-handsome face, I’d have to wager yes. Yes, he does.
“Of course I’m serious,” he snaps. “An unexpected tragedy has a way of affecting all aspects of your life. The grief counselor Mum made me talk to said tragedy is a rock thrown into a still lake. Its ripples keep multiplying all the way to the shore. Her advice was mostly useless, but that, at least, was true.”