Chapter Seventeen
The news of William Pembroke’s arrest has spread all over campus by the next morning.
Everyone seems to be talking about it. In the dining hall and in classrooms. In the admin office and outside in the quad, where students hang out between classes.
The name Pembroke is on everyone’s lips, though Freddie is nowhere to be found, and I can’t blame him.
I wouldn’t want to show my face around here, either.
And while yes, it’s huge, what happened to William Pembroke, I can’t help but get stuck on all the news I uncovered over the last twenty-four hours or so.
Priya is a pill-popping, test-selling, anxiety-addled mess of an overachiever.
Abigail would do anything for love, but a murder charge would separate her from Priya—a huge risk I suspect she wouldn’t be willing to take.
Julian’s love for Isla is so all-consuming, he literally can’t stop himself from referencing Shakespeare when he talks about their relationship.
And the ultimate discovery: Connor’s dad was innocent of the embezzlement charges all along.
What does any of this mean for Emily and Isla?
Time is running out. It’s Wednesday. My sister will be formally charged for Emily Wells’s murder by the end of the day on Friday.
I’m fairly certain I know who didn’t hurt the girls, but I’m not any closer to figuring out who is responsible, and I’m frustrated.
So frustrated that I break down and contact Peter Vale. I need to know if his beef with certain people is a strong enough reason for them to have hurt Isla, as a way of getting at Peter.
When I pull up our text thread, the last message about reading the dossier feels like it was from another lifetime. How is it possible that little more than a week has passed since then?
Me:Did you really try to convince people that Mr. Ashworth was having an affair?
Satisfaction curls through me at my message. There’s no need to hold back. We’re getting down to the wire, and I need to look at new angles.
Peter:Why are you asking about ancient history when Isla is days from being charged?
Billie:Answer the question.
Ugh, I’m being a bitch, but come on! We don’t have time to waste.
Peter:It was a joke between friends. Nothing more.
Huh. That’s some joke. More like it’s a serious accusation.
Billie:Doesn’t seem like Mr. Ashworth agrees with you.
Peter:What? That it was a joke?
Billie:That you two were friends.
After waiting for a few minutes and receiving no response, I leave the library and head outside. The sky is clear and the air is crisp and cool, but most of the campus is quiet. Almost peaceful.
What a crock of shit. There is no peace on this campus. Too many people are keeping secrets and faking genuine friendships to maintain any sense of calm around here.
As I head for the dining hall, my gaze snags on the alumni garden. I remember the epitaph on the boy’s statue: The only danger in Friendship is that it will end.
Is the real danger never knowing who’s your friend or your enemy?
I thought I was good at reading people. That I had solid common sense coupled with street smarts.
But the people at Wickham—in every generation, it seems—are on another level.
It’s like you don’t even know someone’s stabbing you in the back until the blade is already sinking into your flesh.
I’m always watching, always listening, but it feels like someone is lying in wait.
Just dying to trip me up and call me out as the fraud that I am.
At least one person here on campus knows about my connection to Isla—they found the yearbook and left it out so I’d know my cover was blown.
But I’ve been here long enough that if the culprit wanted me to know their identity, they could have approached me at any time.
Hell, they all think I’m an American socialite with deep pockets; I would have expected an extortion attempt at the very least. But it’s been crickets from whoever snooped through my stuff that first day.
The shrill ring of my phone startles me, and I pull it out of my sweater pocket, shock streaming through my blood and leaving me cold.
Peter Vale’s name flashes across the screen.
This is only the second time he’s voluntarily called me in my life, and it throws me completely off-balance. I slide the answer button and lift the phone to my ear, and he’s already talking.
“You should know better than to put things like that in writing, Belinda.” His tone reeks of frustration and annoyance.
“Well hello to you, too, Peter.” I let my sarcasm fly because why not? We’re way past niceties here.
“Why are you asking about Maximillian? Everything between us was so long ago, it’s ancient history. You need to be focused on the present. On Isla. We’re running out of time. I warned you not to become distracted.”
Now I’m mad. “I am focused, Peter. In fact—”
He cuts me off. “Are you telling me you believe Max Ashworth could’ve … hurt Isla? Because so help me God, if he’s responsible, I will rip him limb from limb and bury the pieces—”
“Peter! Calm down. I’m not saying he did or didn’t.
You brought me here so I could dig into the culture here, try to understand what was really going on with her life and who might’ve wanted to hurt her and Emily.
But did you ever stop to consider that someone hurt her because they wanted to get to you? ”
He goes silent, though I can still hear him breathing.
It’s possible that for the first time in his life, he’s considering how his actions might have put his daughter in danger.
God knows he didn’t think about that when he shipped me to America with Mom.
But now that his beloved youngest child might have suffered the consequences for his mistakes, he might suddenly care.
If someone other than Isla was lying in a hospital bed as part of Peter’s great awakening, I might be able to take some satisfaction in it.
But it’s not someone else.
It’s my sister.
And even Peter discovering he’s not invincible isn’t enough of a reason for her to be hurting.
When Peter begins to speak again, his voice is taut and hushed, like a rope so frayed it’ll break with the next strong gust of wind. “You’re asking if I’ve ever thought someone would hate me enough to throw my daughter off a cliff? No, Belinda. The thought never even crossed my mind. But …”
Maybe it should have goes unspoken. Does he have regrets?
Does he feel foolish for not considering that everything happening to Isla could be because of him?
He’s a powerful man, and you don’t become that powerful without making a few enemies along the way.
Enemies who would do anything to take you down.
Like try and kill a beloved family member.
I notice that when Peter talks about Isla, he refers to her as “my daughter,” and never “my youngest daughter” or “one of my daughters.” Like I’m never on his mind at all.
Even now that we’re on the same continent and working together(ish) toward a common goal, he still talks as if he only has one child. And that hurts.
Oh, how I wish I could point out that little factoid, but now isn’t the time. He’ll just say I’m distracted. Ask me why I’m thinking of myself when I should be thinking of Isla.
And he’d be right.
“Look.” I clutch my phone close to my face, my lips practically brushing the screen. “I have to go. I’ll let you know if I discover anything else.”
I end the call before he can respond and just stand there for a moment, replaying our conversation. What we said and, maybe more importantly, what we didn’t say.
“Hey.”
I whirl around at the sound of the familiar voice, almost dropping my phone. Sophia is standing in front of me, her normally happy-go-lucky expression gravely serious. “Hi.” I try to smile at her, but the expression falls from my face almost instantly.
Her expression doesn’t change, either. “We need to talk.”
…
Peter might not have wanted text exchanges between us as potential evidence, but he clearly never considered that phone conversations in public spaces can be overheard.
I’m a bundle of nerves while Sophia leads me back to the library, both of us silent.
We walk through the back entrance, and she pulls me into a study room.
The moment she has the door shut and locked, she’s on me.
“What’s going on?” Sophia’s voice is surprisingly stern. “What are you, some sort of undercover detective snooping around the school?”
“No, of course not!” My response is too quick.
I sound like a liar even to my own ears.
I don’t know if the exhaustion of living a double life finally breaks something in me, or if I was already too broken before I got here.
Either way, I feel my defenses crumble under Sophia’s earnest stare.
“More like I’m an … undercover sibling.”
I’m trembling. Full of immediate regret.
I shouldn’t have said that. My chest is so tight, it’s hard for me to draw in air while Sophia studies me.
Like, really looks at me. She narrows her eyes and tilts her head to the right, remaining silent for so long I feel as if I might scream just to make some noise.
“You’re Isla’s sister,” she finally says.
The panic swells inside me. “We don’t look anything alike.”
“It’s not about your face.” Sophia thrusts her index finger in my direction. “It’s about … you. And how you act. Like Isla.”
A tide of overwhelming emotion crashes over me and sends me straight into Sophia’s arms. I cling tightly, so grateful when she returns the hug.
It’s such a huge fucking relief to have told her, to have someone at Wickham know who I really am.
And while it’s also scary and huge and I’m not sure where to go from here, it’s just so damn comforting to acknowledge and embrace the connection I have to Isla.