Chapter Seventeen #2
She’s my baby sister. I’ve had to deny that fact since the moment I stepped off Peter’s plane.
But I’ve spent years fighting the connection at home, too.
Pretending Isla doesn’t exist. Mom would fall apart any time her other daughter was mentioned, to the point that I kept any of my thoughts or stories about Isla to myself.
It became too painful to acknowledge our connection at all.
But now that Sophia knows, I can be Billie Vale, Isla’s big sister, on this side of the world.
Still in secret, of course, but it feels like a move in the right direction.
“How did you end up here?” Sophia asks once I let her go.
I proceed to tell her everything. My mouth is a fountain of facts and impressions and experiences as I try my best to remember every single detail about my discoveries from day one until now. When I mention Priya popping pills, Sophia finally interrupts.
“I fucking knew it. No one studies that much without some sort of illegal substance helping her along.”
I almost want to laugh, but it’s not funny. None of this is funny. And when I finally finish my story, I fall into a nearby chair and lean forward, hanging my head, completely spent.
Sophia rubs the space between my shoulder blades, trying to soothe me, which I appreciate. “What happens now?”
Lifting my head, I meet her gaze. “I don’t know. Are you going to tell your dad about Priya and Abigail?”
Her response is automatic. “No way. Everyone already believes I’m a snitch, but the truth is, I don’t care enough about any of these twats to actually get them in trouble. What would be the point?”
I feel bad for her. That our fellow students are so dismissive of her feelings.
Like she’s not even a real person in their eyes, which is tragic.
Sophia is one of the nicest girls I’ve ever known.
“I’m sorry they don’t see you for who you really are.
Because you are one of the best people I’ve met here.
They’re all missing out on your greatness. ”
“Aw, I’m touched.” Sophia ducks her head for a second before flashing me a knowing smile. “Are you saying I’m … better than Connor Wells?”
“Well … maybe the both of you are tied for first.” We laugh together and then both go quiet.
Like, seriously quiet. Enough to make me nervous.
“Are you … mad at me? For lying? I mean, you have every right to be. You’ve been so kind since my arrival.
You even invited me into your home. I slept in your bed.
I wore some of your clothes. I wore one of your swimsuits. ”
That feels like a level of intimacy that deserves the truth.
“It’s true that I do prefer to know the real identity of someone before we share spandex.” Sophia’s droll voice and dancing gaze make me relax a little bit. Enough that I roll my eyes at her. “But Belinda, you’re out here trying to solve a literal murder. Wait—was I ever a suspect?”
I start laughing again. “You sound a little excited by the idea. Do you want to be a suspect?”
“I guess not. As much as I want to be a certified baddie someday, murder is a bit rich for my blood. Though …”
Sophia goes quiet, and I send her a questioning look.
“I’d make a terrific Watson to your Sherlock,” she suggests.
She’s so right. Sophia would be a tremendous help with my investigation. “That sounds amazing, actually. I could use that big, beautiful brain of yours. Only, Sophia?”
“Yes, Belinda?” Sophia is beaming. I can tell she loves the idea, too.
“Can you please call me Billie?”
…
I’m in my dorm room, trying to figure out what to wear on my date with Connor. I asked him what attire would be most appropriate, but he only said I always look nice and I should wear whatever makes me the most comfortable. Cute but not super helpful.
Priya and Abigail are in the room with me, curled up together on Priya’s bed and quizzing each other on French vocabulary. If I didn’t already know them so well, I’d find this scenario downright adorable. Like two sweet kittens helping each other out. But these kittens have serious claws.
I open the closet door, then stand in front of the mirror and start applying makeup while thinking about the tail end of my conversation with Sophia.
While I didn’t confess to her that I eavesdropped on her dad’s phone call that one night, I did ask if she could find out what happened to a student named Nigel who probably attended Wickham around the same time as our parents.
There are a few surnames on Isla’s 1998 Legacy List that I haven’t figured out yet, and maybe one of them belongs to Nigel?
Just as I finish my makeup, my phone buzzes with a text.
Watson:Found him! His name is Nigel Carmichael.
Sophia insisted on the update to her contact details in my phone, and while initially I thought it was just a cute gag, I’m starting to wonder if it’s not a well-deserved moniker.
She sends me a picture of Nigel’s yearbook photo, and I study it closely.
He’s fair-skinned and blond, with a tiny gap between his two front teeth and a pleasant smile.
He gives boyish, charming vibes. Harmless, even.
Watson:Oh no.
Me:????
Sophia sends a link to an article from a local newspaper’s archives. I click on it with dread, skimming the words as fast as I can. Nigel Carmichael … student at Wickham Academy … dead at seventeen … family lost everything in a Ponzi scheme …
Nigel’s death was ruled an accidental overdose.
The article states that after the family went bankrupt, he and his younger brother abruptly withdrew from Wickham in the middle of the academic term.
According to “a close friend of the family,” Nigel never recovered from the financial and social blow.
The article is dated June 1998. Nigel was a student when Peter and Samantha were at Wickham.
So was Percy Harrington. I’m assuming the conversation I overheard the night of the sleepover was …
Percy trying to protect Connor. Wanting to make sure a student under his care didn’t suffer because of his father’s crimes, the way Nigel did. That’s so reassuring.
I realize that Sophia comes by her kindness honestly—that her dad is one of the good ones, too, and that brings me even more comfort. There are a lot of assholes at Wickham, but the Harringtons aren’t among them.
Me:This is awful.
Watson:I know. And before you ask, I already checked the yearbooks for 1999 to 2003. The brother never came back to campus.
I’m impressed with Sophia’s sleuthing.
Me:Ur good at this. I should’ve tagged you in sooner. <3
Watson:Anything else, Sherlock?
Me:Actually, yeah. Is ur mom home?
Watson:Umm yeah???
Me:You mentioned she’s really into the green spaces on campus, right? Can u ask her about the statue in the alumni garden for me, please? Find out the guy’s name?
Watson:That’s relevant how?
Me:Might not be. But there are still a couple of names on the LL Isla was working on in the back of her yearbook. If he was a student in our parents’ class, maybe …??
It’s farfetched, what I’m asking.
Me:I’m reaching. Sorry.
Watson:Literally do not apologize. I’ll talk to Mom at dinner and text u after. x
I receive another text notification from Connor saying he’s downstairs waiting for me. I send him a quick response that I’ll be down in a minute before I pocket my phone. Checking my reflection one last time, I slick on some lip gloss and then slip on my shoes, going over what I just learned.
Percy Harrington put his foot down to a board member because he refused to see Connor suffer. I’m assuming that board member was William Pembroke. And while our headmaster obviously wanted to be sure history wouldn’t repeat itself, Mr. Pembroke seems to have been counting on it.
If Connor had advance warning about the break in his father’s case, who’s to say the Pembrokes haven’t known the other shoe was bound to drop eventually?
What if William wanted to be sure the man responsible for exposing his crimes—Jonathan Wells—would suffer the unthinkable hurt of losing not one child … but two?
Even if breaking the law is a slippery slope, it’s a long way from embezzlement to murder.
Or … is it?