Chapter 24 Willow
WILLOW
On Monday, I go back to my usual routine of waking up early for school.
My first class of the day is an easy one, and I sit in the back and take diligent notes. As I leave the building after the professor dismisses us, I’m surprised to hear someone calling my name.
I turn, and it’s even more of a surprise when I see April and a couple of her friends heading toward me.
Usually, April only talks to me when she has something she wants to mock me for, or when we have to work together on a group project and she doesn’t have a choice. And even then, it’s not pleasant.
But now she’s smiling. She leans against one of the columns in front of the building, looking casual and perky, and I have no idea what to make of it.
“Hey, we heard you were at that event at the museum over the weekend,” April says, and I brace myself, waiting for her to make some cruel comment about what happened with my mom. “How was it?”
I blink, waiting for the rest. But that seems to be it.
“Oh. It was fine,” I tell her. “The art looked nice, and the appetizers they had were pretty good.”
She nods, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “I heard the Winstons were there. Did you meet them? They own like half the city in one way or another.”
I think back, trying to remember the names of all the people my grandmother introduced me to. “I’m not sure. I think so…”
“What about the Flecks?” one of her friends asks. “I heard their youngest daughter just got a modeling contract. She’s probably going to drop out of high school and move to New York. If I had tried to do that, my parents would’ve flipped out on me.”
“Well, that’s what Darcie Kensington did,” another one chimes in. “And then she stopped modeling and married that one movie producer.” She gives a dreamy sigh, pulling a face. “God, she’s living the life. Was she at the gala? I heard she was in town.”
All three of them look at me eagerly, and it all starts to make sense.
Because of who my grandmother is, I’ve been rubbing elbows with the elite echelon of the city.
People that social climbers like April and her friends wish they could talk to.
So they’re being polite to me because I have value in their eyes now.
I bet April would just love talking to someone like Troy. She’d probably be perfectly happy to have him openly leer at her during a conversation, just so that she could tell her friends he was into her later.
Part of me wants to tell them to go fuck themselves, but instead, I just give a tight smile.
“I met a lot of people,” I say with a shrug. “It’s hard to remember each and every one. Anyway, I’m going to be late for my next class.”
Before they can ask anything else, I step away, walking off toward the science building. The last thing I want is to get sucked into their little clique of bitches, and I’m definitely not interested in being used for my connections.
Getting the guys into the event so they could keep Malice out of prison was one thing. Helping April and her crew meet famous people so they can drool over them or whatever is something totally different.
But hearing them talk about the event makes me wonder if what happened with my mom got any press coverage.
Shit, I really hope not.
The last thing I need is for it to be splashed all over the internet that Olivia Stanton’s long lost granddaughter has a drug crazed hooker for a mother. I couldn’t do that to Olivia.
I really am running late for my next class, so it’s not until I’m leaving campus for the day that I have a chance to pull out my phone and do a quick search for press coverage of the gala.
There are a few short articles about it, just the usual sort of thing where they talk about the who’s who of the guest list and give an overview of the new wing.
Olivia is mentioned, as well as some of the other people I met that night, but there’s no mention of my mother or the disturbance that happened.
They don’t even talk about the fact that the police were called out.
Good. That’s a relief.
Was it Olivia who did this? Did she pull some strings to make sure it wasn’t talked about? Or maybe the organizers just asked the press not to mention it. It wouldn’t exactly be the glowing praise they probably wanted for a night they worked so hard for.
I poke around through the search results a bit more, frowning when I see a different article that mentions the gala. Except this news piece isn’t about the event itself—it’s about a man who died on his way home from it.
Richard Galvin, a well-known businessman in Detroit, was also a donor to the museum.
Apparently, he died in a car crash not long after the event ended, on his way back to his home.
The article mentions that another car was at the crash site, but it was empty, and that the police are still investigating how it all went down.
I stop walking and read the article again, more carefully this time.
The crash happened not long after I saw the Voronin brothers leaving the museum that night. And they said that Malice got hurt in a car accident.
My heart starts to pound as the pieces come together in my head.
That’s what happened the other night. They were involved in Richard Galvin’s death.
Shoving my phone back in my pocket, I hurry the rest of the way to my car, then peel out of the lot and start driving toward the warehouse space the brothers live in. I don’t even know what I’m doing, but I have to do something. I have to know what the hell is going on here.
When I reach their space, I screech to a stop and park, slamming my door walking up to the front of the warehouse.
It’s a stark contrast to the way I’ve come here before—either timid and unsure of myself, or being brought here practically against my will. This time, I march right up to the door and start banging on it, anger and worry and hurt building up inside me in a torrent until I feel ready to explode.
Malice comes to the door a few seconds later, his face already set in an angry expression. He looks better than he did when I last saw him. Less pale, moving with more of his usual determination than the pained walk he was doing before.
But I don’t care about that right now.
Before he can say anything, I push past him, taking advantage of his surprise as I storm into the warehouse without letting him stop me.
My anger fuels me, and as soon as he closes the door, I whirl to face him, glaring him down.
“What the hell, Solnyshka? What are you—” He manages to get out before I cut him off.
“Did you kill that guy after the gala?” I demand, my voice shaking. “Richard Galvin?”
There’s a split second where shock sparks in Malice’s eyes, just there long enough for me to see it before it’s gone, leaving his expression shuttered. His jaw goes tight, and he folds his arms, closing down. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t give me that. I just read an article about some businessman who died after the event the other night. In a car crash with an unregistered car. I know you all had something to do with this, so I want to know: did you kill him?”
“Not exactly,” he mutters.
Of course he doesn’t say anything more than that. Of course there’s no clarity, no further details. No information. Nothing. He just stands there gazing at me with a stoic expression, as if I’m the one in the wrong here.
It just makes me even more furious.
“That’s not an answer!” I shout. “I am so sick of your non-answers and your lies. The way you avoid telling me anything, avoid letting me in, but then show up whenever you need my help. That’s not fair. It’s bullshit!”
“Why does it matter?” he snarls. “It’s none of your business anyway. You’re the one who said you don’t want to be involved in our shit anymore.”
“Yeah, I did say that,” I fire back. “And then you dragged me into it anyway! Ransom shows up and tells me that you guys need my help or—” I break off, not wanting him to know that I gave in so easily over the weekend because I was worried about him going back to jail.
Instead, I square my shoulders, glaring up into his eyes. “What was the job, Malice?”
He shakes his head stubbornly, crossing his thick, tattooed arms over his chest. “I’m not going to tell you that. It’s better if you don’t know.”
My eyes narrow, and I grit my teeth, biting back the urge to scream.
“Don’t you dare,” I whisper harshly. “Don’t fucking act like you’re trying to protect me right now. This isn’t about me. It’s only about me when you need my help. Every other time, you’re just thinking about yourselves.”
“You know that’s not true,” Malice bites out, his nostrils flaring. “I told you there was a reason we didn’t want you involved in this shit before.”
“Yeah.” I let out a humorless laugh. “And when you showed up at my apartment covered in blood and losing more of it by the second, you got me involved anyway. So that ship has already sailed.”
“That’s not what I—”
I cut him off before he can say anything else. “What was it?” I press, stepping in closer, lifting my chin to get right in his face.
There was a time when Malice would have shoved me back or grabbed a gun and threatened me, but now he just stands there, watching me. He doesn’t make a move to get me to stand down, and he doesn’t growl out any type of threat.
There was also a time when I would have been terrified to go toe to toe with him like this, but that time has long since passed. Danger still radiates from him like an aura, but it doesn’t scare me anymore. And I don’t plan on backing down until I get the answers I want.
I glare up at him, practically vibrating with the force of my emotions.
“Did I help you murder a man?” I demand, my heart thudding heavily. “Was that why you needed me to get you invitations to the event? Because you needed an in so you could fucking murder him?”