5. Sable
SABLE
“Can you tell us what happened?” someone demands from above me, words soft but tone forceful.
I can’t even breathe, let alone answer, and all I can think about is my mother.
She can’t really be dead, can she? I’m not all alone.
Mama, Mama, Mama. The cold is everywhere, so deep in my bones that I think my teeth might break as they chatter.
“Did the steering malfunction?” another voice asks. “You guys went over the edge at top speed.”
“Oh shit–” a police officer cuts off the conversation, my wallet in hand. “This is Weston Briarwick’s daughter.” He comes to kneel in front of me, forcing me out of my head and into the world around me. “Is that your father in the car, Sable?” he asks.
My chin dips. Yes.
“We had a warrant for his arrest. We just hadn’t executed it,” he says to someone standing beside us, but still watching me.
“What for?” Someone asks the question I can’t bear to ask.
“Human trafficking. They found girls in cages in one of his buildings.”
My heart breaks even further , but I don’t speak. Before this, I wouldn’t have believed it, but now?
My eyes rip open, finding I’m in an entirely new place.
My heart beats so fast my ears buzz. I attempt to rub out the sleep and make sense of reality, but my brain struggles to separate from that night.
My mother’s laughter floats around me like she's somewhere close by, but when I try to listen, the sound disappears.
My phone vibrates once more and then stops. I didn’t permit myself to fall asleep, but clearly, that’s what woke me. I’m glad I didn’t get to the part where I wake screaming, until I remember what happened earlier. The asshole behind the partition could deal with some screaming.
My phone rings again, and I’m surprised to find Uncle Carl's name flashing on my screen. He prefers to speak in person, where there’s no evidence of the ways he makes my skin crawl, but now I'm out of his reach. Yet I still consider not answering.
Deeper shades drench the rocks and trees, the effects of a recent storm.
Everything seems larger out here, the woods piling all the way into the sky.
The car rumbles over the uneven dirt path, rocking and swaying, and if I had eaten breakfast, I would actually puke.
I lift the phone to my ear just before it can go to voicemail again.
“Hello,” I say.
“I can’t believe you did this,” he spits.
“Believe it.” I’m too tired to kiss his ass.
“Do you think this is funny? I wanted nothing from you, and you chose this instead.”
He talks as if I don't know what he wants from me. Nothing . Yeah, I consider a scholarship to an Ivy League school a better alternative to screwing my uncle, blood or not.
“I’m not laughing, Uncle Carl, but my choice is made.”
“How could you agree to this ?” His voice shakes with his rage, and I consider just hanging up, but a part of me is afraid to do that too. My forehead presses to the window, the cool glass soothing on my overheated skin. Will I get out of these woods on my own someday?
“I don’t need to explain anything to you.”
“Like hell you don’t.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Fine, have fun being a whore. I warned Weston that this is exactly what would happen when he married your mother.” His words burn despite the only part of that statement I understand is that he’s insulting my mother’s memory.
“Fuck you, Carl. Lose my number.”
I end the call, and condensation fogs the glass as I exhale.
My mother was lovely, composed, and gentle.
Saying I'm a whore because I'm her daughter is the furthest thing from the truth.
I can earn the title without anyone's help.
But anyway, I won a scholarship for a very prestigious school right when I wasn't in the position of saying no.
This is a miracle, even if Bellthorn Academy is creepy and in the middle of nowhere.
My eyes search the woods as the car rolls forward.
The isolation thickens until civilization is a fairy tale, no more truth to it than ghosts or monsters. A text pops across my screen.
Carl: You still owe me.
Too bad for him, I don’t intend to pay for my father’s crimes.
Rolling steam, like smoke from a dragon, swells all around as the car pulls to a stop.
My hands shake as I open the door, and I can’t tell if it’s arriving here or the conversation that’s left me so on edge.
I'm desperate to leave the scene of the crime behind me. When I step outside, unsteady over my high heels, the cool breeze reminds me of the alcohol sticking to my clothes. Thick humidity floats and clings like it’s a living substance; it licks my skin and grabs me by the throat.
My wound has stopped gushing, but I won’t dare let go of the napkin.
This is one hell of a way to show up.
The trunk unlocks on its own, and no one steps out to help me.
Clumsily, I pull the suitcase out of the trunk with my good hand.
It hits the ground, splashing mud on my shoes.
I step back with a curse, and before I'm a foot away, the car starts to roll. My eyes catch someone staring back at me in the side view mirror as it takes a turn, and I nearly shriek my rage. That’s definitely not my uncle.
Shivers wrack my body when the car finally disappears beneath a bend in the road.
I am so utterly alone that the hair on the back of my neck stands as the woods watch me.
The trees dance, branches conducting a haunting symphony with the wind, and I wonder what kind of elite academy this is if there’s no one around?
My gaze turns to the wrought-iron gate to my right as it stretches far higher than most people could climb. This wasn’t in the catalog. Behind the gate, a door is set into the side of the mountain, like some secret wartime bunker but massive. Above the door, a Gothic B is inscribed into the stone.
Creepy.
There doesn’t seem to be any bells to ring, not even a security camera as far as I can tell, and no one is here to greet me. I take a few quick breaths to steady myself. Someone will come soon. I’m expected.
My toe taps nervously as I scroll through their website on my phone, looking for some hint about what the hell I should do next.
Did I miss some kind of PIN code for the gate?
But after a quick inspection, I realize there’s no pad, nothing remotely modern about this place.
A whisper from the woods licks the shell of my ear, and I’m done with Bellthorn before I even set a foot inside.
The website mocks me as I scroll through the pictures.
My hands shake, but I ignore them, refusing to give the fear growing inside my chest attention.
Instead, I examine each picture of this so-called academy.
I don’t know where these came from, but it’s certainly not this place. Are they even real?
With nothing better to do, I turn and sit on top of my oversized suitcase, fingers frantically tapping the screen as if checking again will change what's written on the website. As I scroll through the pictures of serious co-eds and colorful libraries, I’m forced to accept that I’ve never even seen a real picture of the academy.
Someone eventually passes by the gate, a girl I’ve never seen before, and I’m sure this is my salvation. Instead, she doesn’t even look my way. And when I try to get her attention? She just walks faster.
What kind of a place is Bellthorn?