Chapter 20
Twenty
A heavy, authoritative knock at my door jolts me awake. I sit up from lying diagonally across my bed, my phone slipping out of my palm.
I wipe my crusty eyes, wondering how long I slept. It wasn’t intentional, more like blacking out.
Another knock thunders against my door.
“Alice?”
My heart leaps inside my throat.
It’s Miranda.
“Alice, I need to see you now.”
I slide off the bed, pocket my phone, and my unsteady legs amble toward the door.
Don’t open it. Don’t open it. Don’t open it.
Despite the voice of reason’s warning, I open the door.
Miranda stands in the hallway, wearing an impeccably tailored black blazer and pencil skirt, and an unreadable expression.
“My office.” Her voice is crisp, businesslike. “Now.”
The words land like stones in my stomach. “I—what?”
“Upstairs.” She’s already turning away, expecting me to follow. “I have work to do, so you can follow me up there while we have our little discussion.”
Discussion?
Will it be like last night’s talk?
Miranda’s heels click against the hardwood with military precision, making her way to the second staircase that leads to the third floor.
I’ve never been up there. I’ve never even had a passing thought of exploring the space.
The stairs are narrower than the ones leading from the first floor to the second.
It feels like the walls are pressing in on each side.
Maybe someone would enjoy the feeling of privacy, but this leaves me feeling claustrophobic.
The steps themselves are dark wood, worn smooth in the center from decades of footsteps. Each one creaks under Miranda’s heels as she climbs. As I follow, my hand grips the bannister, and the air grows warmer as we ascend. Up here, there’s an intimate feeling that somehow feels more threatening.
Maybe that’s just the fact that Miranda wants to talk.
The third-floor hallway is short and only has two doors. The one on the left stands slightly ajar, and through the gap I glimpse cream-colored walls and the corner of a four-poster bed draped in lilac silk.
Miranda’s bedroom.
The door on the right is closed. Solid dark wood with an old-fashioned brass handle that gleams in the low light. Miranda produces a key from her blazer pocket, unlocks the door and pushes it open. She steps inside and holds it for me.
I hesitate on the threshold.
“Come in, Alice. I don’t have all evening.”
I force myself into the room.
Miranda’s office looks like what I expected after hearing Mrs. Rodriguez’s brief description of my aunt.
It’s warm, rich, and deliberately curated to project success.
The walls are an off-white to make the space feel larger.
Original crown molding runs along the ceiling, freshly painted in gold leaf that catches the light from the brass desk lamp.
A Persian rug in deep reds and golds covers most of the hardwood floor, thick enough that my footsteps don’t make a sound.
The massive mahogany desk with carved legs dominates the space. Miranda’s laptop sits open on it, surrounded by neatly stacked papers, contracts, and a coffee mug with a lipstick-stained rim.
Behind the desk, a leather chair faces the window.
The curtains are open, revealing the valley below, painted in evening shadows and fading light.
Awards and plaques from Knox Records cover the back wall, along with photos of Miranda with various bands and artists I half-recognize.
All professional shots with everyone smiling at the camera.
There’s not a family photo anywhere in sight.
In the corner, three metal filing cabinets stand like soldiers, and each bears a label.
‘Clients.’
‘Financial.’
‘Personal.’
The ‘Personal’ cabinet is different from the others. It’s older, brass instead of silver, and slightly tarnished. It’s out of place and looks like it came with the house, and Miranda uses it for the less important things in her life.
Miranda circles the desk and settles into her leather chair, the material creaking softly. She gestures to the chair across from her. It’s lower than hers. A power move designed to make whoever sits there feel small.
“Sit.”
I perch on the edge of the chair, my hands clasped in my lap.
Miranda leans back, her fingers steepled beneath her chin. The desk lamp casts shadows across her face, making her expression even harder to read.
“I received another call from Ashworth Academy this afternoon,” she begins, her voice measured and cold. “Care to guess what it was about?”
My throat goes dry. “I—“
“Truancy, Alice,” she says it plainly, with no need to raise her voice. “It’s like our discussion yesterday didn’t even happen.”
“I can explain.”
“I don’t want excuses.” Her fingers remain steepled, perfectly still. “I want solutions.”
I swallow hard, my gaze dropping to the desk and aimlessly scanning the papers spread across it.
“The school suggested,” Miranda continues, each word precise and cutting, “that perhaps you’re not ready to return to regular attendance. That perhaps the circumstances of your arrival were too traumatic for immediate reintegration.”
She pauses, letting it sink in.
“They implied,“ her voice goes colder, “that I might not be providing adequate support for a grieving teenager.”
My head snaps up. There’s something different in her expression. Not anger, but perhaps wounded pride?
“I’ve opened my home to you, Alice.” She spreads her hands, gesturing at the opulent office around us. “I’ve enrolled you in one of the finest schools in the state, and this is how you repay me? By making me look incompetent to your school administrators?”
“I didn’t mean to…”
“You never mean to. But intentions don’t matter. Results do. And right now, the result is that social services may write a report, questioning my fitness as your guardian.”
My stomach drops. “Mrs. Rodriguez was impressed by…”
“If the school somehow contacts her...” Miranda’s jaw tightens. “Mrs. Rodriguez will want to reassess the placement. Do you understand what that means? Do you understand what happens if she decides this arrangement isn’t working?”
I can’t breathe. The room is too warm. The walls press in closer.
“I need you here.” Miranda’s voice softens slightly, but there’s no warmth in it. “Ryder needs consistent academic support, and I need Sky Chaos to become a success.”
There it is. The truth laid bare.
“I told you this was an inopportune time for me to take you in,” she continues. “But I did it, Alice. I took you in. I’m giving you a roof over your head and meals on your plate. The least you can do is turn up at school.”
“I was tutoring Ryder,” I blurt.
Miranda sits back, intrigued. “What was that?”
“Ryder made me stay home.” I’m panting. “He wanted extra help on his essay. I didn’t have a choice. I wanted to go to school.”
“Oh.” Miranda sits taller, the disdain melting off her. “So, we’re back on track? You’re willing to help him with his studies?”
I nod. “I told you I would.”
A pleased grin brightens her expression. “Good.”
I breathe out hard and fast. Right now, I’d say anything to save my own skin. I don’t want this woman tearing me in two. I want to get out of this room faster than my legs will take me.
“So, he handed in his essay?”
My mind plays in reverse, recounting the day’s events. The last time I saw Ryder was outside the music room. Before that, we were in the kitchen. Before that, I threw a sandwich at him and asked if we could skip studying.
So, did he…
I shake off the question. Yesterday, at Alto Burger, I read a good-enough essay. All he had to do was upload it to the school portal. Maybe he’d only get a B minus, but it’s better than a failing grade.
“Yes,” I respond with as much confidence as I can muster. “I read his essay. He was good to go.”
“Excellent.” Miranda makes a note on her planner. “Remember, you have therapy at ten a.m. tomorrow. I want you to discuss school with Dr. Novak. We need you to get your head on straight and actually attend classes. You can do that, yes?”
“Yes,“ I squeak before I even compute her words.
Miranda gestures at the door. “You can go, dear. I need to get back to work.”
I’m off the chair before she can take it back. I’m so fast down the stairs that I almost slip. My sweaty palm grips the bannister, hoping I don’t make a scene and force Miranda out of her office.
Thankfully, I make it to the second floor without gaining my aunt’s attention.
Before turning toward my bedroom, I notice the silence. The band isn’t playing. Are they still here? Is Ryder still planning to knock on my door? Did he stop by while I was upstairs?
My eyes drift upward, remembering the filing cabinets, especially the one labeled ‘Personal.’ What’s in there, and could it have anything to do with my mom? Anything about money changing hands or the reason they didn’t talk for years?
The possibility of answers about my new reality fills me with tentative hope.
Ryder’s door flies open, jolting me out of my thoughts.
He emerges in dark jeans and a charcoal button-down, chains glinting at his collar.
His hair is damp, pushed back from his face with more care than usual.
He’s moving fast, sliding his phone into his back pocket.
He nearly collides with me before he registers I’m standing there.
“Ally.” He stops short, doing a quick double-take. “Hey. You okay?”
A car horn blares from outside. Long, aggressive, and impatient.
“Where are you going?” I ask, taking in his nicer clothes.
“Chase’s house.” He’s already moving past me and toward the stairs, talking over his shoulder. “His dad is actually home for once. He’s, like, never there. But he’s got a conference call with overseas investors at nine-thirty, so if I don’t leave right now, I’ll miss him completely.”
Another horn blast, even longer this time.
“That’s…” I start, but he’s already halfway down the hall.
He pauses at the top of the stairs, turning back. “Go downstairs and get dinner from Mrs. Gallagher, okay? You need to get back into the habit of eating.”
I flinch. Is he ordering me around again?
He leans over the bannister, urgent concern furrowing his brow. “Alice, please. Don’t make me worry about you while I’m gone.”
I roll my eyes. No, wouldn’t want to put the rockstar out.
“Ally, I’m serious. I care about you.”
Pouting, I force myself to look at him.
“Look, I…” He stops, reaching for his phone and frowning at the buzzing display. “Gotta go.”
He races down the stairs, talking on his phone. “Dude, I’m coming. Chill.”
Before I can even move to the top of the stairs, I hear the front door slam.
He’s gone.
I move down the stairs, hearing the crunch of gravel outside the house.
My stomach growls. Ryder was right. I should eat.
Will the food be on the dining table? Or is Mrs. Gallagher fed up with me and doesn’t plate up my dinner anymore?
With anxiety churning in my stomach, I venture towards the kitchen. There’s a clamminess to my hands as I gently knock on the door frame.
Mrs. Gallagher is hunched over, cleaning the stovetop. “What the heck is caked on here?”
Uh-oh. Did the singed paper somehow ruin the burner?
Before I can retreat, Mrs. Gallagher lifts her head and finds me. “Yes, miss?”
“Umm.” My voice falters. “Did you, umm, make dinner?”
Mrs. Gallagher wipes her hands on her black half-apron and moves to the kitchen island. She lifts a metal covering, revealing seared chicken, steamed green beans, and a baked potato.
“I was wondering if I’d see you tonight,” she says with a small smile.
“I hope you don’t take offense at my lack of eating your meals.”
She waves it off. “New surroundings. Ryder was the same, but he came with attitude. I’m grateful you’re not another musician. Over the years, Ms. Knox has had too many of them around for my liking.”
“You’ve worked for my aunt for years?”
“Off and on. Don’t ask me why, because I can’t tell you.” She then hums a laugh, gesturing at the stove. “But, can’t complain. Ms. Knox bought this rundown, old manor house and still upgraded every appliance in this kitchen.”
“Oh, the kitchen didn’t come like this?”
“Heck no. I told Ms. Knox, when I first saw this place, no way in heck I’d cook in here.” She hums another laugh, sprinkling a little more garnish on my meal. “That woman isn’t afraid to spend some money. I’ll tell you that much.”
My aunt’s outfits and her hairstyle already led me to the same conclusion.
When I don’t respond, Mrs. Gallagher grows tight-lipped, as if she’s said too much. She throws a dish towel over her shoulder and goes back to scrubbing the stove. The awkwardness ripples over me, and I’m quick to thank her and move into the dining room.
Whoa. The twelve-seater table feels so lonely. I take a seat at the end and give myself an internal pep talk about actually eating this meal.
I pull out my phone, opening to Jill’s last text, and type: “Any tips on how to eat dinner?”
I stare at the message without hitting send. Do I really want to worry her? Yes, she started feeding me candy bars when I was having trouble eating. But she won’t want to know I’m still grieving.
We don’t have the same relationship we did back home. It was nice to think about how our relationship used to be. But that’s just it. Used to be.
I delete the message and open my browser to the Sky Chaos Late Show clip.
As Ryder begins to play, I slice through the chicken on my plate.
I close my eyes and listen to the band playing together.
I lift my fork and open my mouth. The texture hits my tongue and I try to identify the seasoning Mrs. Gallagher used.
“Way to go, Sprout,” Dad’s voice whispers into my ear.
I put my fork down and frown at my dinner, admitting, “This is really hard.”