Chapter Twenty-Six
Skye
I balance my phone against my water bottle in the hotel room. The FaceTime screen wobbles for a second before settling as it rings.
It’s two in the morning back in Boston, but my aunt’s nurse reached out and said she wouldn’t sleep unless she talked with me. My knee-jerk reaction was that something was wrong, but when Nora left a voicemail, she said that Keisha wanted to hear my voice.
My heart filled, and I knew I had to call back.
The familiar room of Aunt Keisha’s care facility comes into focus. Pale yellow walls, a window with half-open blinds, and Keisha sitting upright in bed like she’s waiting impatiently for our video to connect.
“Skye,” Keisha’s face lights up, her dark eyes bright in the camera. “There she is. My Olympian.”
I grin automatically. Hearing that still feels weird. A good weird, but weird.
“Hi, Keish.”
“Are you at the rink right now?”
“Not anymore,” I tell her. “Just back in my room. We had practice a few hours ago.”
Keisha leans forward like she’s trying to see around me through the phone. “It must be freezing there. You better be wearing layers.”
I laugh softly. “I promise I’m not walking around the Olympics in a t-shirt.”
A nurse passes behind the bed and pauses when she sees the phone. The same nurse as always, Nora. She gives a little wave.
“Hey, Skye. Big day tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah.” I give a polite smile.
Normally, I’d toss something playful her way. Harmless and easy flirting, but it was fun. The thought of Violet pops into my head immediately. and the words I’d normally say stick firmly to my tongue.
Keisha turns to the nurse. “Nora, tell her she needs to score a goal for me.”
“Oh, absolutely.” Nora leans closer to the camera. “You better. Your aunt has been bragging about you all day.”
I rub the back of my neck. “No pressure, huh?”
Nora smiles again, lingering a second longer than necessary, but then disappears from the room.
Keisha watches her go and turns back to the phone.
“She likes you,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Aunt Keisha,” I groan.
“I’m serious.”
I shrug. “She’s just being nice.”
Keisha studies my face with surprising intensity. Some days her mind wanders everywhere, but other days she could still look right through me like I’m a kid lying about finishing my homework.
“Well,” Keisha says finally, “you’ve always had that effect.”
I roll my eyes, but smile.
“So,” she continues, settling back into her pillows. “How is Alisha doing?”
My smile disappears before I can stop it. There it is. Every time.
I feel a twist in my stomach like someone pulled a thread I’d just finished tying back. “She uh…” I glance down at the table, fingers tapping on my knee. Keisha is watching me expectantly, but with everything that just happened, I struggle with how to answer this question.
Keisha won’t remember what I tell her, so it’s not worth upsetting her over the whole thing.
I’ve told her before that we’re not together, and she didn’t take the news well, but I couldn’t tell her why or what happened.
Now, with Alisha causing a scene here in Milan, Keisha would want to do something about it.
Rip her hair from her scalp or pick off her fingernails one by one.
Not that she would, but she’d want to.
So, getting her upset over something she can’t do anything about isn’t worth the pain she’d feel. My pain.
“Is she watching the games?” Keisha asks when I don’t say anything. “She must be proud of you.”
I swallow. Everything flashes through my mind all at once.
“We’re taking some time apart,” I finally say.
Keisha frowns. “What do you mean?”
I try to keep my voice still. “We broke up.”
The confusion settles slowly over Keisha’s face. I was hoping it would just roll over her like fog. Like Alisha was just another person who could be replaced. Hoping she’d say something more along the lines of “You’re young, Skye. There’s plenty of fish in the sea.” But instead, she looks hurt.
Exactly what I was trying to avoid.
“Oh,” she says quietly. And for a second, the look in her eyes tells me that it might actually stick this time. “But she seemed so nice.”
I exhale slowly through my nose. “Yeah. Sometimes people seem that way.”
Keisha looks down at her hands, thinking. Then, she brightens suddenly and smiles into the camera. “Well, maybe you’ll bring someone new next time you visit.”
I blink, unable to stop the smile that tugs at my mouth. “Maybe,” I tell her, feeling some of the tension leave my body at the idea of Keisha meeting Violet.
“Anyone special?”
I hesitate. Violet’s laugh flashes through my mind. The way she squeezes my hand when she holds it. The way she waves at security cameras. The way she constantly rubs that little stone in her jacket pocket. Or the calm she brings to me, like a fresh breath of oxygen.
Woah. Skye. Calm down with the ooey gooey analogies. Gross.
“Yeah. Actually, there is.”
Keisha beams as if she’d just solved a puzzle.
“Well, good. You deserve someone who treats you right.”
She leans closer to her phone again. “So, tell me about the Olympics. Have you seen any famous athletes yet?”
I laugh, grateful for the topic change.
“Technically, I’m one of them now, Aunt Keisha.”
Keisha waves that off immediately.
“Well, yeah, obviously. But besides you.”
I explain the people I’ve seen around the Olympic Village, sharing some of the drama I’ve heard, because I know that lights her up. But talking about it feels more like narrating a reality TV soap opera, except somehow, I’m both the commentator and one of the contestants.
Nine o’clock came and went.
I stand by the window of my room, watching the morning light harden over the Milan rooftops. My phone is silent on the bedside table, making the space feel too large and too empty.
Violet is supposed to be here. The punishment is over, and I want to see her.
She’s with Cassie. They’re just running late. The Vertical Forest became interesting to Violet after all.
Nine-fifteen.
The brooding storm inside me begins to stir. It’s not like Violet to ignore my calls. Not when she understands the contract and how things work when she’s given a direct order. Not after what happened.
At nine twenty-eight, I pick up my phone and call. It rings four times before going to voicemail. Her bright, professional voice greets me. “You’ve reached Violet Lockwood. Leave a message.”
I don’t leave a message. I hang up and call again. And again.
Each unanswered ring is like a drop of ice water down my spine. The possessive ache from last night curls into something sharper. Darker.
This isn’t defiance. This is an absence.
By ten, the ice in my spine solidifies, and I’m certain that something is wrong.
I don’t run. But I walk quickly. My shoes are heavy on the polished floor of the hotel corridor.
I’ll check her space, assess, and then I’ll act.
I use my key to get in and notice the room is pristine. The faint scent of her perfume lingers in the air, but faint enough that I know she hasn’t been here for a while. No laptop charging or suitcase on the bed. No sign of a morning rush.
Yet, on the floor just inside the door, lies a single sheet of hotel stationery. It was crumpled at some point, as if it had slid into the room from outside.
I bend and pick it up, studying it to try to determine what I’m seeing. The handwriting is harsh, an angry scroll digging deep into the paper.
We’re done waiting.
That is all. Three words. A chill, deeper than anything I’ve felt on the ice, locks around my ribcage. This isn’t from Violet or Cassie.
This is a threat.
My mind races.
Did Aethelgard know she was here?
No, there’s no way. It has to be someone else. Someone with a grudge and stupid enough to throw everything away to get payback for embarrassing him.
Theo.
The piece of shit ex-boyfriend who’d yelled at her in this very room. He was drowning in shame after single-handedly torpedoing his team’s chances at the gold medal. He has a motive, though I doubt he has access. Sliding this note under her door is the only way to get to her.
I don’t hesitate. I fold the note and slip it into the inner pocket of my jacket, closing the door to the room as I leave.
Finding him isn’t hard. The men’s hockey team is housed in the village, their morale famously in the gutter. I find him in a common area lounge, alone, slouched in an armchair and staring blankly at a sports highlight show that replays his own catastrophic own goal.
He sees me approaching, and his face contorts into a sneer. “Oh, fuck off. You’re not welcome here. Go babysit your own team.”
I stop in front of him, blocking his view of the TV. I say nothing. Just let the weight of my presence press down on him.
“I said get lost,” he barks, starting to push himself up from the chair.
I don’t move. I reach into my jacket and pull out the crumpled note, holding it out so he can see the scrawled message without me having to release it.
His eyes drop to the paper, and his sneer freezes, melting away. All the color draining from his face.
His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. His eyes go wide with panic that isn’t caused by anything that has to do with me.
“Where is she, Theo?” My voice is low, a quiet rumble that holds the promise of breaking every bone in his body.
He flinches, cowering down into the armchair.
“I don’t know where she is.” His voice is timid.
I want to say he’s lying, but the terror on his face is real. It’s the fear of someone who knows about a monster.
“This was in her room. You know where her room is. You were the last one to harass her. And now she’s missing.” I take a step closer. “Talk now. Or I’ll make sure your shoulder injury from that hit becomes a permanent career-ending condition.”
He shrinks into the chair, looking like all the air is deflating from his body.
“It wasn’t me.” He no longer sounds scared or guilty. Just accepting what's happening like there’s nothing that can be done about it.
“I know who it might be. And if it’s them…” he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “You’re already too late.”