Chapter 38
38
Sonny
I’m growing wearier with each passing hour. I fear I’ll never escape this nightmare.
My days are spent hiding in the trees, jumping at the slightest crunch of leaves or cracking twigs. I think it’s been at least a month since the attack, though I’ve lost track of the exact amount of days.
I found some unused journals in my father’s study this morning and decided to write. To whom? I’ve no clue. Someone needs to know the story, though. I doubt the truth will ever be revealed otherwise.
The days are growing shorter as summer winds to an end, so I’ve got more time in the estate before the sun rises.
I miss my family. I miss my room and my school lessons and warm, cooked meals.
Lewis brings me food at least once a day—usually a chunk of bread and, if I’m lucky, a bit of dried meat from his pantry. I’ve learned how to hunt small prey and carefully roast them over a fire without creating too much smoke.
It took far longer than I’d like to admit to ensure the meat was cooked all the way through, but I ate it anyway.
He’s recommended that I stay clear of the estate during daytime hours, based on what his father has shared from the secret meetings he’s been attending with the mayor and a small group of business owners. They were the ones to organize the attack. He believes they’ve got plans for the home.
At night, I slip in through the servants' entrance and curl up in my father’s office. There’s a loft with a bed that still smells of him for the nights he worked late. Mercifully, they didn’t take it, though the rest of his things have been removed from the room.
They know I’m alive.
On the day of the burial, Mayor Payne came to ensure everything looked appropriate for their performance. That’s the only way to describe the show they put on for the townspeople that evening. It was the oddest thing, watching those who slaughtered my family pretend to cry over their dead bodies.
The mayor questioned why my casket was empty, and I’ve never seen a face turn so red as they explained there were only seven kids.
He spoke words I hadn’t heard before. He threw things around the way my younger sisters would do in one of their tantrums. And then, he told them to hunt me down.
“Do not spare an inch of land,” he had said in a tone that sent chills down my spine.
I spent the next week curled up in the catacombs with my family’s rotting bodies, only daring to crawl out of the entrance to the woods once a day for fresh air and a sip of water. It wasn’t until Lewis overheard the search crew say they thought I had run off to Infinity Heights that he suggested I stay in the woods during the day.
That was when I lost track of time, and perhaps a little bit of my sanity.
H ayes makes a reappearance in the quad a week after I take over his position as Whitlock’s TA. He ignores me at first, looking right through me to awkwardly greet Ava and Beatrix, feigning his usual warmness. I can tell he’s trying to act casual and put on a show, but there’s tension radiating beneath his weak mask. He isn’t sure who I’ve told about what happened between us.
Lucky for him, I’ve taken enough pity on him for taking his job that I haven’t shared his true character to our friends.
His smile never reaches his eyes, which are more tired and sunken in than usual. He’s wearing a cast on his right arm now, and winces every time he moves too fast or someone accidentally bumps into him. When Ava asks what happened, he shrugs and offers some excuse about getting too drunk and falling down a flight of stairs.
I don’t like the way he looks at me as he says it, as if I had some part.
Neither of us brings up the Falconry or our argument afterward. There’s nothing left to say, anyway. I feel guilty for taking his position as Whitlock’s TA, but I don’t bother explaining that I had very little choice in the matter. Not that he deserves to know anything.
I haven’t gone back to the quad since our awkward encounter and while I hate that it feels like he’s somehow won, I don’t feel right hanging out with him as if nothing happened.
The journals have taken over every second of free time I’ve had, anyway. When I’m not in class or studying, I’m combing through the entries in a combination of shock and horror at what this young boy had to endure. It was pure torture for him to survive each day while Nocturne Valley and Ravenshurst were spinning their own fictitious tales about his family.
Nocturne Valley has never felt right to me, even before I arrived and witnessed the odd behavior firsthand. Now that I see the truth ripped down to its bare bones and know of the blood spilled to get to where they are today, it’s only made being here that much more difficult.
The reality is chilling. To know that regardless of how hard you may work at something or how pure your intentions may be, it all boils down to how others are willing to speak about you once you’re gone. Entire lifetimes can be rewritten—achievements erased or stolen.
Finley Landry wrote out every detail as if he also realized this, and was terrified of the future that he knew would come. One where he and his family line would be cast out and erased—their life’s work forgotten. Even at his young age, he scribed things most people would overlook as his final act of defiance against a system that failed him.
I’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to use my gifts on the journals, desperate for the smallest glimpse into Finley’s world. I want to see what he looks like. I want to know what Ravenshurst and Nocturne Valley looked like when he was going through all of this.
But each time I’ve tried to call it into fruition, I remain here, in the present.
How many times have I cursed these gifts for manifesting at the most inconvenient times, only to be devastated that they won’t work when I want them to so badly? The universe has a twisted sense of justice.
Poppy is the only other person I’ve told about his journals. I’m terrified that Dr. Whitlock will discover that they’re missing from his shelves and immediately realize it was me who took them. I’m so far into this, the thought of handing them over before I have a chance to finish reading or switching them out for the others I know are sitting there makes me want to throw up.
She’s obviously not as invested in the twisted history as I am, but we’ve been bouncing theories off each other every night since I read the first entry.
“I still think the biggest question is why does Doctor Weirdo have the journals in the first place?” She’s repeated the same suspicion every time the topic comes up, as if he’s somehow tied to the events that happened over one hundred years ago.
“Maybe they were in the office before he took over and he has no idea they exist,” I reply hopefully, lifting the journal I’m reading to mindlessly flip through the pages.
That’s the most logical scenario to me. It’s unlikely that the university or town would allow something like this to still be floating around at all, let alone remain in plain sight. They had to have been placed there long ago and forgotten.
“Doubtful. If the guy is as obsessive as you say he is, there’s probably not a square inch of that office he hasn’t touched.”
I can’t disagree with her there.
“I hope, for my sake, that isn’t the case. Otherwise, he may already know they’re missing.” And if he does, then when will he begin to suspect that I’m the one who took them?
“I almost wish I could be there to see this guy.”
Throwing the book back onto the couch, I chuckle. “You’d hate him.”
Just like I do. I think. He’d definitely push Poppy’s buttons, though she may see him as a challenge to conquer more than the annoyance I believe he is.
“Oh, absolutely. But that would only make things more fun.”
The thought of her anywhere near him has a small bit of anger burning in my chest.
“When are you coming back?” I ask, changing the subject. We haven’t discussed her plans for the holidays since I asked in the beginning of the semester. Her parents will expect her to come home to celebrate with them, I’m sure.
“No idea.”
“Who is running this travel expedition? Is there any plan in place?”
“No one is ‘running’ it,” she scoffs. “We’re all just trying to maximize our experience.”
“Well, your parents are going to catch onto the fact that you aren’t even in the same country if you don’t make any effort to see them.” My tone is sharper than I intend for it to sound, but I’m too annoyed with her to soften it.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, Poppy. Of course, it matters.”
She pops her lips, and I can just imagine her lying back against her pillow, examining her nails as she says, “I truly don’t give a single shit about what they think.”
That has me sitting up straighter, my mouth widening in surprise.
“Okay . . . what happens when they fly here—because you know they’re overbearing enough to do that—and find me sitting in this dorm instead of you?”
“Then they find out the truth. So what?”
I rear my head back, scowling at my phone. She is truly unbelievable.
“ So what ? What we’re doing is illegal , Poppy. I don’t feel like you’re taking it seriously enough. You should plan to take a few days off your vacation to ensure neither of us ends up in jail or something.”
“It’s not a vacation,” she interjects.
“Poppy!” I shriek.
“Okay, okay, chill out. I’ll find a way to come home. I may need your help with a plane ticket.”
I furrow my brows. “What do you mean, you’ll find a way? Don’t you have any money left?”
“Well . . . I mean, it’s expensive to travel and?—”
“The point of you going to Costa Rica was specifically based on how inexpensive it is,” I remind her. “Where did your money go?”
“What do you mean? It’s gone to all of us surviving.” She pauses, then adds, “We share everything here—it’s the rule.”
“Please don’t tell me you’ve blown thousands of dollars to foot the bill for a bunch of strangers to wander around South America . . . ”
“It’s not like that, Sonny. God, I knew you’d act this way. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
“What way? As someone who genuinely cares about you and doesn’t want to see you get taken advantage of?” My voice is a high-pitched scream at this point.
She lowers her voice. “They aren’t scamming me. I’ve told you a thousand times, these people are cool.”
“They don’t seem cool to me.”
“Like you would know . . . ” she scoffs.
My mouth pops open at that insult. Regardless of how different we’ve always been—and how antisocial I am—she’s never once said a cross word about it.
“I’m going to hang up before you say something you can’t take back. Pick a date and find a way to get home, so you can tell your mother before she flies out here to find you. It’s not just your ass on the line for this, and I’d appreciate it if you took the situation more seriously.”
I end the call before she can respond, then throw my phone across the couch. My mind is racing with thoughts as my fury toward her grows the more I replay our conversation. I hate getting caught in this angry cycle, but it feels impossible to navigate my way out of the spiral.
As if my thoughts conjured a distraction, there’s a knock on my door that pulls me out of my head enough to realize it’s past three, and I stomp over to find Ava, Beatrix, and Jonah waiting on the other side.
“Oh, right. It’s Sunday,” I grumble, opening the door wider for them to walk in. We had plans to hangout, and I completely forgot.
“Is this a bad time?” Beatrix asks as she takes slow, tentative steps past me.
“No,” I bite out, slamming the door behind Jonah.
“What crawled up your ass?” he asks boldly, quickly hopping away when the heavy door almost catches his foot.
“I’m fine. I just need a second.”
I need more than that. I need to scream into a pillow and slam my fists into a wall, but I doubt they’d understand if I admitted that.
I can’t believe Poppy is being so selfish.
I can’t believe I’ve put myself in such a vulnerable position with someone who genuinely doesn’t care how her actions affect me. Because we’ve tangled our lives together so tightly, everything she does has a direct impact on me at this point.
“Are you sure? We can go . . . ” Ava starts, pausing in front of my couch with her hand pointing toward the door.
“I promise, I’m fine,” I say a little softer. Guilt settles over me as I notice that all three of them have kept their coats and shoes on, as if they’re ready to run out. “I had an argument with my cousin and it threw me off.”
Beatrix falls onto the couch first, leaning back into the cushions like it’s hers. “We love family drama.”
Ava follows, sitting on the edge with her back ramrod straight and her purse tucked into her lap. “Yeah, tell us all about it.”
Jonah plops down beside Beatrix, frowning as he reaches beneath him and pulls out the journal I threw earlier.
Shit.
“What’s this?” He scrunches his nose in disgust and holds it up with two fingers, as if it’ll bite him if it gets too close.
“It’s nothing. Just a thing I need to read for a research project,” I lie, lunging across his lap to snatch it from his hands.
“What are you researching? Psychological disorders of the colonial era?” he asks as he swipes his palms across his jeans.
Beatrix chuckles. “Seriously, that thing looks ancient. Where did you get it?”
“I found it in Whitlock’s office.” Not a lie.
But Ava, the obsessed history nerd, sits up even straighter. “Can I see it?”
“Um . . . ” I try to think of a reason to decline, but my mind goes blank. After way too long of a delay, I finally say, “it’s really fragile.”
Fragile ? Jesus Christ, I should have just made them leave when they offered.
“Just for a second. I won’t ruin it, I promise.”
All three of them watch me with wide, expectant gazes. Of course, Ava will be careful. She probably handles documents and texts way older than this journal on a daily basis. Aside from the increased risk of being caught, there’s something wrong about sharing these with other people. Like, they aren’t meant for just anyone to read.
But Ava isn’t just anyone and I think I can trust her—even if my judgment seems a little skewed lately. If I refuse any longer, it’ll only encourage them to pry harder.
With that thought in mind, I slowly hand the journal over to her waiting hands. She accepts it, her eyes lingering on my face before she slowly turns it around in a silent appraisal. Opening the front cover, her lips purse at the name scribbled on the first page. I gnaw on my bottom lip as she flips to the next page, her eyes scanning over Finley’s words.
I feel like a child who was caught stealing. And yet somewhere, deep in my chest, I’m relieved that someone else finally knows about the journals. Someone who actually cares about the implications they have, unlike Poppy.
“Poppy . . . ” Ava begins, and just I nod my head. “Whitlock had this?”
“What is it?” Beatrix interrupts.
Nodding, I keep my eyes locked on Ava. “There’s at least six of them. This is the third.”
Ava scans the next page, her brows pulled together in a disbelieving frown. “Why would he have these?”
My heart skips a beat as I excitedly blurt out, “I think the other boy is his family member. I’m not sure he even knows they exist.”
I had no idea how much I needed to talk about this.
“Hello? What does it say?” Beatrix tries again. When neither of us responds again, she looks toward Jonah with a frustrated huff.
“I don’t understand. This is dated after Ravenshurst was founded. How could a Landry have written about it when they were all dead?”
Beatrix steps forward and pulls the journal from Ava’s hands, earning a scowl from both of us as she roughly opens it up. Jonah leans over her shoulder to look, too.
“According to these, they weren’t all dead.”
“This is for a research project?” Beatrix asks, her voice raising in confusion.
Dropping my eyes to the floor, I admit, “Well, it’s more of a personal project.”
Ava blows out a breath. “This is huge.”
I bob my head in an excited nod, holding my finger up while I run off to my room to grab the others. When I return, I can’t help the smile that’s spread across my face when I hand them over to Ava.
“The first one talks all about what happened to his family. It’s brutal,” I explain in a rush. “A lot of it is his mundane, day-to-day musings, but it’s so interesting to see how he survived without anyone knowing. Especially at such a young age.”
Beatrix and Jonah sit back down as I recall the basics of what I read, not going into as much detail as he did when it came to the violence that the Landrys endured. Ava stands beside me and nods along, her expression unreadable.
“So, everything the university says about the Landrys is a lie,” Beatrix surmises.
I shrug. “There are a lot of inconsistencies.”
Lifting a single, perfectly manicured brow, Ava crosses her arms and shifts her weight to one foot. “How long have you had these?”
“A few weeks,” I admit, holding my hands up in defense when she pops her mouth open to yell at me. “I didn’t exactly get permission to take them, and I wasn’t about to risk taking you down with me if I got caught.”
“What do we do now?” Ava asks.
“There’s nothing we can do, right? It’s a sad story, but the school is already here and the town is pretty set in their history,” Beatrix laughs.
Ava furrows her brow and blanches at her friend. “So, we just let them profit from other people’s suffering? Leave the town looking like the heroes who honored the family they murdered in cold blood?”
“Maybe we can hunt down this Finley kid and see if he ended up having a family. Pay them reparations or something . . . ” Jonah suggests.
“With what? Your own personal savings?” Beatrix challenges sarcastically.
I keep my attention on Ava, who seems to have taken the news about Finley as bad as if someone personally offended her.
“It doesn’t make any sense. There’s a whole section about the Landry family in my bloodline history course. They all died the same night in a tragic fire. Finley died, too. His grave is marked with the same date.” She turns the journal over in her hands, eyes wide like she almost doesn’t believe she’s holding it. “But this refutes all of that.”
Furrowing her brows, she lifts her dark eyes to meet mine. “It’s not like Whitlock would forge something like this, right? He’s not that crazy . . . ”
I shake my head. “I’ve read quite a bit. I don’t think those details could be falsified.”
“Can we read them?”
My mouth clamps shut. Can they read them? I should have known that exposing them to the journals would lead to them wanting to dive in.
But am I willing to share Finley yet?
I suppose that’s my best bet for getting down to the truth about what happened and who is responsible for the lies that were spread.
With shaking hands, I slowly nod my head and the four of us spend the rest of the evening poring over Finley Landry’s words.