Chapter Twenty
TWENTY
WE LEAVE THE LIbrARY IN a daze, the sun a too-bright contrast to the flickering fluorescents of the basement.
“You sure you’re okay?” Lucas asks tentatively, his fingers trailing down my arm as we turn toward Biltmore. I nod, but I avoid his eyes; how does he seem to see straight through me?
“Harper!” someone yells from the direction of the fountain. Beside me, Lucas stiffens.
“Mr. Matsoukas.” I grin despite the heaviness in my chest. It’s hard not to when the visual of him is so ridiculous. He’s waving his arm in the air so hard, his whole upper body sways with the movement.
“Oh please,” he laughs, holding up his hands in surrender.
“When we’re just hanging around campus, you know you can call me Alastair!
There’s no need for the formalities when we’re practically family.
” The sound of his syrupy accent, all elongated vowels and lazy consonants makes me feel lighter somehow.
But I squint my eyes at the content of his words. Family? Really?
I’m pretty sure Gigi would have poisoned the Matsoukases with her secret plot of nightshade if she could’ve gotten away with it.
“I hope you’re settling in okay on campus! Not staying out past curfew anymore, I’m sure.” He waggles his eyebrows at me conspiratorially, and Lucas glances between us.
“No—no sir, I learned my lesson.”
“Well, I’m certainly glad to hear that!” Alastair turns his wide smile toward Lucas. “Son! I’m happy you’re here too. I’ve been meaning to catch up with you!”
Lucas crosses his arms over his chest, his cheeks growing a bit red. “Yeah, Dad, we should actually—”
“Kai’s grades are starting off stellar so far this semester, as usual. But it seems like the talk we had about your coursework for this year isn’t having the effect I thought it would.” Lucas’s mouth presses into a flat line.
“Hey,” Alastair says, snapping his fingers as he turns fully toward me now. “You know how he gets. Probably better than most of his friends. I need you to keep on top of him for me, Harp. Make sure he’s taking his meds.”
I’m not sure what to say, so I say nothing.
“And not just his ADHD meds, but his migraine meds too. The kid has so much potential,” he mutters, glancing back at his son, “but that’s only if he actually cracks open a book for once.
” Lucas winces. “You know what, you guys should create a study group! Just like old times, right? Get the gang back together again. Actually, Kai’s over there—Kai!
Hey! Malachi! Come here!” He’s waving frantically again, and I shrink closer to Lucas.
Malachi is passing in front of the Maxwell building when he finally notices his uncle practically screaming his name. He rolls his eyes as he approaches us, shoulders slumped and headphones blasting something with a deep bass.
He peels one earbud out just enough to hear us, but he doesn’t pause his music.
“What?”
The headmaster chortles like he finds his nephew’s defiance amusing.
“I was just talking to Luke and Harper about forming a study group! I know you’ve been on top of your work so far this semester, unlike your cousin, and Harper has always been good at whipping you two into shape—why don’t y’all team up?”
I cough into my elbow, my cheeks heating as I inch backward. First of all, why is he talking about Lucas like he’s some kind of massive fuckup?
“Ha, I’m not sure—it’s not—we’re—” I stumble over my words.
Lucas slips his hand into mine, his warm palm centering me, stealing the embers of rage that were sparking in my chest. Instantly I feel relieved. Like I can breathe again. Across from us, Malachi clears his throat.
Alastair smiles gently. “How long can this spat between y’all really last? Lucas and Kai, you need to make up already, and Kai, stop treating Harper like she’s some kind of leper. It was one fight, she said one awful thing, but she’s not responsible for what happened, is she?”
Malachi’s eyes shoot to mine.
What a weird fucking thing for Alastair to say. And it’s somehow even stranger that Malachi told him about our fight in the first place. My stomach churns with shame.
“You’re right,” Malachi grinds out. “It’s not her fault.”
An uncomfortable tension fills the space between us all, and I can’t take it anymore.
“Okay, well, we’ve got to get to class… so…,” I trail off, slowly backing away.
“Oh, yes, of course! Don’t let me stop you!
Just think about what I’ve said here, I really believe y’all should put the past behind you.
” Alastair waves us off and turns, walking down the path toward the chapel, the bell tolling as we stand there for a moment, the bustle of campus thrumming around us.
“Why would he even say that—about the accident not being my fault?” I ask Malachi. He raises his eyebrows at Lucas, some silent, taunting question passing between them.
“It was a freak thing,” Lucas mutters. “It’s no one’s fault.”
There’s a moment where the friction between them is enough to ignite.
“What happened with you two?” I ask, my voice wavering on the cusp of wonder and sorrow.
Malachi rips his gaze to my face. “It was someone’s fault,” he says, like I’m not standing right here. “It just wasn’t hers.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, but he’s already popping his earbud back in and walking away.
I try Lucas instead. “Well?”
He shrugs. “I think he blames himself.”
Guilt tears through me so fast, I nearly double over from the pain of it.
“Oh,” is all I can manage as I force one foot in front of the other.
We walk a bit longer, silence crushing us.
I wonder what he’s thinking about, but I don’t pry.
There’s so much buzzing inside my head, I can barely keep up with my own thoughts.
Anxiety traps my heart in my throat, and there’s no way to spit it out.
When we finally part ways, he looks back twice, concern crinkling his brows. I try to pull a reassuring smile to my lips. It doesn’t work, but it doesn’t matter, he disappears into the throng of students just the same.
I sit on a navy blue bench with a plaque screwed to the back. In loving memory. Sandra DuPont 1965–1983. Gone too soon. Forever a Mountain Wolf.
Another teenage girl—what the hell is going on with this school?
Plopping my bookbag down between my legs, I rummage through the front pocket, searching for the paper I shoved in there a few days ago.
My fingers graze the edges, and I yank it out, unfolding it against my lap, running my hands along the seams to flatten it.
There she is, in a black-and-white photo of her own, staring right at me.
I trace the bold letters of her name with my nail.
Two or three missing or dead girls isn’t a pattern, but it’s not not a pattern either.
It looks like I’m not the only one with a mysterious connection to the history of Earnest and Black Mountain Academy.
I pull up the picture I took of Gigi protesting in the yearbook.
Fiona Beaumont has got some explaining to do.
Wherever she is.