Chapter Twenty Six
I pause just in front of a floral archway leading into the courtyard, straightening the cuffs of my coat as I take it all in.
My mother, as she demands I call her, has really outdone herself this time.
The entire courtyard looks like it’s been pulled straight from a magazine that did a side piece of mourning for the elite.
Rows of white chairs are arranged in a semicircle around a temporary podium, delicate strings of lights draped between the trees, and a long table covered in lilac ribbons where volunteers hand out candles.
Even the flowers placed along the fountain’s edge are lilacs, their sweet scent clinging to the damp air.
One of my father’s poor PA’s was set on the task of deep-diving into Laura’s life, crafting an event to her exact preferences.
Seems like an utter waste of time to me, she’s not even going to be here to see it.
I, on the other hand, zoned out through my classes and numbly retreated back to my frat house after lunch, waiting for the inevitable. The memories that plague me.
My confession to Meg last night was the first time I’ve expressed how her disappearance affected me.
The truth is, when she was suddenly absent from my life, something inside my carefully constructed world shattered.
It didn't matter how closely I watched on, how I goaded her to keep being her best, how I planned out the next few years of our surface-level rivalry, it was all blown to shit.
The strongest, iron-willed, most obstinate person I knew was gone, replaced by journalists and news crews.
I carried on with practices, sat through classes, gave interviews, fulfilled every obligation that comes with the Calloway name, while a slow, gnawing dread hollowed out my ribs from the inside.
As weeks passed, I became deadened to those around me, simply going through the motions.
I knew she would put up a good fight, that her stubborn resolve would serve her well, but no one is unbreakable.
Then, weeks later, the news finally came that she’d be found alive.
Meg had escaped, but her survival was only just beginning.
And yet, here we are again, standing in the midst of another missing girl.
I may not have known this freshman, but she was last seen in my domain, at a party I permitted her to attend.
My parents see it as another failure on my part, and I can’t disagree.
Speak of the devil…
“Everest.” My name cuts through the archway I’m lingering in. I blink to clear the haze from my vision, stepping through to find both of my parents standing near the podium. There’s a stern look from the pair of them, warning me to stop hesitating.
My father stands beside his wife with the same rigid posture he has at every public function, his dark suit pressed to perfection.
The woman hanging from his arm is draped in a pale lavender coat that probably cost more than most students’ tuition for a semester.
She looks immaculate as always, every strand of her blonde hair pinned neatly in place, her lips set in a solemn expression designed perfectly for the cameras circling the courtyard.
“Nice turnout,” I comment as I approach them, slipping my hands into my pockets.
My voice carries the right amount of neutrality.
Supportive, but not overly emotional. It’s a balance I’ve been practicing my entire life.
My father’s eyes sweep over me immediately, cataloguing the lilac pocket square, the pressed shirt, the absence of any visible annoyance on my face. All as requested.
“You’re late.”
“I was at practice,” I retort, lying skillfully. Despite insisting I should be putting in the work, his mouth tightens slightly, the explanation irritating him more than my lateness. Lacrosse is only impressive when it wins headlines and trophies.
“Kiss your mother,” he demands quietly. I step forward immediately, leaning down to brush a quick, dutiful kiss against her cheek.
The motion is practiced, my body angling so the photographers clustered near the fountain can capture the perfect angle.
Her perfume hits me immediately, expensive and floral.
She tilts her face just enough to present the moment to the cameras, her smile small and mournful in the way society magazines love.
Nothing says heartfelt grief like a staged moment for the cameras.
This woman has been in my life since I was eight years old, yet the word mother still sticks in my throat every time my father forces it out of me.
She’s his wife. My real mother didn’t survive childbirth, and I don’t have so much as a photograph to know if I received any traits from her.
It’s as if she never existed, which is the point.
My father doesn’t tolerate disappointments, and the fact she only gave him one heir was a travesty.
To his credit, he created a solid plan B to tie up the loose ends of his legacy. A single mom to wed a single dad, forming a power couple worth billions, and Marianne plays her role well.
“Everest, you look tired,” Marianne says softly as I pull back, her manicured fingers squeezing my arm in a gesture that could almost pass as maternal concern. I pat her fingers and place them back in the crook of my father’s arm.
“I haven’t slept much,” I reply evenly. It’s another lie.
I haven’t slept at all. Marianne simply nods, reaching the limit of her concern and turning her attention back toward the growing crowd.
More bodies are filtering into the courtyard, their murmurs weaving through the floral-scented air.
Candles flicker as volunteers move between the rows of chairs, placing them into waiting hands.
My father clears his throat. “The press arrived fifteen minutes ago. They’ll want photographs of the three of us before the speeches begin.” I withdraw a sigh.
Nothing sells a story quite like a family who didn’t know the captured girl making speeches about her loss and the effect it will have on our community.
But, regretfully for Laura, that’s not the point of this whole charade.
The point is to control the narrative. Redirect the story so the reporters don’t take a closer look at what we’re disregarding.
“Of course,” I reply, forcing the corners of my mouth to resemble sincerity.
“Wouldn’t want to disappoint.” My father’s jaw tightens at the hint of sarcasm, but he doesn’t comment on it.
Instead, he gestures toward the candle table where a cluster of reporters are already positioning themselves for a better shot.
Marianne glides forward first, accepting a candle gracefully before turning back toward the cameras.
I follow suit a moment later. The wax is cool against my palm, the flickering flame casting a warm glow over the small circle we’ve formed near the podium.
Across the courtyard, dozens of other flames begin sparking to life, although they’re dulled by the rapid flashes of cameras leaving spots in my vision.
I pose and pause, changing stance every few moments, giving the camera what it wants and none of what I’m concealing inside.
Luckily, it’s bearable for the few minutes it lasts before my father takes his place on the podium.
I guide Marianne to our reserved seats off to the side, sparing a glance for the person who is painfully absent.
A seat has been left open beside mine for Meg, an outfit delivered to her dorm earlier this afternoon.
She needs to be here, that was a non-negotiable my father set.
He doesn’t know like I do, bossing Meg around will only force her to dig her heels in.
I had to be subtle and smart about it, offering her a small piece of myself in return.
Students shift quietly into the rows of chairs, their earlier chatter trailing off. Even the reporters sense the mood settling, lowering their cameras as the last of the candles are lit.
“Thank you all for coming tonight,” my father begins, his voice carrying effortlessly through the microphone before him.
His eyes scan those present, ensuring every pair of eyes are fixed on him.
The Calloways are used to hosting this performance.
“Hollowbrook is more than an academy. It is a community.” I tune out the rest almost immediately.
His speeches always follow the same format.
Acknowledge the tragedy, praise the unity of the campus, promise unwavering support from the Calloway Foundation.
My attention drifts across the crowd instead.
Faces of students and faculty stare back, anxiety in their expressions reflecting in the candlelight they’re holding.
When Meg disappeared, it was a fluke. Now it’s happened again, it’s a pattern.
My gaze snags on the floral arch, double taking on a flash of white blond.
As soon as it appears, it’s gone. I swallow hard, lowering my gaze to the stone beneath my dress shoes for the rest of the speech.
My father speaks first, then a counselor from the student services department offering reassurance about our community resilience, followed by a local police liaison who reminds everyone that the investigation is ongoing.
Each speaker blends seamlessly into the next until they become one long, monotonous drone in the background of my thoughts.
I nod when required, stand when prompted, and even hold my candle at the appropriate moments when the crowd collectively bows their heads for a minute of silence. The entire time, however, I’m purposely ignoring the archway.