Chapter 13 #3
“I was very sorry to hear about your brother,” he says. “Josh was an impressive young man. Such a shame.” He sighs sadly. “We all hoped for a different outcome.”
“You speak as though there’s been an outcome.”
Lucien’s expression reveals nothing. “Poor phrasing on my part,” he says, turning back to Silas. The polite courtesy vanishes. “What are you doing home?”
“I live here.”
“Not during the school term. You should be on campus. Your lacrosse coach has already called me twice regarding your absences.” His gaze hardens. “And yet here you are, missing another practice.”
The room feels ice cold despite the heat from the stovetop where my grilled cheese is cooking.
“I had something I needed to handle,” Silas says, looking away.
Lucien steps closer. “You have responsibilities. Your dalliances have consequences.” He lowers his voice, but the quietness only makes it harsher. “Distraction has never built a great leader, Silas.”
A muscle ticks in Silas’s jaw. “I know, Uncle.”
“Then behave like it,” Lucien snaps.
I have no idea what they’re discussing, but I don’t think lacrosse alone could account for the heavy weight beneath Lucien’s words or the careful way Silas answers him.
Every response is measured, as if one wrong syllable might open a trap beneath his feet.
One thing becomes perfectly clear from watching their interaction.
At SFU, everyone fears Silas. Here, Silas fears Lucien.
“I’m finishing up my meeting with Mr. Ashcroft,” Lucien says to Silas. “I expect you in my study afterward.” He turns toward me again, and the gentleness returns so smoothly to his face, I almost get whiplash. “Ms. Mercer, do you require transportation home? I can have the driver take you.”
“No, thank you. I came with Rowan,” I say.
After Lucien leaves, Mr. Jottingsworth returns carrying a tray with two grilled cheese sandwiches and a basket of delicious-smelling fries. He places them before us, takes one look at Silas’s expression, and withdraws without comment.
“What was that about?” I ask Silas. “You looked… scared of your uncle.”
Silas’s eyes lift sharply.
“I was not scared.”
“You were something.”
“You have no idea what you saw.” His expression turns glacial. “Eat your sandwich.”
The temporary warmth we shared earlier has vanished, every wall back in place. I hate how much the change disappoints me.
After a few more tense minutes, he pushes back from the table. “I need to speak with my uncle,” he says. “I’ll send Rowan over to take you home.”
“You’re leaving?”
“I’ve done all I can to help you,” he says. “You’re on your own now.” He disappears into the corridor, leaving me to finish my sandwich alone.
A moment later, a little ping sounds beside me. I glance over and realize with a shock that Silas left his phone on the table.
A reasonable person would ignore it. Going through someone’s phone is a major invasion of privacy, and something tells me Silas is not the kind of guy to take that lightly.
But I’m neither reasonable where Josh is concerned nor particularly concerned about Silas’s privacy.
I reach across the table and grab the phone.
Somehow, it’s already unlocked. Either Silas is so confident no one would ever dare touch something of his that he failed to passcode-protect it, or I just got there quick enough the time lock hadn’t kicked in. Either way, I’m in.
The photo app is already open on the screen, a picture in the album library catching my attention. It’s me, crossing the quad with Wren, laughing at something she said. The photo was taken from a distance, but the focus is intimate, almost careful.
I swipe and another photograph of me appears taken outside Hallowell Hall my very first week of school. Then another of me walking around campus, my hair blown across my face. Then another and another. Far too many photos of me to be accidental.
The discovery leaves me strangely off-balance. Has Silas had someone following me? Keeping tabs on where I am and what I’m doing?
Except—the pictures don’t seem like that.
They don’t feel investigative, and they certainly aren’t crude or invasive.
If anything, they’re strangely beautiful, as though whoever took them wanted to preserve something special about those moments.
As if the person was taking photographs of someone they cared about.
But I don’t have time to dwell on what these pictures of me mean because any moment Silas will realize he left his phone and come back. I swipe through the photo app, all the way to fall of last year.
Just as I suspected, there’s Josh.
There’s a picture of Silas standing beside my brother outside the SFU quad, both of them smiling at the camera. Josh and Silas inside the Witch’s Brew, drinking beers. Josh and Silas sailing on the harbor at night. Josh and Silas sitting together in this very kitchen.
A cold knot tightens in my chest. He can deny it to my face as many times as he wants, but these pictures are finally proof of what I’ve known all along. Silas knew my brother. He knew him well.
So why has he been lying to me about it?