Ha! So fucking transparent.
Dami didn’t give a shit about Mara. The only person Dami has ever or will ever give a shit about is Dami. But will that stop her from using her murdered classmate to land herself a spot on the local news? Hell no. Of course not. I cut her a scathing look, top lip curled up, and—
“YOU’RE A FUCKING DEAD MAN, DAVIS!”
The news anchor, midway through her report, stops talking. The many students gathered on the front steps of the school all quit their conversation, too. In a matter of a few short seconds, all of the news casters and a good amount of our senior class have stopped what they’re doing, turned, and located the origin of that angry shout—and low and behold, what do you know? It came right out of the mouth of Wren Jacobi.
My friend is oblivious to the audience he’s drawn. He hurtles down the steps, out of the school’s entrance, charging straight for me. I’m on my way to being concerned about his temper, when he sees a short brunette girl standing off to the right, at the very bottom of the stairs, and his pace slows.
He still looks pissed. He’s still coming straight for me. He’s still gonna hit me. But that razor sharp, furious edge in his eyes, the one that said he was going to tear my head right off my shoulders and dance around my bleeding corpse? That shit’s gone now.
His girlfriend, Elodie Stillwater, has that effect on him. She’s clipped his fucking balls is what she’s done. I’d rather he came down here and straight knocked me the fuck out than half-ass this, but he won’t now. He’ll rein himself in to avoid disappointing her. Fucking bullshit.
“Before you say anything, it wasn’t actually my faul—” Wren’s fist connects with my jaw and the inside of my head lights up like the fourth of July. The sick, broken part of me, the monster who likes to suffer, crows at the burst of pain that turns my vision pure white. For a second I’m blind, and then everything is scattering stars. I laugh, letting my head kick back, amused by the slick, coppery taste of pennies on my tongue.
“You’re legitimately going to stand there and say it wasn’t actually your fault? God, you’re a piece of work,” Wren fumes. “It was absolutely your fault. I read the police report. You might not have sunk the thing with your own two hands, but you were absolutely respons—”
“Boys? Amanda Jefferson. Dawn Chronicle. Are you fighting because of the news?”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’ve forgotten all about the news anchor. She’s still brandishing the microphone with the Dawn Chronicle’s logo on it, and she’s pointing it at us now, doggedly climbing the steps. A dude with a camera is hot on her heels. I run my tongue over my teeth, hoping to God that they’re coated in blood when I grin at her.
“What news?” Dash demands.
“You haven’t heard, then? I am so sorry to be the one to break this to you—” She is not fucking sorry. She’s deliriously happy that she gets to be the one to break this to us—“but the autopsy shows that Mara was with child when she was murdered. She was going to have a baby.”
A ripple of shock travels through Wolf Hall’s students. Damiana fakes a stunned cry, which makes me want to burst out fucking laughing, but even I know that wouldn’t be an appropriate response right now. I bite the end of my tongue, watching the ridiculous scene unfold. So many theatrics. So many people pretending to care about a girl that most of them fucking hated. On the far side of the school’s steps, one person isn’t reacting at all. Someone who actually was Mara Bancroft’s friend. The sunlight catches her deep, burnished red hair, making her look like she’s on fire.
Presley Maria Witton Chase stares at the woman who just told us Mara was pregnant with a flat, blank expression on her face. She looks like she’s bored by this entire bullshit parade. Her pale face, full of tiny-pin prick freckles, is void of all emotion as she slowly turns and leans against the low wall beside her.
Beside me, Dash turns to Wren and hisses under his breath. “Tell me it wasn’t fucking yours.”
4
PRES
* * *
It’s a cheap parlor trick.
It can’t be proven.
Mara wasn’t pregnant and I know that for a fact—she burst into my room three nights before she was killed and borrowed an entire box of tampons, for fuck’s sake—but the media don’t care about that. They only care about their ratings. And a pregnant murdered sixteen-year-old is far more scandalous than a regular murdered sixteen-year-old.
I hate these monsters.
Thirty feet away, on the steps right next to Wren and Dashiell, Pax Davis’s mouth pulls up into a cruel, dismissive approximation of a smile and my stomach takes a nosedive off a cliff. He’s not supposed to be here. He’s supposed to be on the other side of the world, sailing around on the Jacobi’s ostentatious yacht. So why, then, is he standing like a proud Grecian statue with the late morning sun hitting him square in the face, right here in New Hampshire?
His extensive tattoos take up so much real estate on his skin—two full sleeves, the backs of his hands, his neck…I’ve seen him running without a shirt, and the intricate artwork sprawls across his chest and all over his back, too. It’s magnificent—one interconnected, flowing piece of art. He is magnificent. He’s also the cruelest, most unbearable asshole I’ve ever come across.
Want something? Pax will take it from you.
Love something? Pax will destroy it.
Love him? Then Heaven help you. You’d have to be the stupidest person to walk the face of the earth.
I’m so used to watching him now that I can read his body language like lines of text in a book. Sometimes, it’s easy to know what’s going to come next. He shifts his shoulders, transitioning his weight into his right foot, and I know he’s going to turn. I avert my gaze, training my focus back on the despicable vultures squawking into the microphones on the front drive, holding my breath. I’ve had practice at this—being still. Acting like I don’t notice his cold, pale grey eyes roving over my body. I feel the weight of his attention like a physical hand on my skin, though. It’s a dizzying, terrifying thing, the weight of that hand. I never know if it will be a brief caress or if the pressure will intensify and turn into something more sinister. With this boy, a mere look can signify complete and utter disaster.
I’ve seen it happen: a girl pays too much attention to Pax, and the next thing you know he’s making her life a living, breathing hell. Her online work miraculously vanishes from the academy server. Her laptop disappears the night before a crucial assignment is due. Compromising photos are fly posted all over the Mountain Lakes. Her friends discover, true or not, that she’s slept with the guy they’re dating. Her room gets vandalized, her car gets keyed, her tires get slashed, and eventually she can’t take it anymore and breaks.
The torment is relentless.
Pax has a particular talent at recognizing the weakness in things. He sees the fault line and knows exactly where and how hard to tap to bring the world crashing down around someone’s ears. If he didn’t apply his skills to such diabolical ends, you’d be forgiven for calling them gifts.