Yes, I’ve watched, and I’ve witnessed all of these things. And yes, of course I have hated him for the way he’s razed people’s lives to the ground. There is no quiet, redeeming quality that saves Pax from the harsh inevitability that he’s simply a terrible person. So, why then, does my heart still ache for such a monster? Why does it bleed from not having him?
“Pres?”
I crash land back to reality with a jolt. Next to me, one of my best friends, Carrie, crosses her arms tightly over her chest. She scowls darkly at the vans parked on the lawn, her gaze roving swiftly from one group of reporters to the next. “It’s a shame Mara isn’t here for this,” she says. Her mouth has a grim downturn to it. “She’d have enjoyed all of the attention.”
“She wasn’t pregnant,” I say.
“Of course she wasn’t.”
“I hate that they’re turning her into a spectacle.”
Carrie sighs heavily. “Why not? Let them do it. Let them turn her into the sweetheart of the academy. Let them tell everyone she was pregnant. If they turn Mara into a knocked-up media darling, the sentencing will be so much worse for that sick bastard when this all goes to trial.”
The sick bastard in question, Dr. Wesley Fitzpatrick, is currently under lock and key in a supermax prison, where he’s slowly but surely unraveling, demonstrating to the whole world just how insane he is. He doesn’t need any help from the media; Wesley Fitzpatrick is fast becoming a household name; the people of America hate him.
“Pax sank the boat,” Carrie offers flatly. It comes straight out of the blue.
I jerk, unable to hide my surprise. “What?”
“I know. Dash just texted me. Wren’s set on killing him by the sounds of things.”
So that’s why he’s back in the country.
“He’s a disaster,” Carrie mutters. Nudging me with her elbow, she gives me a coaxing half-smile. “Look. I know, what with everything that’s happened, we haven’t gotten to talk about what happened that night. Y’know. The night of the party. Between you and him—”
I retreat, backing up a step, drawing in a sharp breath. She hasn’t mentioned anything about me and Pax at all. How does she even know something happened? The blood drains from my face. “Uhh—I don’t—I can’t—”
I’ve never been able to talk about Pax. Not to my friends. Not to anyone. Any time his name comes up in conversation, I’m gripped by such a powerful, terrifying panic that I can barely breathe let alone get words out.
Carina sees that panic now, as I trip up another step, wiping my palms against the thighs of my jeans; she catches hold of my wrist before I can fully withdraw. “I’m not saying that you have to talk about it. I’m just letting you know that you can,” she explains. “And, I s’pose I just wanna make sure you’re okay. I mean, I just can’t imagine that that situation ended well—”
She knows we nearly hooked up? She saw us? How can she possibly know? We were out in the middle of the forest, far from the house. It was pitch black that night, too.
Does that mean…fuck, does that mean that he told Wren and Dash?
“It’s okay. I’m fine. He—I—”
Breathe, Presley. For God’s sake, just breathe.
“He didn’t do anything. I—I mean, we almost did. But I freaked and bailed. He wasn’t mad…and he hasn’t said anything about it since.”
I’d certainly expected him to. I’d expected a campaign of terror to be launched against me the very next day, but with everything that’s happened—the discovery of Mara’s body, and mid-semester break, and life being turned upside down at the academy—I’ve gotten lucky. Pax has been distracted. It appears as though he’s forgotten all about me and what almost transpired between us the night of the infamous Riot House party, which can only be for the best. Now, all I need to do is make it to graduation before I can catch his attention again, and I’ll be in the clear.
Carrie studies my face closely; her concern radiates off her like heat from a fire. “You can tell me, y’know. If he’s said something. Or done something. You shouldn’t let him get away with it if—”
“He hasn’t. He won’t. He—” I screw my eyes shut, shaking my head. “He didn’t do anything. There’s nothing to talk about.” A sharp, deep breath reduces the panic a little. “Look. I have to go. My dad’s gonna be here soon and I haven’t even packed.”
Carina looks worried again, but for a whole new reason this time. “Don’t let him talk you into anything, Pres. It doesn’t make sense for you to go and stay at the house when all of your stuff is here.”
I shrug as I back away, running my hand along the rough stone balustrade just in case I trip over my feet. “I know, I won’t. Don’t worry. He’s just sad, I think. It’ll only be for a couple of days.”
Carina nods, as if she understands. She doesn’t know anything of the issues my family has been dealing with over the past few months, though. My father’s suffering right now, and I can’t let him down when he needs me the most.
Most of the students enrolled at Wolf Hall Academy are the sons and daughters of politicians and military personnel. They’re sent here because their parents move around so much or are so focused on their careers that keeping their children at home with them is either impractical or impossible. I was sent to the academy for entirely different reasons. Both my mother and my father were born in Mountain Lakes, New Hampshire. They both attended the academy themselves. And while, yes, they both did join the military, they could have kept me with them where they were stationed in California. They chose to send me here because of their own experiences, walking the halls of this gothic institution. They thought it would be good for me. A rite of passage.
Now that everything has fallen apart between them, my father has decided to come home. He’s opening up my grandparent’s derelict old colonial mansion and pretending like the move is a good thing.
I don’t see how it can be.
I don’t love Mountain Lakes the way he does. For me, the thick, loamy forests that blanket the mountain sides are haunted. Sinister creatures stalk the hallways of this school. And it’s only a matter of time before the darkest, most corrupted of all those creatures comes to claim my soul.
5
PRES
* * *
“You won’t be pulling that face when you see the kitchen. It’s been fully remodeled.”
My father drops the cardboard box he’s carrying in his arms, labeled ‘Ornithology/paraphernalia’ in chicken scratch Sharpie onto the tiled floor of the entryway, and a loud boom echoes way up the stairwell, through all three stories of the house. I cringe at the explosion of sound, trying not to outwardly flinch.
“You can’t say you don’t love the place,” Dad declares. “It’s old. It oozes character. Just look at the architraving. The crown molding. It’s all original. This place is a real-estate agent’s wet fucking dream.”
He forgets that I spent most of my summers here when I was younger. If my parents were deployed (and they usually were), then they’d pack me off to spend the break with Grandpa. I’ve spent so much time in this house that I know the bones of it inside out. I have more memories here than Dad does. He didn’t grow up here, after all. Grandpa bought this house after Dad enlisted, so he’s hardly even visited this place. He doesn’t know about the way the pipes shudder and rattle in the middle of the night, or how the back door sticks in the peak of summer when the heat makes the wood expand. He doesn’t know that the sun makes the front living room unbearable after midday, or that the old AC unit leaks and smells really weird when you first turn it on. But I do.