“Of course, sir,” I whisper. They’re not cops, so I might be all right. Maybe this isn’t about the fire after all. Maybe they want to talk about that disaster of an assembly, or even the mob that was just trying to stone me to death. I feel a tiny flutter of hope that maybe things won’t be as terrible as I assumed they’d be.
“Ms. Ellis, before we get into the reason you’re here, I have to ask, how are you feeling?” Worry knits Mrs. Wilmer’s brow, and I blink at the willowy blonde. She wants to know about my feelings? Other than Loni and Henry, few people have actually bothered to ask about them since I started at Angelview.
“I-I guess I’m okay.”
Lie.
“A lot has happened within the last few hours. Are you certain you wouldn’t like to talk about it?”
“Are you referring to the mob of overprivileged trust fund babies that just tried to kill me or my emotions?” When she winces, likely because she doesn’t want to acknowledge Angelview is shaping the next generation of psychos, I hollow in my cheeks and shake my head. “My emotions are peachy. Thanks for asking.”
Another lie.
“Ms. Ellis, are you—”
I dodge the question like an acrobat. “Is that why I’m here, Mrs. Wilmer? To talk about my feelings?” I’ve had plenty of practice avoiding personal questions, and even she won’t be able to get me to open up. She’s better off letting the subject go, but I don’t say that out loud.
Doesn’t matter anyway since she isn’t the one to answer me.
“You are here for several reasons, Ms. Ellis,” Headmaster Aldridge says, clipping each syllable. “The first of which, as Mrs. Wilmer has said, is to check on your current mental state. However, the more overarching reason is that campus police would like to have a word with you.”
My hands are clammy and cold as I link my fingers to stop them from shaking. “Why would they want to speak with me, sir?”
Dumbass, the voice in the back of my head laughs. You already fucking know.
His expression is stern as he replies, “That isn’t for us to say. We merely wanted to prepare you before they came in. We don’t want you to feel taken by surprise.”
Prepare me, sure. They want to lull me into a false sense of security before they release the hounds on my ass.
I’m not about to be their fall guy.
No matter what anyone says, or how they try to push me, I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ll be damned if I let my life be demolished all over again.
I’m innocent of everything this time except daring to feel for someone like Saint Angelle.
2
“Mallory. Mal, baby? Can you hear me?”
My head throbs, and my eyelids weigh at least ten pounds each. I can’t respond right away—my throat is too dry, and my lips are sandpaper—so I let out a ragged moan instead.
“Mallory. I need you to wake the fuck up. Wake up right now!”
The urgency in the gravelly voice hissing in my ear has me forcing my eyes open. I’m surprised to find Jenn standing over me, her face inches from mine. Her blue eyes are wide, her gaunt face impossibly tighter looking than usual.
“M-momma?” I groan. My head is fuzzy, and I feel so groggy. I can hardly string words together in my mind as I squint up at her. “Momma, what—”
But she presses a finger to my lips, invading my nostrils with the stench of stale tobacco and sweat. “You listen to me close, baby girl, all right? The cops are on their way.”
“Wh-what?” I’m trying to figure out where I am. There’s beeping machinery and soft white walls. Hospital. Why am I in the hospital? “Why are the police coming? What—”
“Shh.” Jenn skims her hand over my hair. It’s a motherly gesture but I’m not used to experiencing things like this from her. It’s nearly as startling as the news that the police are on their way.
No, that’s not true.
It’s far more startling than that.
“Mom, what’s going on?” I rasp.
“Do you remember what happened yesterday? The fire?”
At that word—fire—it all comes flooding back to me. Jenn’s call to destroy her evidence. The kerosene and vodka bottle. Setting our tiny house ablaze. The explosion that knocked me out. The ambulance ride to the hospital.
James.
Dylan’s baby.
James is dead.
The baby is gone, miscarried.
And I killed them. I killed them both.
Oh, no. No. No.
Not James. Not sweet, loyal, stubborn James. He can’t be dead. He just can’t be.
But then I remember Dylan, his eyes stark as he yelled at me. I remember him telling me that James was in that house. That James had gone in looking for me. That James had never come out.
The room begins to spin, and I think I’m going to throw up.
It shouldn’t have been James. It should’ve been me.
Jenn snatches my head between her hands and pokes her face close to mine, as though she can sense I’m falling apart at the seams. “I need you to listen to me very, very carefully, you hear me? I need you to keep your shit together right now while I tell you what’s about to happen.”
I want to cry, and my mind is so foggy, I’m struggling to compartmentalize my panic so I can listen to her. “I don’t want to go to prison, Momma,” I whimper, practically reverting back to a child in my fear.
I almost expect her to tell me to shut the hell up, to suck it the hell up, but then she coos, “You’re not going to, baby girl.”
This is the most surreal moment of my life. I’m actually turning to Jenn for comfort, and she’s not telling me to fuck off or go to my room.
“When the cops show up, you are not going to tell them you set that fire, you understand? You’re going to tell them I did it.”
“What?” I gasp, noticing for the first time that my words are slurring. I sound drunk. “A-are you serious?”
She peers down at me for a long time, then nods and rakes her fingers through her lanky hair. It’s the first time I’ve noticed the new color. At some point between the last time I saw her yesterday afternoon and today, she had bleached her long brown hair to a frizzy, brassy disaster.
Stepping back, she tugs at the waist of her baggy jeans. “Place all the blame on me and the shit in the basement, you got me?” she finally says.
“But … but why are you … what about the …?” I’m struggling to put questions together, but Jenn is in my face again, slapping her hand over my mouth to silence me, the silver bangles on her wrist digging into my chin.
“No questions. Just do exactly what I say. Carley’s on her way up from Atlanta to take you home with her.”
Carley. Carley hasn’t talked to Jenn in a month, not since she discovered that Momma went full-on stupid and used her social security number to rack up thousands of dollars in credit cards.
When Jenn drops her hand from my mouth, I manage to ask, “Where are you going?”
She smiles but it’s lifeless. “It’s better you don’t know all that.”
A minute later, Jenn is gone, and I’m left confused and half-conscious as the drugs they’ve got pumping into me drag me back down into a blissful abyss.