What’s left for me here after what he and Laurel did, anyway?
Nothing.
They’ve set all my bridges ablaze, and I’m at the end of my willpower to endure anymore of it.
“Yeah. I’m done, motherfucker,” I hiss, hugging my arms tightly around myself. Just as before, it’s not due to the cold. “Happy?”
He looks surprised, and then relieved, more so than triumphant even. Clearly, he’s wanted me gone a lot more than I really ever understood, and that fact burns worse than anything else he’s done to me.
“Glad you’ve finally seen reason,” he murmurs with a slow nod. He turns to leave without another word, but I’ve got one more question that’s scorching the back of my mind.
“How’d you pull it together so quickly?”
Shoulders going rigid, he gazes back at me with a furrowed brow. “What?”
I swallow, then force the words out. “I only told you about the fire this morning. How’d you manage to organize something so fucked up so fast?”
Once again, his features slip into an expression I can’t read. “I didn’t. I’ve known about the fire and James for weeks.”
My jaw drops and a choked noise crackles from my throat, but he’s already striding away from me. I can’t speak. I can’t stop him.
All I can do is stare after him as he leaves nothing but utter devastation in his wake.
4
Five tiny faces stare up at me, stirring up more questions than answers. I don’t know why I brought this photo home with me. I should’ve thrown it away before I left Angelview, abandoned it along with my pride and sense of being. I thought quitting and letting Saint win would make the pressure go away and ease my misery.
I don’t feel better, though.
I just feel … less.
Numb—inside and out.
Saint’s confession that he knew about James and the fire long before I told him left me reeling, and I still haven’t fully recovered, even after six days. I don’t know what’s worse. The pain that stabs at my heart whenever I think of his deceit, or the humiliation that burns through me when I realize he was playing me the whole time we were sleeping together. While I was confessing my secrets to him, he was sharpening his knife and plotting to use it all against me.
The worst part is that I knew better.
My stomach rumbles, and for a second I think I might be sick, but I take a deep breath and the nausea passes. It hasn’t always. I’ve vomited so much in the last week that I’ve grown nervous eating because I just assume it’s going to come right back up. I hate him more than I’ve ever hated anyone, and that emotion is manifesting physically and gnawing away at my body.
And yet … there’s this stubborn, insistent little flame of desire that continues to burn for him deep in my soul. I’m such a fucking mess. My mind isn’t right. That’s the only real explanation I can come up with to describe why I’m like this. I’ve got to be sick to still want a person that treated me so mercilessly.
Still, every time I think of our late nights together, the feel of his hands on me, the touch of his lips…
Snorting a deep breath of disgust, I clamp my thighs together and shake my head. “Fuck off, Saint.”
Pushing thoughts of him from my mind, I focus on the picture again. It’s about the only thing that can keep me from dwelling on Hot Draco, so I’ve been studying it nearly non-stop since I returned to Atlanta. The edges are starting to crinkle with how much I’ve been handling it.
Stretching out on my back on my bed, I hold it above my face and skim over the two boys on the left and Mr. Angelle, not really caring about them, and focus on the other two figures on the right. His former business partner and Nora. The girl who looks so much like me, it’s eerie.
The girl who looks like Jenn.
I did some research to try and discover more about them, but the Internet was surprisingly useless. Other than telling me what I already knew—that Benjamin was the co-founder of NightOwl, the social-media network Mr. Angelle owns—there was nothing but a brief article about his car accident death sixteen years ago and an obituary for his mother, an eccentric socialite who died five years ago.
There was nothing about Nora.
Not that I had much to go on, considering I don’t know her last name. But even after I linked her to Benjamin, I didn’t come up with anything. When I showed the photo to Carley and asked if the girl looked like Mom, she’d examined it for a long time before handing it back and saying that something was off and that it definitely wasn’t Jenn.
I hadn’t pointed out that the girl in the picture wasn’t high or drunk or beat down after a life of hard partying and bad decisions. I’d simply shrugged off Carley’s string of curious questions and mumbled a lie: That it was a project I did for an art assignment.
Because I couldn’t explain any of it. Not the image and sure as hell not the note about my real parents or that warning not to let him win.
Win what?
Who am I supposed to keep from winning? Saint?
That bastard already has.
A knock on my bedroom door pulls me from my cluttered musings, and I quickly tuck the picture and note away beneath my pillow and holler, “Come in.”
The next moment, Carley comes rushing into my room. She’s brimming with heated energy as she begins pacing across my floor. I sit up with a sigh, wrapping my arms around my bare legs as I brace myself for her latest tirade. She’s been like this pretty much since the minute I arrived home. Actually, probably since the minute I was able to fully explain what went down the night Angelle House caught fire.
She’s been in permanent mama bear mode, but she’s got no one she can sink her claws into.
“I’m so pissed,” she growls. She doesn’t elaborate right away, but that doesn’t matter. I know the context of her rage well enough by now.
“Carley, you have to let it go.”
She spins on me, her big blue eyes even wider in disbelief. “Let it go? After what they did to you? No way in hell!”
“Let me guess, you just spoke to Headmaster Aldridge again?”
Her messy blond bun flops up and down as she bobs her head. “And he told me he’ll be in touch with us about your missed exams after holiday break. It wasn’t your fault you missed the damn exams. It wasn’t your fault they made you leave.”
I scratch my chin, trying to think of something new to say to ease her fury. “They didn’t end up arresting me, at least.”
God, that sounds so pathetic.
“You should never have been a suspect in the first place!” she declares.
I completely agree with her, but I’m exhausted by the whole situation. I’d rather forget all about Angelview and the shit I went through there. I don’t want to think about any of it. Saint. Laurel. Gabe. Liam. The assembly. My near arrest. It’s over now, and since I’m not planning on going back, what’s it all really matter anyway?
It’s not like I’ll ever see those assholes again.
I feel a strange pang in my heart at the thought of never seeing Saint again, but I remind myself it’s because I’m sick in the head and I don’t always know what’s best for myself. A few more weeks away from that place, and he’ll be purged from my system—like with one of those drug detoxes Jenn used to order online whenever she needed to score a new job.