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“Your sister’s memory is still fuzzy because of her head injury,” he informs me, as if that explains everything. “I’m sure she’d be willing to go to the police and let them know she made a mistake.”
I look from my sister’s vacant expression to the stony mask my father wears. “What is going on here?”
He heaves a sigh of impatience. “You’re getting what you want.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I demand.
“Coming here and pretending to be your sister was obviously a desperate ploy to remove yourself from the mess of your own life. I can’t even blame you entirely. You’re here because you have nothing else. It’s sad, really. But I suppose every family must suffer their own embarrassments.”
“Like Uncle Gary?”
“We’re not discussing him,” my father replies evenly.
My hands clench into fists at my sides, but I force myself to relax. “Now that sounds like something I’ve heard before.”
Olivia shows almost no reaction, even though it’s her abuser we’re talking about. But I notice the slightest twitch of her eye before her expression settles back into careful neutrality.
“To alleviate the consequences of your rash actions, I’ve had to come up with an inelegant solution. Your sister will enroll here at St. Bart’s under your name, just like you did with hers. The ruse is an unfortunate necessity, but this isn’t the first time that you two have played little tricks with your identities.” My father sounds like he is reciting speech, as if these are words he practiced and rehearsed to make them sound right. He reminds me of a marionette. His mouth is moving, but someone else’s talking for him. “Both of you can continue studying and move on with your lives. Let this little campaign of terror rest and enjoy your time at St. Bart’s. Everyone can just move on.”
I don’t need to ask what he means, but I do anyway. “Move on…you mean let Havoc House off the hook?”
“That implies they were ever on the hook in the first place,” he replies drolly. “I understand you think that your sister’s attack is somehow related to Havoc House, but you’re mistaken.”
“They got to you too, didn’t they? Do you even care about what happens to your own daughters?”
I know I sound paranoid, crazy even. That’s the point. Make the truth seem like fiction and you can get away with anything.
“Both my daughters are fine. I’d like for that to remain the case. Havoc House has a right to protect itself from false accusations and it will. Those boys don’t deserve to have their very bright futures destroyed.”
“Right…because anyone actually gets what they deserve in life,” I scoff.
“I’m merely trying to offer the solution that best serves everyone. That includes you, whether you’re too selfish to see it or not.”
“What happens if I refuse to play along?”
“Then I can’t help you.” He exchanges an unreadable glance with Olivia before turning back to me. “And I also can’t help Drake.”
Drake who is rotting in a jail cell for the crime of caring about the truth and trying to help me find it.
Olivia’s placid expression just infuriates me more.
“You’re really just okay with this,” I ask.
Her gaze flicks to our father again, before she shrugs. “You never did know when it was time to let something go. Luckily, I don’t have that problem.”
I believe Olivia’s claim of memory loss as much as I believe in the tooth fairy. It isn’t any more convincing than when I used the same excuse after I arrived here. The only explanation for it that makes sense is that she is playing along because our father is here.
“How can you just let go of what happened last year?”
“I don’t remember what happened last year,” she replies placidly. A gleam of something ugly flashes in her gaze, so quick that I can’t be sure that I even saw it. “And I’m Evangeline now, remember? Nothing bad has ever happened to me.”
The shock of it rocks me back on my heels. I have to tamp down on the physical reaction that makes me want to puke up a kidney.
I’ve been making chess moves without even realizing just how many pieces are left on the board.
For too long, I thought Drake was my primary enemy. I assumed that the self-obsessed Havoc Boys of St. Bart’s Prep were the worst I’d have to deal with.
I’d been very wrong.
