“Couldn’t it be?”
“Is anything an accident here?” I gesture towards the pile of research we’ve done today. “Think about it, Mia.Allof it. The sacrifices. Alice Plymouth. Her parents. Daniel St. Vincent and the driver who killed him, and his death. And now this—Jaxon’s first girlfriend, dead and mysteriously, no one knows who did it.”
“But why would they kill her?”
I shrug. “Maybe she knew something she wasn’t supposed to. Maybe she was supposed to be the sacrifice, and she got away somehow. Maybe—” I can’t think of anything else, right at this moment. But suddenly, the guilt and grief that I always see in Jaxon’s face make so much more sense, just like Cayde’s anger.
Suddenly, the guys are making a lot more sense to me. Their trauma. Their pain and hurt and suffering. It doesn’t excuse what they’ve done—but it makes it more than just guys who like bullying a girl in their power.
“I’m taking this with me.” I rip out the article about Natalie’s death, folding it up and stuffing it in my pocket, ignoring Mia’s yelp of protest.
“What are you going to do with it?” She looks at me, startled.
I grit my teeth, standing up.That’s enough research for one day.
“I’m going to go talk to my mother.”
Athena
It feels almost impossible to make it to the weekend when I can go home to see my mother. I’m itching to ask her the questions about Natalie rattling around in my head, practically vibrating with it. Cayde and Dean both notice, to my surprise, questioning me about why I’m so jittery and distracted. The best excuse I can come up with is that I’m nervous about midterms, which makes sense, I suppose. I’ve devoted as much time as I can to catching up on schoolwork since my kidnapping. However, it still feels like a constant battle, especially with all the…distractions I have at home. I feel like I’m always behind, and it’s only because Cayde and Dean have to get at leastsomethingdone of their own work that I get any peace at all. Cayde especially has to make decent grades since he’s on the rugby team. But in the end, none of them are going to get kicked out, or kicked off of anything, because of who they are—who their fathers are, really.
And I won’t, either, because I “belong” to them. I’m determined not to lean on that, though, and to make my grades my own. It provides a welcome distraction from the folded newspaper article burning a hole in my backpack, although I can’t stop myself from thinking about it. Every night I want to call up my mother and blurt out all the questions I have, but I force myself to wait. It’s a conversation I know we need to have face to face, and I haven’t been to see her in a while, anyway. Especially after my abduction, I didn’t dare go home as wounded and bruised as I was, even though I would have given anything to have my mother take care of me.
It would have brought up too many questions that I can’t answer, though. I had to stay here instead, nursed by Cayde and Dean. Which wasn’t the worst thing in the world, surprisingly. And even more surprising is the way they’ve reacted to my moods lately—noticing them, for one. Concerned about me, for another. And third, that there’s no hint of protest when I say I want to go home for the weekend and see my mom.
“I think that’s a good idea,” Cayde says, startling me into absolute silence after I pose the suggestion at dinner. “You haven’t seen her in a while.”
“It’ll be good for you,” Dean agrees, and I narrow my eyes.
“Does this have something to do with wanting to—oh, I don’t know, remind me of the reasons why I need to stay here with you two? Reminding me of my responsibility to keep my mother safe, or some shit like that?”
“Can’t we just want you to get a weekend to yourself and some time with your mother?” Dean asks innocently, and I shake my head.
“Nothing you do is ever without an ulterior motive,” I point out, and Cayde sighs, glancing over at Dean. Jaxon is notably absent from the dinner table, off doing god knows what, and I know that I shouldn’t worry about him. But knowing what I know now about Natalie casts everything about Jaxon in a whole new light. The same goes for Cayde, knowing the story about his older brother. And as for Dean? He might not have a tragic backstory, but I can only imagine the pressure he’s been under all his life, knowing that his father expected him to take over no matter what the cost. I’d known their fathers were ruthless men, but reading the history of what they and their ancestors had done over the decades and centuries drove it home in a way that hadn’t really sunk in before.
“We’re just saying you should take the weekend for yourself,” Cayde says simply. “Don’t worry about it. Go home, see your mother. Relax. I’ve got a big game anyway and—well, I’m sure Dean has something going on.”
“Dinner with my father at the country club.” Dean makes a face.
Will Winter be there?I almost want to ask, but I don’t. I don’t really want to know the answer or examine the flash of jealousy I feel at the thought. I know Dean doesn’t want to marry Winter, and I know that he’s made that clear to her. I also know that I shouldn’t care. My entire goal is supposed to be to get the fuck out of this town, not form a lasting relationship with my tormentors.
But I seem to be doing exactly that.
“Have a good time,” Dean says encouragingly. “Just be back by Sunday night.”
It should be a thinly veiled threat, a pointed reminder of the punishment that I’ll face if I were to be late, but it doesn’t really sound like that. There are no barbs to his words, just a reminder.
“I have class Monday, anyway. So I’ll be back by then.”
And so, Friday after class, I find myself heading back to the Blackmoor Estate for a surprise visit home, the newspaper article still tucked in my backpack. I haven’t taken it out again since I stuffed it in there at the library, more than anything, afraid that if I do, I won’t be able to stop until I have my answers.
My mother’s face when I knock on the door, and she opens it makes the trip home worthwhile, even if I hadn’t had any other reason for coming other than just to see her. And it almost makes me wish that I wasn’t going to have to ask her difficult questions.
“Athena!” She darts forward, hugging me tightly. “I had no idea you were coming. I would have cleaned up—”
“You spend all your time cleaning, Mom,” I tell her firmly, returning the hug. “There’s no reason for you to do it for me. I’m sure the house is fine.”
My mother was always a stickler for a clean house when I was a kid, but since she’s worked at the estate, she’s gotten even pickier about it. I’m sure whatever “mess” is inside isn’t really a mess at all, and that’s confirmed when I walk in and see nothing but a pile of books by the couch, a used coffee cup, and a throw blanket thrown haphazardly over the arm of the sofa.