Arthur . . .”
“Yes?”
Her eyes are glinting, her expression ashamed. So exquisitely wretched. “What I believe happened might not be what actually took place.”
1
DAY 6 B.F.
STERLING, LOUISIANA
“How are you feeling?” Mom asked with an appraising eye. “You sure you’re up for this?”
I finished my hair, pasted on a smile, and lied through my teeth, “Definitely.” Though we’d been over this, I patiently said, “The docs told me that settling back into a normal routine might be good for someone like me.” Well, at least three out of my five shrinks had.
The other two insisted that I was still unstable. A loaded gun. Trouble with the possibility of rubble.
“I just need to get back to school, around all my friends.”
Whenever I quoted shrinks to her, Mom relaxed somewhat, as if it was proof that I’d actually listened to them.
I could remember a lot of what the docs said—because they’d made me forget so much of my life before the clinic.
With her hands clasped behind her back, Mom began strolling around my room, her gaze flickering over my belongings—a pretty, blond Sherlock Holmes sniffing for any secrets she didn’t yet know.
She’d find nothing; I’d already hidden my contraband in my book bag.
“Did you have a nightmare last night?”
Had she heard me shoot upright with a cry? “Nope.”
“When you were catching up with your friends, did you confide to anyone where you really were?”
Mom and I had told everyone that I’d gone to a special school for “deportment.” After all, you can’t prep a daughter too early for those competitive sororities in the South.
In reality, I’d been locked up at the Children’s Learning Center, a behavioral clinic for kids. Also known as Child’s Last Chance.
“I haven’t told
Especially not him. Brandon Radcliffe. With his hazel eyes, movie-star grin, and curling light-brown hair.
“Good. It’s our business only.” She paused before my room’s big wall mural, tilting her head uneasily. Instead of a nice watercolor or a retro-funk design, I’d painted an eerie landscape of tangled vines, looming oaks, and darkening skies descending over hills of cane. I knew she’d considered painting over the mural but feared I’d reach my limit and mutiny.
“Have you taken your medicine this morning?”
“Like I always do, Mom.” Though I couldn’t say my bitter little pills had done much for my nightmares, they did stave off the delusions that had plagued me last spring.
Those terrifying hallucinations had been so lifelike, leaving me temporarily blinded to the world around me. I’d barely completed my sophomore year, brazening out the visions, training myself to act like nothing was wrong.
In one of those delusions, I’d seen flames blazing across a night sky. Beneath the waves of fire, fleeing rats and serpents had roiled over Haven’s front lawn, until the ground looked like it was rippling.
In another, the sun had shone—at night—searing people’s eyes till they ran with pus, mutating their bodies and rotting their brains. They became zombielike blood drinkers, with skin that looked like crinkled paper bags and oozed a rancid slime. I called them
My short-term goal was simple: Don’t get exiled back to CLC. My long-term goal was a bit more challenging: Survive the rest of high school so I could escape to college.
“And you and Brandon are still an item?” Mom almost sounded disbelieving, as if she didn’t understand why he would still be going out with me after my three-month absence.
“He’ll be here soon,” I said in an insistent tone. Now she’d gotten me nervous.
No, no. All summer, he’d faithfully texted me, though I’d only been allowed to respond twice a month. And ever since my return last week, he’d been wonderful—my cheerful, smiling boyfriend bringing me flowers and taking me to movies.
“I like Brandon. He’s such a good boy.” At last, Mom concluded this morning’s interrogation. “I’m glad you’re back, honey. It’s been so quiet around Haven without you.”
But then, that last one had been me.
In the end, I said nothing about the center.
“Mom, I’ve got a big day.” I shouldered my backpack. “And I want to be outside when Brand shows.” I’d already made him wait for me all summer.
“Oh, of course.” She shadowed me down the grand staircase, our steps echoing in unison. At the door, she tucked my hair behind my ears and gave me a kiss on my forehead, as if I were a little girl. “Your shampoo smells nice—might have to borrow some.”
“Sure.” I forced another smile, then walked outside. The foggy air was so still—as if the earth had exhaled but forgotten to inhale once more.
I descended the front steps, then turned to gaze at the imposing home I’d missed so much.
Haven House was a grand twenty-two-room mansion, fronted by twelve stately columns. Its colors—wood siding of the lightest cream, hurricane shutters of the darkest forest green—had remained unchanged since it’d originally been built for my great-great-great-great-grandmother.
Twelve massive oak trees encircled the structure, their sprawling limbs grown together in places, like hundred-ton hydras trapping prey.
The locals thought Haven House looked haunted. Seeing the place bathed in fog, I had to admit that was fair.
As I waited, I meandered across the front lawn to a nearby cane row, leaning in to smell a purple stalk. Crisp but sweet. One of the feathery green leaves was curled so that it looked like it was embracing my hand. That made me smile.
“You’ll get rain soon,” I murmured, hoping Sterling’s drought would finally end.
My smile deepened when I saw a sleek Porsche convertible speeding down our oystershell drive, a blur of red.
Brandon. He was the most enviable catch in our parish. Senior. Quarterback. Rich. The trifecta of boyfriends.
When he pulled up, I opened the passenger door with a grin. “Hey, big guy.”
But he frowned. “You look . . . tired.”
“I didn’t get to bed till late,” I replied, darting a glance over my shoulder as I tossed my bag into the minuscule backseat. When the kitchen curtain fluttered to the side, I just stopped myself from rolling my eyes.
“You feeling okay?” His gaze was filled with concern. “We can pick up some coffee on the way.”
I shut the door behind me. “Sure. Whatever.” He hadn’t complimented me on my hair or outfit—my Chloé baby-blue sleeveless dress with the hem no more than four regulation inches above the knee, the silky black ribbon that held my hair back in a curling ponytail, my matching black Miu Miu ankle-wrap heels.
My diamond earrings and Patek Philippe wristwatch served as my only jewelry.
I’d spent weeks planning this outfit, two days in Atlanta acquiring it, and the last hour convincing myself I’d
