I collapse on my bed without removing a single item of clothing or cleaning off the clutter from when I dumped my overnight bag. I regret that decision when I'm woken by my phone beeping what feels like minutes later--making sure to charge it was the only thing I accomplished before falling on my face. My neck hurts, my knees ache and I have something sticking into my side. I reach down and pull out a brush and drop it on the floor.
I lift the phone to find a message from Mr. Garner. Thought you'd need an alarm to wake you in time for class. This is it.
Why do I have to be his only job?
I force myself out of bed, regretting that skipping isn't an option. Blackwood has zero tolerance for absences. They take it seriously. I could lose off-campus privileges for the summer, which includes working at the country club. If I was confined to this campus for the next two months, I would seriously go insane.
Dirt, leaves and needles swirl around the drain when I shower. My body aches from falling, and I have a dark bruise forming on my left knee. My arms are marred with superficial scratches, and my head aches, like I bumped it--although I don't remember doing that. The mysterious head injury could also explain why I thought I heard things. It feels like a strange dream now that I'm looking back on it, like none of it was real.
The Court has returned to its whimsical semblance when I enter, taking the well-traversed path to the Great Hall for breakfast. Until I can't. Where I usually veer right around a fountain is now a straight path that leads to a sculpture garden of abstract art made of twisted metal.
I'm about to scream in frustration when I hear, "Good morning."
Brendan.
"Where were you last night?" I yell.
He raises a brow, taken off guard by my hostility. "Uh, bad night?"
"The worst," I growl, clenching my teeth to contain my emotions. "I left you a note to meet me at the library. I tied a ribbon on the bridge."
"It's not there. I never saw the note. Why, what happened?"
I shake my head, wanting to put it all behind me. "Forget it."
"What did the note say?" he persists.
I hesitate. Instead of reaching in my messenger bag for the photo that I planned to share with him last night, I cross my arms over my chest. "Convince me I can trust you."
"What?" he chuckles in befuddlement like I just asked him to stand on his head and tie his shoe.
"Convince me I can trust you," I repeat slowly, enunciating every word so clearly, he can read my lips too.
"I can't," Brendan answers simply, not even making an effort. "There's nothing I can say or do that will convince you to trust me. You and I aren't the trusting types. But that doesn't mean we can't use each other to get what we want."
"And you still want information?"
"Among other things." He winks.
I punch his arm.
"Ow, okay, okay. I was only playing," he moans, rubbing the tender spot. "What do you want, Lana?"
"The truth."
He laughs again. I glower, done with amusing him. "Whose version?"
"The actual truth," I say impatiently. "Someone's playing games with me, and I don't know why. I thought it had to do with what happened to Allie, but I don't think it does anymore."
"Lana, the actual truth doesn't exist. You should know that better than anyone. It's always tainted by someone's lies. I can try to help you decipher between the two. But first, you have to tell me what's going on."
My phone starts buzzing. It's Mr. Garner. I look to Brendan, who nods for me to answer it.
Mr. Garner's face fills the screen. "Hi. Just making sure you're moving."
"About to grab something quick to eat on my way to class," I tell him. Brendan begins walking with me. I allow him to take the lead through the new garden since he apparently knows where he's going. He must have some sort of Marauder's map that changes when the Court does, because there's no way anyone can adapt this quickly.
"Okay. So, you're restricted to campus today. Sorry, there was nothing I could do even after I explained what happened. Apparently, they hold you responsible for making sure your phone is charged."
"Whatever," I say in resignation. Stefan's is the only place I'd go today, but I'm not in the mood to be around anyone, not even Grant.
"If you need to punch something, let me know," Mr. Garner offers with a sympathetic smile.
"Bye." I click off the screen.
"Why is your life advisor offering to let you punch him?"
I roll my eyes. "I'm taking boxing lessons as part of my anger management treatment, or whatever ridiculous name they call it."
"It's not working," he scowls, rubbing his arm. "What class do you have now?"
"Chemistry." I pull open the door to enter the Great Hall.
"I'll meet you in the foyer after your class."
Brendan doesn't enter the dining hall with me. Instead, he disappears down the hall, which leads to ... I have no idea where, because this is the only place I've been inside this building.
I grab an iced coffee and breakfast burrito to-go before continuing to class, hoping another new garden doesn't pop up and throw me off course. I'm barely going to make it on time as it is.
Nearly two hours later, I've learned nothing. My lab partner probably wants to murder me. And we have our first test on Friday. How do we already have a test?
"Blackwood offers peer tutoring," the chemistry teacher, no I don't remember his name, says to me after class while he reviews my class assignment. "You could probably use the extra help. We bring on Printz-Lee honor students during the summer months. I can arrange for the chemistry tutor to meet with you tomorrow if you'd like."
"Sure," I answer automatically, too exhausted to care that I'm already in need of tutoring.
"What time?"
"Um." I hate that he's forcing me to think right now. "I have to work in the morning and then I have two classes. Could they meet in the evening?"
"I'll check. If I can arrange something, I'll message you."
"What took you so long?" Brendan asks when I finally walk into the foyer.
"I suck at chemistry," I tell him plainly. "Already need a tutor."
"Oh, Lana. You don't need a tutor. Maybe you should try staying awake in class." He so patronizing. I'm tempted to throttle him.
I sneer. "Stop being a freak. Do I seriously need to put tape over my phone's camera and mic when I'm not using it to keep you from invading my life?"
"I do," he answers honestly.
Of course he does.
"Where are we going?"
"My room."
When we reach the bridge leading to the guys' dorm, I expect him to sneak me in some secret entrance, but Brendan continues to the main doors and holds one open for me to enter.
"What about your monitor?"
"He sleeps during the day," he explains. "Doesn't think we're capable of getting into trouble when the sun's up. Foolish man."
I follow Brendan all the way to the fifth floor. "You're not a senior."
"I was assigned this room when I arrived last year," he explains. "Now, I refuse to change rooms. You'll see why."
Brendan's room is as orderly as he is with a broken-in leather couch, a recliner and an impressive floor to ceiling bookcase. His bed a built-in loft, like Ashton's, to allow room for the massive furniture. The space is predictably masculine, but it gives off a regal vibe I wasn't expecting. Then again, he does eat and dress like a forty-year-old man. Apparently he lives like one too.
"Take a seat," he offers, sliding open the cabinet next to the sink. He pushes the shelf so that the bottles of Evian swirl around and disappear, replaced by a row of liquor bottles hidden behind a secret compartment. "Drink?"
I shake my head.
Brendan pulls out a bottle of scotch and pours a small amount in a tumbler.
"You are not who you appear to be, are you?" I release a humorless laugh.
He smirks. "That obvious?"
"Maybe you're a changeling," I con
template out loud. "You look sixteen, but nothing else about you is..."
"Expect my stamina." He winks.
"And your maturity. But then again, fae are just as egotistical and flirtatious. Maybe you should go back to living under your hill. The Unseelie Court must be missing you by now."
"Are you about to tell me one of your fairytales, prince--" Brendan stops himself, grimacing apologetically.
Time to change the subject.
"Here's how this is going to--" I don't finish my sentence; a framed picture catches my attention.
"Lana?"
I stand and cross the room to his espresso stained, floor-to-ceiling bookcase that lines the entire wall. There's a roll-top desk built into it, and, as much as it surprises me, it's filled with books. Along with personal touches--pictures, golfing trophies, decorative art pieces.
I pick up the picture of the two teenagers, maybe a little older than we are now, and stare at it. They're sitting on the bow of a sailboat, their faces concealed by oversized sunglasses, but the smiles on their faces shine as bright as the sun.
"Who's in this picture?"
"The girl on the right is my mother when she was eighteen. I don't know who she's with. But I like the picture because she looks so happy."
"The girl on the left," I start, but have to pause to take a breath, "is my mother."
"Really?" Brendan lets out an amused chuckle. "No way."
But when I turn to him, his smile falls. He knows.
"Our mothers were friends?" I demand when I realize he's not surprised by this.
"Apparently." Brendan swallows down the rest of the Scotch.
Still holding the picture, I sit down on his couch. Brendan remains standing, leaning against the counter next to the sink.
"I've received three messages while I've been here. The first night, the message I know was written on my wall in glow-in-the-dark paint. The second message was in my work locker the day I started. You saw that. And last night I received another one. It was in my overnight bag when I came back from Lily's." I reach inside my messenger bag and hand it to Brendan. "At first, I thought they were threats, about the night Allie was hurt, because that seemed like the obvious secret--even though the messages didn't really make sense. But now ..."
Brendan stares at the picture. "You think it has to do with our mothers?"
"Maybe. But I still don't know what any of the messages mean," I say. "Have you received any?" He shakes his head, turning the photo over to read the message. "So whoever it is, is targeting me. And last night, after I received that picture, I started to wonder if maybe they were warnings, and not threats. Except ..."
Brendan looks up when I don't continue.
"I was locked out of the dorm last night because my phone was dead. I ended up spending half the night lost in the Court. I swear someone was in there with me, although I'm second guessing that now. It might've been in my head. But whoever's leaving these notes knew I was out there, because they left this."
Brendan reads the crumpled note. "This is why you needed to know if I'm trustworthy?"
"It's someone who goes to the school. Who knows who I am. And they had access to my bag at Lily's. There aren't a lot of people to choose from. Every one of them is someone who is supposed to be a friend."
"The friend's comment was just to keep you quiet, I'm sure of it."
"Probably."
"It doesn't mean it's one of us. All this person needs is access to your room, which means they have campus clearance. That could include teachers, administration, or--"
"Life advisors," I mutter. Mr. Garner was essentially hired to look after me, and he has connections with the Harrisons. Maybe he's trying to warn me. But I quickly dismiss the thought, he's not the dramatic type ... I think. "So it could be anyone."
"I think we should focus on why, instead of who anyway." He meets my eye. "So don't tell anyone else."
"I think Joey may know where the picture came from. He told me that he found others of us together as kids, before we were old enough to remember. He may know who else is in this picture, or at least where it was taken."
"Don't tell him about the messages. I'll make a copy of the photo so he doesn't see the back. I think we need to keep that between us."
"Why?"
"Instinct," he says like that's a valid reason.
"You always listen to your gut?" I taunt.
"Pretty much," he admits without a hint of sarcasm. "I'm very perceptive, and it usually keeps me out of trouble. It's my vices that tend to bring me down."
"What? Hacking, stalking and sleeping around?"
He laughs half-heartedly. "The third one is close enough to the truth. My perception is skewed when it comes to women I care about. I have a hard time cuing in on her intent until it's too late. It's like I'm blind to her faults until she's out to ruin me. So now, I don't do relationships. Keep it purely sexual, no emotions. That way I don't get screwed over, pun intended." He smirks flirtatiously.
I roll my eyes. "Explains the trust issues."
"Told you we're a lot alike. And it turns out, we have more in common than I originally thought." He pours himself another drink. "I'm going to tell you something that no one else knows. And not because I'm ashamed, but because it's none of anyone's fucking business, and I've been able to keep it to myself while at Blackwood because no one asks."
He takes a long draw from his glass. "I grew up on Nantucket. My family owned a small bookstore. We weren't wealthy, not like the people who came in on their yachts every summer. Or like the students at Blackwood. Niall arranged for my admittance at the beginning last school year, just like he did for you. He won't tell me who's funding it, claiming it's a scholarship program. Something he's arranged with the school. When he presents candidates with potential, they accept them under certain conditions. It's good PR for them to boast how they help students from all backgrounds to become top scholars, and Niall gets to change lives. But I know it's bullshit. They're receiving money for tuition. I've seen their financial records."
"But you don't know from where? Do you think it's Niall?"
"Blackwood tuition for three of us, then Printz-Lee and NYU on top of that? I doubt it. I considered that maybe his firm orchestrated some sort of fund, because we're definitely on their pro-bono client list. But I haven't found anything in their records."
"I never would have guessed that you didn't come from money. You act like you belong here, among the privileged."
"I do," he says with a smirk. "They're not any better or worse than us. In fact, I guarantee I have a better relationship with my grandmother than most of them do with their parents. Money has nothing to do with how I present myself. I grew up middle-class, exposed to the upper echelon. I caddied on the island. Overheard a lot. Learned more. Manipulated and seduced the right people to get what I wanted, until I got caught. And it wasn't even a billionaire's daughter. It was with the damn principal's trophy wife. So naive."
"You had feelings for her?"
He shrugs. "Lesson learned. But always the hard way."
I grin, familiar with the sentiment. "That's the only way to learn apparently."
Brendan smiles before focusing on the picture again. "So our mothers were friends. But how did they know the Harrisons?"
"I don't know why my mother was even on Nantucket," I say, overwhelmed by how much I don't know about my own mother. "There's no way she could've afforded it."
"Would she tell you if you asked her?"
"I can try. But if I want her to tell me the truth, it'll have to be in person. She can be really ... sensitive when I bring up anything to do with my father. And I think she was pregnant or soon would be, when this was taken."
"My mother was pregnant with me by about three months or so in this picture." His eyes widen. "Holy shit. Every woman in this picture is pregnant except for one, unless she is and just isn't showing."
"What?" I ask, holding out my hand to examine it. He's right. The woman with the dark hair
, whose face is obscured is visibly pregnant. The black and white photo makes it more difficult to see the bump since she's wearing a dark dress. "Do you recognize anyone else?"
"The blonde who isn't pregnant looks familiar, but I can't place her. I don't know who the other man is, and the dark haired pregnant woman is impossible to identify. You also have to remember, someone's taking the picture."
"And someone is cut off," I say quietly, squinting at the blur of a figure on the left side. Brendan sits down next to me. "Do you see him, his arm and legs, like he's running to get in the picture?"
"This photographer sucks," Brendan notes. "I wonder if there's another one with everyone in it, where we can clearly see their faces."
"Whoever's doing this is twisted. I don't understand what they want. None of it makes sense." I shift to face Brendan and ask the question I only asked once about my own, "Do you ... know who your father is?"
He shakes his head. "My grandmother says he was a summer tourist. There for the season and never seen again. My mother didn't even know how to contact him to let him know she was pregnant. My grandmother thinks he may have been married."
"How old was your mother when she had you?"
"Twenty."
"So she was nineteen here. And you said she was eighteen in your other picture with my mother. That means they knew each other for at least a year."
"This weekend wasn't the first time your mother came to the island then, because my mother never left it. Not once."
"Seriously?"
"That's what I've been told."
I flop back against the couch. "This has something to do with the Harrisons. I know it." My eyes flip up to meet Brendan's dark gaze. "You said Niall knows who killed your mother. What did you mean by that? I thought it was suicide?"
"I don't think I'm ready to share that yet." His voice is quiet but with a note of anger, deep and menacing. I nod in understanding. "We start with finding out how your mother knew mine and what their connection was to the Harrisons."
He stands and sets down his empty glass on the sleek onyx coffee table. "C'mon. I want to show you something."
"What?"
"The reason this is my room."
Brendan approaches his bookshelf and pushes against a section of it, and it pops open, swinging away from the wall.
"How many secret passages are in this school?"
"A lot," he says over his shoulder as he disappears into the wall.