This was not possible. Why him? Why now? How could this be happening to her?
“Ana! Ow. Loosen up,” Maria whispered.
Ariana looked down at her hand, clasped around Maria’s slim fingers. She thought she heard a slight crack.
“Sorry,” she muttered, releasing her friend.
Maria shook her hand, and Ariana could see the distinct outlines of her own fingers, white against the pained red of Maria’s skin.
“Thank you all for that warm welcome,” Dr. Meloni said loudly.
The rumbling tone of his voice sent violent shivers through Ariana’s core. Suddenly, she heard that very voice inside her mind, shouting at an unnatural decibel, as if he was holding a bullhorn to his lips in the center of her skull.
You are not capable of change. If you were ever to be released from this facility, I am categorically certain that you would kill again.
“Ana? Ana?”
She could see Maria’s lips moving, could feel the hard bench behind her back, but she was not there. She was back in Meloni’s office at the Brenda T., clinging to the arms of her uncomfortable chair, her pulse thrumming in her very ears.
So no, Miss Osgood, you are not getting out of here. Not today, not tomorrow, not five years from now. Or ten. Or twenty. Not as long as I’m the one signing your chart.
“Ana?” Maria said again.
Somewhere in the chapel, a heavy book hit the floor. Ariana flinched. She took in a breath and coughed, sitting up straight as Maria clung to her arm.
“Are you okay?” Tahira’s voice chimed in, coming from behind.
“I have to get out of here,” Ariana muttered, catching her breath.
“What? You can’t just leave morning services,” Tahira protested, gazing up at her as Ariana rose from her pew. Ariana kept her back to the podium as she gathered up her coat and bag.
“I need some air. I have to … I have to go.”
“I’ll come with you,” Maria said, starting to get up.
“No,” Ariana blurted, startling her. She could already feel people starting to stare. Could feel Meloni’s eyes boring into the back of her neck as she stood in the aisle. “Sorry. I just … I’d like to be alone for a little while.”
“Okay,” Tahira said. “But text us if you need anything.”
“You’re sure you’re okay?” Maria asked.
“I’ll be fine,” Ariana said confidently.
As soon as I put as much distance between myself and Meloni as possible, she added silently. She cast a glance at a concerned Jasper, then speed-walked down the aisle. I’ll be okay as soon as I’m by myself and have some time to think.
“Rest assured that I’m here for all of you, whenever you need me,” Dr. Meloni was saying, as Ariana reached the exit. “I’ve helped heal hundreds of troubled souls in the past, and I’m looking forward to helping all of you.”
Ariana shoved open the door, stepped out into the frigid, gray morning, and started to run.
IF NOT FOR HER
Back in her room, Ariana frantically, illogically shoved her desk chair against her door, then sat down on her bed, clutching at the sheets. Her throat closed over and she choked out a sob. She glanced around her room frantically, as if there were answers among the neatly organized books, the labeled boxes of shoes in her open closet, the art and travel posters tacked to the walls at perfect right angles.
What am I going to do? What am I going to do?
Meloni was here. He had invaded her carefully constructed, perfect new life. He was here and she was going to have to see him. The headmaster had made that crystal clear. She was going to have to attend her mandatory grief-counseling appointment, and if she did that, she’d be headed right back to the Brenda T. before she could say the words “electric chair.” Ariana’s stomach clenched suddenly and she doubled over.
This can’t be happening. This can not be happening.
On her knees on the cold wood floor of her dorm room, the walls seemed to close slowly in on her. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t possible. How could he have found her?
She covered her face with her hands and wailed at the injustice of it all. There was nothing in the world but her anger, her pain. Nothing in the world but this white-hot fear inside her chest. She had worked so hard, sacrificed so much, done unspeakable things in the name of self-preservation, and for what? So that cocky jackass could waltz on in here and take it all away from her?
Ariana lifted her tear-stained face. The first thing her eyes fell upon was the folded newspaper sticking out of the outer pocket on her messenger bag.
GEORGETOWN SOCCER STAR, were the only words she saw.
“No,” Ariana blurted.
She whipped the newspaper out of her bag and found Reed’s name buried inside the article.
“It’s you!” she spat through clenched teeth, crushing the newspaper in her palm. “It’s your fault. You’re the reason I’m here. You’re the reason all of this had to happen.” She pushed herself to her feet, focusing all her ire, all her grief, everything inside of her, on the ball of newsprint. “If it wasn’t for you, I would have graduated from Easton and I’d be at Princeton right now. If it wasn’t for you I never would have met Victor Meloni. Thomas would still be alive. Briana Leigh would still be alive. You killed them! You sent me to that fucking prison and you unleashed Kaitlynn Nottingham on the world. Brigit died because of you. Lexa died because of you. Every last ounce of their blood is on your pretty little stupid fucking head!”
Ariana whipped around and drove the fist holding the newspaper into the wall as hard as she possibly could.
Her hand exploded in pain. The skin on her knuckles cracked open and her fingers burned. But still, it wasn’t enough. Letting out a screech of rage, Ariana tore the posters from the wall above her bed and ripped them to shreds. She picked up her makeup mirror and hurled it across the room like a Frisbee, shattering it into a billion glittering shards. Nothing was safe from her path. She tore her designer clothes from their silk hangers, threw her computer to the floor, ripped the curtains free of their rods. She shredded and smashed and slammed and screamed until nothing in the room was left intact.
And then, chest heaving, she sank to the floor and curled into a ball on her side, pressing her forehead into her knees. Reed’s eyes, Meloni’s smirk, Reed’s grin, Meloni’s condescending sneer. The images flashed through her mind, rapid-fire, melding and melting and contorting into a frightening, ghoulish mask. Ariana grabbed at her hair, shook her head violently, willed her enemies out of her mind—out of existence.
Breathe, Ariana. Just breathe.
In, one … two … three …
Out, one … two … three …
In, one … two … three …
Out, one … two … three …
In, one … two … three …
Out, one … two … three …
In, one … two … three …
Out, one … two … three …
Soon, her pulse started to calm. Her breathing returned to normal. Her brain began to clear. Soon all that was left behind was a simple, rhythmic beat.
She must die … he must die … she must die … he must die …
Suddenly there was a polite, but firm knock on her door. Ariana sat up, heart in her throat, pressing her fingertips into the floor.
Meloni. It had to be. He’d seen her and now he had come here to take her back to jail. Ariana stood up quickly and whirled around, searching the room for a weapon, but there was too much destruction, too much chaos. She brought her hands to her temples and pressed.
This was it. This was it. This was the end.
“Ana? It’s me. Palmer.”
Ariana froze. She could feel her heartbeat in her cheeks, radiating heat throughout the room. What the hell was Palmer doing here? She made a move for the door, feeling suddenly silly and overly dramatic when she saw the back of her chair shoved up under the door handle. She tugged it out and pushed it against the wall, then opened the door just
a crack.
“Oh, hey,” Palmer said, as if surprised she was there.
“Hey,” Ariana responded. She opened the door a bit wider, wedging her body between the door and the wall, to block his view of the mess behind her.
“Listen, I’m sorry for the way I’ve been acting …,” Palmer said unexpectedly. There was a slam somewhere in the hallway and he looked around. “I really need to talk to you. Can I come in?”
Instead of waiting for an answer, Palmer laid his hand flat against the door and slipped past her. Ariana didn’t even have a chance to say a word or hold up a hand to stop him. The second he was over the threshold, his jaw went slack. Ariana stood there with her arms around her waist and watched him. She watched him take in the torn posters, the shredded books, the broken glass. He nudged a pile of rumpled clothing and cracked frames and computer wires with his foot. As he turned, ever so slowly, in a baffled circle, Ariana quietly closed her door.
“What the hell did you do?” Palmer demanded finally.
“I just … I guess I kind of lost it,” Ariana said, her brow furrowed.
“Lost it? Are you serious? This goes way past ‘lost it,’ Ana.” He brought his hand to his forehead. “My God. You really are insane. I mean, this is not normal. This is not the kind of thing a normal person does.”
“Shut up,” Ariana snapped.
“Shut up? Are you serious?” He looked her up and down like she was yesterday’s rotting trash. “I can’t believe I came over here to apologize to you. You’re completely out of your mind! Honestly? I’m starting to wonder if you really did do something to cause Lexa’s death.”
Ariana arms uncurled and her fingers clenched into fists at her sides. Suddenly the four walls around her began to close in, crowding her out, making it impossible to breathe. All she could see was Palmer’s face. His awful, unforgiving, accusing face. And all she wanted to do was tear it off his over-inflated head.
“Why are you just standing there?” Palmer spat. “Say something, you certifiable freak.”
Ariana knew he was in pain. She knew that being in mourning could screw with a person and make him act like a jerk. But she had never imagined that calm, collected, mature Palmer Liriano could be so outright cruel. Suddenly she saw herself reeling back and hitting him. She saw herself picking up her desk chair with both hands and swinging as hard as she could. She saw herself screeching at the top of her lungs and rushing him so hard, so fast, and so unexpectedly that he lost his balance and went flying through the windowpane, shedding broken glass all over the grass below and falling to his bone-crushing, skull-cracking death.
But she couldn’t do any of that. Of course she couldn’t. There had been too many deaths already, and all inside her circle of friends. If Palmer were to die right in her own room, the questions would certainly start.
Breathe, Ariana. Just breathe.
In, one … two … three …
Out, one … two … three …
“You know what, Palmer? I do have something to say,” she told him, turning toward the door again. Her palm was so sweaty it slipped once on the knob before she was able to grip it and get the door open. “Get out.”
Palmer scoffed, shaking his head in a condescending way. But he did walk by her, and paused in the doorway. He made a little teepee with his hands and placed it in front of his mouth for a moment, smiling mirthfully the whole time.
“Thank God we broke up,” he said, looking her in the eye. “And here’s fair warning: I am going to make sure that every single person in Stone and Grave knows exactly what kind of psychopath they’ve elected as their president. Enjoy your power trip while it lasts, Ana. Your days are numbered.”
Then, with one last derisive glance, he turned on his heel and walked away. Ariana had never slammed a door so hard in her life.
PEACE OF MIND
Ariana clutched the steering wheel as she searched the crowded downtown streets for an open space. She realized too late that she had just passed one and slammed on her brakes. The guy behind her honked his horn and swerved, but Ariana ignored both him and the rude gesture he tossed her way. Gritting her teeth, she quickly and deftly swung her car into the parallel spot.
“Okay, you’re here. Just calm down. Palmer can’t really hurt you. Anything he tells anyone will be hearsay. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Ariana glanced in the mirror, taking a deep, soothing breath. Before leaving campus, she had meticulously straightened her room, making sure there was no shred of evidence of her freak-out left behind. Then she had shoved the pieces of her current disguise into her leather Louis Vuitton satchel and hit the road. All morning she had been running errands and steering clear of Atherton-Pryce, all the better to avoid the honorable Dr. Victor Meloni. But now, she’d made it to her final stop of the day.
With a discerning eye, Ariana scrutinized her look from all angles. Her blond wig was fashioned into a ponytail, which stuck out through the hole in the back of the battered Washington Nationals baseball cap Palmer had once left in her room. Her black wool peacoat was the blandest she owned, and she’d decided on jeans and sneakers to complete her girl-next-door look. Altogether, she appeared pretty darn forgettable.
“This is just in case,” she told herself firmly. “You always need to have a plan B.”
She smoothed the ponytail, got out of the car, and walked toward the marble-columned building across the street. Inside the bank, the atmosphere was hushed and professional. The brown granite floors gleamed, and the security guard took no notice of her as she crossed to the customer service desk.
“Can I help you?” the woman behind the counter asked, looking up with a smile. Her makeup was about three shades darker than the skin on her neck, and it was all Ariana could do to keep from cringing.
“Yes, I’d like to open a new account,” she replied, averting her eyes to keep from staring.
“Of course. Mr. Lawrence can help you with that.”
She indicated a nearby desk where an elderly gentleman sat in front of a glowing computer screen, his red tie adorned with candy canes.
Perfect, Ariana thought. This guy will be eating out of my palm. And at least she wouldn’t have to deal with staring at that line for the next fifteen minutes.
“Hello!” Mr. Lawrence said, standing as she approached. “So you’d like to open an account with us Miss …?”
“Walsh. Emma Walsh,” Ariana said.
“All right, Miss Walsh, have a seat. I’ll just need to see a driver’s license and one other form of ID.”
Ariana produced her wallet from her bag and fished her Emma Walsh license from the window pocket. Then she took out her passport and laid that out for him as well. Mr. Lawrence hummed Christmas carols to himself while he inputted her information, using the address on the license.
“Okay, and your telephone number?” he asked.
Ariana recited the number from the new cell phone she’d just procured for herself at the mall that morning—the same mall where she’d purchased the wig. Mr. Lawrence’s pudgy fingers flew over the keys.
“All righty. Now. We have many different types of accounts,” he said, pushing his desk blotter toward her. On it were three large squares, one white, one blue, and one gold, each advertising the different levels of accounts and how much money was needed to open each. “Were you interested in checking … savings …?”
“Well, my grandmother wanted me to put most of it in savings, as long as it was linked to a checking account so I could access it if I needed it.”
Ariana made sure her hands shook as she withdrew the crumpled check from her bag.
“Your grandmother?” he asked.
“Yes, she … she wrote me this check before she … passed away.”
Ariana brought her free hand to her face, covering both her mouth and her nose.
“Oh! I’m so sorry!” Mr. Lawrence snatched a tissue out of a box on his desk and handed it to her. “Was this recent?”
Ariana nodded, pressi
ng the tissue to her nose. “A few days ago.”
She laid the check on his desk and flattened it with both hands. She had actually written it out to herself that morning, then let it sit, crumpled, in the bottom of her bag so it would be good and battered when she arrived at the bank. Mr. Lawrence did a double take when he saw the huge amount. He cleared his throat and smoothed his tie.
“Well. I’d say you definitely qualify for our gold-level accounts,” he said. “Which is perfect because you’ll be able to transfer money to and from your checking without paying a fee, provided your total combined balance remains above fifty thousand dollars.” He glanced at the check again. “Which … I don’t think you’ll have any problem with.”
“Okay,” Ariana said tearfully. “That sounds good.”
“What do you say we put the bulk of it in high-yield savings, and … let’s see … would twenty thousand be okay in the checking?”
His voice cracked a bit on the “twenty” and his smile twitched. Ariana had a feeling he was thinking about how he’d never see this much money in his lifetime, yet here she was, a teenager, rolling in it already. Such was life, Mr. L.
“Better make it fifty,” Ariana replied, touching the tissue to the corners of her eyes. “I think that’s what Grandma Covington said.”
“Okay,” he replied with a nod. “Fifty it is.” He tapped away at the keyboard, then opened a drawer to remove two separate deposit slips. “You’ll just need to fill these out and sign them, and we’ll be all set to open those accounts and issue you an ATM card.”
“Great,” Ariana replied.
“If you don’t mind, Miss Walsh, I’d like to call my manager over and introduce her to you. She likes to meet all of our new and … esteemed account holders personally.”