Suspicion

  “It’s cool,” I tell her.

  “Omigosh, thank you!” Zoey leaps out of her chair to give me a hug. “You’re the best sister in the world.”

  I can’t help feeling a warm glow as she squeezes me happily and Keith and Carole smile at me from across the table. I may not be a Marino by blood, but I know I’m loved all the same. And that makes it a little easier to be okay with the decision I made a long time ago—to say goodbye to Grandfather and Lucia and turn my back on Rockford Manor.

  III

  I fall asleep to memories floating before my eyes, like 3-D images I can almost reach out and touch. I am ten years old again, and sweating through my thick black mourning clothes as the sun beats down from above. I stare up at the sky. How can the sun be so disloyal as to go on shining, when my whole world has turned dark?

  It is my last day at Rockford Manor, and though desperate to be alone, I’m trailed by Carole and Keith, who have arrived to escort me home to New York. They follow me now as I climb the grassy hill to Rockford Chapel and Cemetery, at the farthest reaches of the Rockford grounds.

  I approach the newest gravestones, and it seems as though I’m outside my own body—a pitying spectator watching a stranger perform the harrowing task of visiting her parents’ graves. That grim-faced little girl can’t actually be me; it can’t be my mum and dad who are gone. I still hold out hope that at any moment I’ll find my parents waiting for me, beaming as they tell me that it’s all been a terrible mistake, that there’s no need to worry, they’re here and we’re always going to be together—

  Carole’s choked sob shatters this fantasy. I watch as she kneels at Mum’s gravestone, pressing her forehead against the marble. I long to do the same, to wrap my arms around my parents’ graves and pretend they’re hugging me back, to kiss their headstones and imagine that they can somehow feel me. But I can’t—I’m afraid of my touch, of what it might do. So I can only stare, rereading the words on the two linked graves.

  “What does that mean?” I ask Carole when she steps back beside me. “ ‘The key to the Promised Land’?”

  “I don’t know.” She glances up at Keith. “They must have specified that epitaph in their will.”

  The three of us turn around at the sound of footsteps crunching on the fallen leaves. My chest tightens when I see who’s there: Lucia and Sebastian, hand in hand.

  “Imogen. I knew I’d find you here,” she says, catching her breath. “I—we’ve—come to tell you something. You can’t go.” She draws herself up to her full height. “I’m now the Marchioness of Wickersham, and I—I command you to stay.”

  I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

  “I know you’re scared,” she says in a softer voice. “But I promise, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  Keith steps forward before I can answer, wrapping a protective arm around my shoulder.

  “Lady Lucia, I can’t tell you how sorry I am for your loss. There are no words. But I’m afraid Imogen does need to come home with us tonight. I know you two will miss each other, but you can still visit—”

  “It’s not fair!” Lucia cries, balling her hands into fists. “Our grandfather lives here, I live here. How can you just take her away and leave me alone, with no parents and now no cousin? It’s not right, is it, Imogen?”

  “Where did you go the night of the fire?” I blurt out instead. “Where were you?”

  Lucia recoils, as if I’ve hurt her. Sebastian gives me an imploring glance.

  “Ginny …”

  But I don’t want to hear his voice; I don’t want him to talk me out of the one emotion that gives me any relief. Anger.

  “I—I only went to get some air, I got hot!” Lucia sputters. “Is that a crime?”

  “Did you see how the fire got started? No one else seems to know.” I fold my arms across my chest. “You were wandering around in the middle of the night, so you must know something.”

  “Are you actually questioning me?” Lucia demands. “Because that’s a laugh, coming from you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saw what you can do,” she hisses. “How do we know the fire wasn’t your fault?”

  Her words feel like a slap across my face. I stumble backward, shaking my head no, no. It can’t be my fault … or can it? Carole jumps between us.

  “That’s enough, girls. You don’t mean any of what you’re saying. You’re both hurting, and it’s natural to lash out at each other, but you have to remember that this terrible accident was just that—an accident. It’s nobody’s fault.”

  After a long pause, I hear Sebastian’s voice, tinged with sadness.

  “So … you’re really going, then, Ginny?”

  I nod.

  “I know it’s hard to understand after everything that’s happened, but the fact is, Imogen’s life is in New York,” Carole tries to explain. “That’s why her parents chose us to be her guardians in their will. They wouldn’t want her life uprooted any more than it has to be. England is your home, but it’s never been Imogen’s.”

  “You won’t miss me anyway,” I tell Sebastian, my voice breaking on the last word. “You have each other.”

  I turn on my heels, leaving Carole and Keith to reason with a still-arguing Lucia. I keep my head down as I descend the hill toward Rockford Manor, not noticing that I’m being followed until I feel a hand on my shoulder.

  “It’s not true, what you said.”

  I turn around at Sebastian’s voice, feeling a strange swooping in my stomach as I face him.

  “What isn’t true?”

  “That I won’t miss you. Because I will. I’ll miss you every summer and every holiday if you don’t come back,” he says, looking at me earnestly. “I’ll miss you every time I see a bell-flower or anything else that reminds me of my friend Ginny Rockford.”

  Tears prick at the back of my eyelids as he speaks. He can’t know how much his words mean to me; how they make everything simultaneously better and worse. But before I can answer, Sebastian bends down and brushes his lips against my cheek. I gasp, reaching up to touch my face in awe. Nothing should be able to make me feel happy after all I’ve just lost—but this kiss, platonic though it may be, gives me a moment of pure joy.

  “Goodbye, Ginny,” he says softly. “Till we meet again.”

  “Goodbye,” I echo, still touching my cheek as he walks back to rejoin Lucia. When he’s no longer within earshot, I whisper, “I’ll never forget you.”

  I wake from my dream with the nauseating pit in my stomach that I’ve come to associate with this memory—the last time I ever spoke to Lucia and Sebastian. For a long time, any recollection of Lucia left me tormented. Her name and face were inextricably tangled up with the horrors of the fire, and for reasons I still don’t understand, I blamed her—I blamed us. And the only way I could get through it all was by pretending that the previous years belonged to somebody else, that my real life began at age ten with the Marinos.

  It’s not the bravest way of handling things, I know. And I can’t help thinking my parents would be hurt and disappointed in me for not honoring their memory the way I should. If I were stronger, I’d be able to talk about them freely and celebrate their lives, instead of hiding them in my heart. But when I try—when I remember the comfort of Mum’s arms and the adoring smile that Dad gave to only me—then I’m forced to also remember the gruesome images of the fire. Lucia leading me to witness the tragedy, my mother’s limp hand … And I can’t—I can’t think about them or miss them, because then the darkness beckons. So I’ve avoided any reminiscing with the Marinos about my family, and I haven’t stayed even remotely up to date on the happenings in Wickersham. My parents are reduced to names and photographs, their deaths a somber speech that I numbly recite whenever a curious new friend asks about my last name. It’s so much easier to pretend I never had another life … and yet the pangs of guilt are a constant.

  One of the side effects of growing up is seeing things in a differen
t light. And now, when I’m alone and brutally honest with myself, I face a different type of torment: regret for turning my back on my cousin, and for refusing every one of my grandfather’s invitations to visit Rockford. But then, as it turns out, Lucia didn’t really need me after all.

  When I turned fourteen and the Marinos let me get a Facebook account, I couldn’t contain my curiosity. I looked Lucia up right away. She was almost unrecognizable at sixteen, but every bit as beautiful as I’d expected her to be. And then, without any warning, Sebastian’s face joined hers in the next photo. He was so handsome, his eyes so painfully familiar as the two of them smiled for the camera, that I slammed my laptop shut, vowing to never look for them again. But I always held out a sprig of hope that they might look for me—that they would find me on Facebook one day, and our friendship would start up again like no time had passed. Of course, it never happened. I guess I was right when I told Sebastian he wouldn’t miss me.

  The doorbell rings, jarring me out of my thoughts. With a sigh and a stretch, I roll out of bed. I reach the front door just as Carole sleepily pads out of the kitchen, clutching a mug of coffee. She does a double take when she sees me.

  “Morning, sweetie. Are you okay? You don’t need to be up for another hour.”

  “I’m fine, I just woke up early. Did you hear the doorbell? Who would be coming over now?”

  “The doorman said he was sending up someone from a messenger service,” Carole replies. “Who knew deliveries started at six a.m.?”

  She opens the door. A scrawny twentysomething stands in the hallway, a thick envelope in his hands. He gives Carole a polite nod as he proffers the package.

  “Good morning, ma’am. I have a delivery for a Lady Imogen Rockford.”

  “That’s—that’s me!” I exclaim. “Although I’m not a lady.”

  “She’s a minor,” Carole says hastily, grabbing the package. “I’ll sign for her.” After scrawling her signature and mumbling a barely audible goodbye, Carole closes the door on him.

  “Let me see it.” I reach for the package, but to my astonishment, she holds it out of my grasp.

  “Your father needs to see this first. It might be something to do with his—”

  “I don’t care if it’s from the pissed-off lawyer! That package is mine, and I should be the one to open it,” I snap.

  I peer closer at the envelope clutched in Carole’s fist. Unbeknownst to her, the return address peeks out through her fingers, and my heart nearly leaps into my throat as I make out the words.

  MR. HARRY MORGAN, ESQ.

  ROCKFORD MANOR

  WICKERSHAM, OXFORDSHIRE, UK

  “It’s from my grandfather’s house.” My voice is barely above a whisper. “I haven’t heard from him in … ages.”

  Carole looks from me to the envelope, her face paling.

  “I’m sorry, but your father has to see this first. We can discuss it over dinner tonight.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, Imogen. We’ll talk about it tonight,” she says firmly.

  My shoulders slump in defeat, but then an idea strikes me. Without answering her, I turn on my heels and race back to my room.

  I slide onto my desk chair, flip open my laptop, and Google “Harry Morgan Rockford Manor.” The first link that pops up is the official tourist website for Rockford Manor. My hands hesitate over the mouse—but then I hold my breath and click on it.

  Images and words rush toward me as the screen loads. My stomach clenches at the sight of the striking, monumental Elizabethan castle looming in the main photo, surrounded by picture-perfect parkland. Rockford Manor is painfully familiar, yet the passing of seven years gives it a foreign quality, as though I’m looking at the set of a TV show, or another place that only feels real—but isn’t.

  I blink rapidly as ghosts descend upon the photo in my mind, strolling the grounds and looking out from the high balconies and arched windows. I can’t look anymore. I quickly shift my eyes down toward the text.

  Welcome to Rockford Manor, home to the eleventh Duke of Wickersham. Known as the finest nonroyal palace in Britain, Rockford Manor is a National Trust Site. The Rockford family has called the manor home for more than three centuries. The palace and gardens are currently closed to the public but will reopen in June for the summer season.

  I swallow hard, struggling to calm my racing heart, as I click the Contact Us tab. I scan the different titles and phone numbers until I find the name I’m looking for: Mr. Harry Morgan, Estate Manager.

  Why in the world would the Rockford’s estate manager need to reach me? I wage a silent debate in my mind over whether or not to contact him, and once the little voice in my head urging me to do it has won, I question whether calling or emailing is the right move. Finally, I bite the bullet and reach for my cell. Calling Europe is probably going to cost me a fortune, but I’ll deal with that later.

  It strikes me that I have no clue what the country code is for England—the last time I ever called overseas was when Mum and Dad were still alive. I quickly Google “How to call England,” and after dialing a myriad of numbers, I hear the drone of the international ring tone. At last, a prim woman’s voice answers.

  “Good afternoon, Harry Morgan’s office.”

  “Hi.” My voice comes out like a croak, and I clear my throat nervously. “Hi, um, can I speak to him, please?”

  “Mr. Morgan is currently in America,” she replies briskly. “May I take a message?”

  “Where in America?” I ask, feeling suddenly light-headed.

  The woman pauses. “May I ask who I’m speaking with?”

  I take a deep breath.

  “This is Imogen. Imogen Rockford.”

  I hear a sharp exhale on the other end of the line. When she speaks again, the woman’s voice is entirely different. No longer sounding harried, she adopts a girlish tone brimming with excitement.

  “Lady Imogen! I’m Liza, Harry Morgan’s assistant. You can’t imagine how long we’ve been trying to reach you. It’s been quite a trial, so much so that hearing your voice now is just … well, I can’t believe it!”

  I hold the phone in front of me and stare at it, as if gazing deep into my iPhone will somehow make sense of her bizarre words.

  “I’m just Imogen. No one calls me Lady,” I say, baffled. “And I don’t know what you mean about trying to reach me. I haven’t gotten any calls or mail or anything, other than a package from Mr. Morgan just now.”

  “You didn’t receive anything?” Liza echoes, her voice sounding bewildered. “But we’ve been writing and calling for weeks.”

  With a jolt, I realize this can mean only one of two things. Either this lady is off her rocker—or the Marinos have been withholding the correspondence from me.

  “Where is Mr. Morgan?” I ask again. “I haven’t opened his package yet. My guardians have it.”

  “He’s in New York,” she says softly. “He came to see you.”

  I nearly fall out of my desk chair.

  “What? He’s here?”

  “Yes. He needs to speak with you. It’s very important.”

  “Is it something bad?” I ask tentatively. What if the Marinos have a good reason for keeping this from me?

  “Not exactly.” As if sensing my hesitation over the phone, Liza continues, “You’ll be glad to speak with him. You won’t be sorry, I guarantee it.”

  “Okay …” I think quickly. “It’s probably best that I meet him somewhere else, not at my home.”

  I nervously rattle off the first place I think of, Lauren’s address, and ask if Mr. Morgan can meet me there after school.

  “I’ll make sure he gets there at three-fifteen,” Liza promises me. “I’m so glad I got to speak with you, Imogen. Have a wonderful day, and I—I hope we’ll be seeing you at Rockford Manor soon.”

  “Oh, um, probably not, but thanks. Have a good day.”

  I click the phone off and fling myself onto my bed, suddenly overwhelmed by the magnitude of what I’ve just
done. I can’t imagine what’s so important that an estate manager would travel halfway across the world to come talk to me about—and I’m both terrified and eager to find out what it is.

  “You said what?” Lauren exclaims through a mouthful of her turkey sandwich. We’re sitting at our usual table in the school cafeteria and I’ve just finished giving her a quick, under-my-breath recap of the phone call. “What am I supposed to tell my mom when a strange old British guy shows up at our apartment?”

  “I didn’t know what else to say. I had to come up with something on the spot, and I wanted to meet him someplace where I wouldn’t have to worry about anyone overhearing. And I obviously can’t meet him at home when Carole and Keith are the ones trying to hide all this from me.” I glance across the room at Zoey, who’s chatting happily with her friends at a corner table, blissfully unaware of her parents’ secrets—or my own. “Plus … I’d just feel a little better if you were there.”

  Lauren gives my arm a squeeze. “You’re right, I’m sorry. Of course I’ll be there for you. We just have to think of an alias for this Harry guy that won’t make my mom suspicious.”

  “I guess we could say he’s my uncle?” I suggest. “We could pretend he’s visiting me and that I brought him over to meet you.”

  Lauren wrinkles her nose.

  “I don’t know. I can totally see my mom mentioning that to the Marinos.”

  “Okay, then … what if he’s my tutor and is helping us study for a test?”

  “You know how often my mom talks to Carole,” Lauren says, shaking her head. “Anything we come up with could get back to her, even if it’s something as small as my mom commenting on how nice your fancy British tutor is.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “Then I guess I’ll have to be prepared to tell her the truth … later. First I’ve got to find out what Harry Morgan wants, without Carole and Keith getting in the way. So even if the tutor alias gives us just a couple of hours before my cover is blown, at least by then I’ll have some answers. And if it comes down to it, I’ll tell your parents I lied to you about who he is too, so you won’t get in trouble.”