Heads turn, deliberate in their attempts to get a glimpse of me. Eyes narrow, tracking me as I grab my suitcase from baggage claim, and the whispers follow down the corridor to where my brother stands, looking more grumpy than usual.
Arms crossed over his chest, Boyd looks as though he’s been sent to collect a debt with his crisp navy suit and the hard set of his jaw. There’s a ferocity in his gaze that I haven’t seen since before I moved in with him, and that, coupled with the spectators around us, has my hair standing up on end.
The cartoonish redhead beside my brother, however, alleviates some of that stress. A bright smile stretches across Fiona’s face, and she bounces on her heels as I near them, clasping her hands together.
Immediately, she pulls me in for a hug, wrapping her arms around my neck. She smells like bubblegum and flowers, and I soak in it for a moment, letting her warmth partially erase the memory of the last twenty-four hours.
Mellie and Aurora were packed and checked out by the time I woke up this morning, and I couldn’t find them in the crowd among our other classmates or chaperones. I’d ended up catching the shuttle back with one of the school administrators, having to listen to her drone on about how amazing the free night had been for her and a few other staff members.
I’m not sure what it says about me that I’m envious of middle-aged poker at a luxury burlesque show, especially considering who I’d spent most of my night with.
But I’ve been trying not to think about that.
“You’re back!” Pulling away, Fiona grips my biceps and gives me a little shake.
“Uh, yeah.” I laugh. “Surprisingly, I managed not to get beheaded in a dirty subway.” My eyes find Boyd’s. “Looks like someone owes me an apology.”
Fiona makes a face, scanning me from head to toe. “I’m just glad to see you’re mostly okay.”
“Mostly?” My eyebrows draw in. “What does that—”
“We need to leave.” Boyd’s voice interrupts, completely devoid of emotion.
I glance at him, rolling my eyes. “You make it sound like there are people after us.”
He doesn’t respond. Just stares, not blinking for a full sixty seconds. Shifting, I steal a look at Fiona, who’s twisting a piece of pink bubblegum around one of her manicured fingers.
“What’s going on?”
“Haven’t you seen—”
“Fiona.” Boyd’s using his dad voice, and I’m not even sure if he’s aware of it. “Not here.”
She worries her bottom lip, big brown eyes shining up at him. It looks like she wants to protest, push him on his insistence, but she seems to decide against it.
Looping her arm through mine, she tugs me along ahead of him, leaving my suitcase for Boyd to roll.
As we walk, I avoid looking at any other patrons, focusing instead on the tile directly in front of my path. “Did Boyd get broodier since yesterday, somehow?”
“He just worries about you,” she says, shrugging one shoulder. The black sweater she has on drapes off, revealing more of her pale, freckled skin, and she resituates the cashmere as we walk outside.
Boyd’s red Audi sits at the curb, and he pops the trunk, rounding it with my luggage. He traded in his motorcycle for the sedan, citing safety concerns, but I secretly think it’s because he’s trying to ease into settling down.
They say a man’s toys are the first to go.
People mill about the sidewalk, some slowing as they enter the airport, openly gawking at us. For a moment, I don’t think anything of it—it’s hard not to feel temporarily stunned by Fiona’s effortless beauty, and people often try to get a look at her before Boyd notices.
But these stares feel different, more pointed somehow, and with a sickening feeling sluicing through my blood, I realize they’re still looking at me.
Muscles tight, I bow my head slightly, leaning in to speak to Fiona in a low voice.
“Okay, seriously, what’s going on? Why is everyone looking at me?”
“Are they?”
Her eyes dart in a circle, pausing briefly on the two teenage boys sitting on a bench closer to the parking lot. She flips them off, tossing her hair back, and they quickly avert their gazes.
“Don’t even pay attention to them. People just don’t know how to mind their business in this town.”
“Yeah, but… what business are they minding of mine?”
“What do you mean? Obviously, people are—”
“Fiona Ivers, I swear to God.” Boyd slams the trunk shut, voice sharp.
She huffs, crossing her arms. “What? I’m not doing anything.”
“Not here. Get your pretty little ass in the car so we can go home.” His eyes cut to mine, though it feels like they look right through me. “You too. Now.”
I stand there for a few extra beats, trying to understand what exactly is going on. Clearly, something has the two of them on edge, and immediately I’m flooded with apprehension, as irrational thoughts and fears resurface in my mind.
With a shaky hand, I pull open the back car door and climb inside, hunkering down low while Boyd shifts gears and takes off.
We speed through King’s Trace at a speed that feels illegal, though no one would ever dare give my brother a ticket. Even if he didn’t have more money than most of the residents here, the police are bankrolled by the Italian Mafia, the boss of which is a client at Ivers International, Boyd’s security firm.
Well, technically, the firm belongs to Fiona’s family, but still. Boyd’s pretty much the lifeblood of that place.
All of which I know only because I interned for him over the summer, familiarizing myself with the ins and outs of cybersecurity—and the personnel files, when he wasn’t looking.
Pine trees whiz by the windows as we weave through traffic, passing downtown as quickly as we enter it. King’s Trace really isn’t much—a dirty little conglomerate of poverty, with a couple of groceries and a host of different small businesses, all centered around the unnavigable Lake Koselomal.
It’d be quaint, if it wasn’t plagued by secrets, crime, and death.
When we pull up to the white bungalow we call home, my nerves stretch thin. Somehow, in the time I’ve been gone, I’ve been able to put off the bad memories associated with this place.
But my mother’s ghost hangs around like a woman scorned, looking for souls to blacken with her talons. She’s behind me as I slip from the back seat, fitting an invisible noose around my neck, cinching until I can scarcely breathe.
And then I’m reminded about last night. What it felt like to indulge in a man’s attention, let him want me for a few minutes while I pretended not to hate myself.
But I do. Always have, and if my mother’s presence is any indication, I probably always will.
Boyd opens the front door, and we head inside to the place where time seems to stand still; the walls are the same bland shade of beige, the brown afghan draped over the arm of the sofa just so—arranged by Fiona, whose obsessive-compulsive disorder keeps things particular.
Not clean, as the dirty dishes in the sink suggest, but in order.
I head for the stairs, gripping the rail in one hand, when Boyd stops me.
“Riley. We need to talk.”