Chapter 67

“I can’t give you back the educational opportunities you might’ve had at Lionswood,” he explains. “But I can give you the funds you would’ve had access to. Four years of tuition, which would be…” 

$846,000. 

I’m almost positive my heart stops beating. 

“...$846,000. More than enough for you to fund whatever secondary education you’d like or start over in a new city. I can write you a check here and now.” 

Ian’s eyes widen. 

“There are stipulations, of course,” Adrian adds. “Ten minutes from now, you’re going to call an ambulance – you certainly need one by now – and tell them you slipped and fell working in the garage this morning. You’re going to erase Poppy’s name – and whatever misdeeds you may suspect her of – from your memory. You’re not going to go to the press. You’re not going to email the Dean. You’re not going to tell anyone about anything. You’re going quietly go about your life and spend my money and be thankful that, while you may blame her for ruining your life, she’s the very reason you’ll get to keep living it after today.”

Ian opens his mouth, but the struggle to form words is obvious. “How can I…” 

“How can you trust I’m not lying about the money?” Adrian finishes for him. “Well, when I hand you a check, you’re welcome to Google the last name attached. I’m sure that’ll clear up any confusion.” He pauses. “And one more thing. In a year from now, in five years from now, maybe even ten, you may want more. More money. More revenge. When that happens, and I’m certain it will…” Ian coughs and wheezes against the weight of his shoe as Adrian’s voice drops. “I can promise you that is a very, very bad idea.” 

Goosebumps sprout across my skin. 

“Do we have a deal?” Adrian asks. 

I have as much trepidation on my face as Ian does – but he nods.

Adrian’s answering smile is full of teeth.

***

L

ionswood’s art teacher, Ms. Hanson, has a term for projects that’ve crossed the threshold of being salvageable. 

She’d click her tongue, point out the places where the colors have become too muddled or the proportions seemingly off, and say: You’ve reached the point of no return, Poppy. 

That’s exactly what this moment feels like – except, this time, I’m the thing that’s reached the point of no return. This morning’s muddled me beyond recognition. 

I stare into the hotel’s bathroom mirror, and I’m not sure who’s staring back. 

She’s not the moon-eyed freshman hoping to find a real home behind Lionswood’s iron gates. She’s not friendless outcast sitting alone at lunch, storing secondhand gossip in her head like it’s the answer to her math homework. 

She’s someone new. 

Or maybe not – maybe she’s been buried in me for years, hibernating the seasons away, surfacing only when I need her to cheat or lie or commit a sin I don’t have a stomach for. 

The darkest, depraved part of me. 

And now, after this morning, after what I did, after what I allowed Adrian to do, she’s all I see. 

All anyone’s going to see when they look at me. 

A knock sounds on the bathroom door. 

“Sweetheart, are you alright?” Adrian’s soft voice filters through the barrier, and my heart clenches. 

Adrian’s going to see her too. 

I mean, he already has. Cheater. Coward. Would-be murderer. This morning, he had a front-row seat to my darkest sins come back to haunt me. 

If it weren’t for him, I’d be sitting in another interrogation room, trying to lie my way out of Ian’s injuries. 

Or his death. 

A shiver wracks through me, and I realize I still haven’t answered, so I call back: “I’m fine.” 

Only silence answers me on the other side, and I’m temporarily surprised he’s folded so quickly. 

And then the door cracks open. 

I raise an eyebrow in the mirror. “A little presumptuous, don’t you think?”

I can see that, while I’ve been holed up in here, he’s freshly changed into a pair of navy slacks and a cream sweater that accentuates his broad shoulders – and even now, even the guilt-ridden mess that I am, my eyes linger. 

Adrian leans against the doorframe and shrugs. “Well, you could’ve locked the door.”

“Would it have kept you out?” 

“Unlikely.” His mouth quirks up, but then he gives me a once-over. “You’ve been awfully quiet since we left that budget-movie murder shack.” 

I can’t even bring myself to muster a laugh. “I know. I just needed a moment to myself. That’s all.” 

“You look like you’re going to be sick,” he says. “You’re very pale. Are you feeling feverish?” 

He’s not wrong. My skin’s as blanched as my hair, which only pronounces the dark purplish bags shadowing my eyes. “I’m fine. It’s just…” 

“Attempted murder and blackmail not sitting well on your stomach?” His tone’s teasing, but his dark eyes gleam with curiosity. 

My gaze meets his reflection. “You gave him all that money. Almost a million dollars. You wrote him a check like it was…like it was nothing.” 

“Because it was nothing.” 

“It was almost a million dollars.”

Another shrug. “When you drop a penny in a wishing well, do you miss it?” 

I huff. “I think your parents might miss it.” 

And then a fresh horror dawns on me: rescuing me from a self-inflicted car crash might get Adrian in trouble with his family. 

My stomach starts performing somersaults, but Adrian seems far less concerned than I am. “Are you worried about me, sweetheart?” An amused smile curves the edges of his mouth. 

“Of course I am,” I snap, swiveling to face him head-on. “You had to fix something I caused, and if there’s more blowback –” 

“There won’t be,” he assures me. “If my parents ask, and I doubt they will, I lost a bet to one of the guys on the swim team and had to pay out for a new yacht.” He raises an eyebrow. “And this isn’t about the money. Tell me what’s actually going through that head of yours.” 

I swallow. “I don’t want to.” 

“Tell me.” His onyx eyes meet mine through the mirror, not an ounce of amusement in them. “Or I’ll force it out of you.” 

My breath catches, and it’s not a twinge of fear that slithers down my spine – it’s anticipation. 

As if I don’t have enough of my depravity on display. 

My gaze trails to the floor, to the same Italian loafers that nearly pulverized Ian’s windpipe this morning. “There’s something wrong with me,” I tell him. “A wire that got crossed too early. A moral compass that cracked somewhere along the way, but there’s this…” I scramble for the right word. “This darkness in me. This selfishness. This…hunger.” 

I lean against the sink, white-knuckling the edge. 

“Maybe it’s because I’ve spent my life taking scraps. Only enough to fill my belly, never enough to sate me,” I continue. “And some people – most people – they get used to scraps. They learn to make a full meal out of them in a way that I never have. But I always want more, and I’ve done awful, terrible things to get more. And I used to think Lionswood would satisfy my hunger. I thought it’d be my key to a bright future away from Mobile and my mother, and all I needed to do was ruin one life.” I shake my head. “And, sure, I’ve felt guilty about it, but my self-preservation instinct’s always been much stronger than my conscience. You know that too. I could’ve kept pursuing justice for Mickey’s death, to my own detriment, but I didn’t. 

“I kept my mouth shut because I didn’t want to die, and the moment I learned why you killed him, I started keeping my mouth shut for other reasons too.” 

Some part of me is dying to see if my truth has stirred as much shame in him as it has in me, but I refuse to look. Because if I do, and it has, I’m not sure I’ll be able to finish. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to put words to these feelings ever again. 

“The first time we saw each other – actually saw each other – you said you liked my honesty, which, in retrospect, is only funny because I am a liar. I’ve lied to Dean Robins, I’ve lied to my mother, I’ve lied to just about everyone but you.” I take a deep breath. “And yet, I am terrified that if I let you see every dark, twisted part of me, you’ll want to flee.” My lip quivers. “Maybe after this morning, you already do.” 

It’s suffocating, this silence. 

I think I’d feel less vulnerable if I stripped off my clothes and paraded around naked.

“Do you remember our conversation in the gardens?” 

At the question, I lift my head and lock eyes with him. His face is neutral, flat, and frustratingly unreadable. 

“Of course.” 

He crosses his arms over his chest. “I told you I wasn’t afraid of ugliness then. Do you think my answer’s changed?” 

I glance down. “Well, I wouldn’t blame you if it has.” 

By the time the words are out of my mouth, he’s already striding toward me. “It hasn’t.” He tilts my chin up so that I’m forced to hold his gaze, no matter how heavy it may be. “In fact…” His voice drops melodic murmur that slips beneath my skin. “I quite like your darkness.”