The next morning, I woke up back in the past. That was when my quest for the pills began. I had no idea how hooked I became. Over the course of a year, I lied and stole and did things I later regretted. If pills hadn’t been easy to come by in Manhattan prep schools, there’s no telling how far I might have gone. Until the very end, no one suspected a thing. My grades remained reasonable, but everything else went to hell. I stopped talking to my friends. I only showered when my mother yelled at me. Still, no one ever guessed I was doing drugs until the day I popped a few pills too many and almost died. And still, my mom kept insisting it wasn’t an overdose. If an EMT with a syringe of naloxone and a healthy disrespect for authority hadn’t chosen to ignore her, my body would be buried next to my father’s.
I spent my sixteenth birthday in rehab. There, the images returned with a vengeance. All the pictures I’d tried so hard to erase played nonstop in my mind. At first, I still didn’t understand what I saw. Then a bubbling, boiling rage began building inside me. It was toxic waste, and I had no idea where to store it. I didn’t even know what it was.
I passed the following summer in a lovely psychiatric facility in Virginia. I’d been off drugs for months at that point, but my mother thought it was best to keep me under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Eventually the people at the psychiatric facility told her I had to leave. When my mom picked me up in August, she informed me I’d soon be going back to school. Not the same school, of course. After all the drama, she just couldn’t face the old teachers and parents. So she’d enrolled me in a different school on the other side of Central Park. As if that were far enough away to start a whole new life.
It wasn’t. Everyone knew. It was as though my “condition” had been announced over the loudspeaker on the first day of school. No one was terrible to me. I was a curiosity—like a goat with two heads or a kid with a face tattoo. Most did their best not to stare, but I could always feel eyes on me when I turned around. My mother said they all stared because I’d finally gotten pretty. It was such a backhanded compliment that I figured it might be partly true. Still, “pretty” didn’t explain why people seemed to find the back of my head so damn gorgeous.
Then one day my life suddenly changed. It was noon on a Monday, and I was eating a sandwich all by myself when suddenly the king of the whole damn school sat down beside me. I thought Daniel was handsome and charming, but I wasn’t interested in a boyfriend. I was focused on my schoolwork. I’d had tutors at rehab, so I wasn’t that far behind. Still, I couldn’t screw things up again. College was my only escape plan. My mother insisted I stay in the city and go to Columbia, which was fine with me. I knew she’d never deign to set foot in Morningside Heights.
I tried to keep Daniel at bay, but he refused to give up. He sat with me at lunch every day. He brought me iced coffees in the afternoon and walked me across the park. He said he was happy to just be friends. Everyone else at school took their lead from him. People began to say hello to me in the halls. I don’t think I knew how much I’d missed all of that. I stopped resisting. I jumped right in. I took Daniel’s persistence as a sign of sincerity. It never even occurred to me that it might be a game.
We’d been hanging out for a few months when he announced he was throwing a party. His parents would be out of town, but they’d given their permission. I’d bought a dress for the occasion and thrilled my mother by finally having my brows done. I remember looking in the mirror before I left and actually understanding why someone might find me appealing.
There were at least fifty people from school at the party, and they all had their phones out. I’d bet thousands of photos were taken that night. Everyone was drinking out of camping mugs to disguise the liquor inside them. When Daniel handed me a mug, I took it for the worst reasons. I didn’t want to disappoint him.
I took a couple of sips just for show and then dumped the rest into a plant as soon as no one was watching. When I put the mug down, Daniel invited me out to the terrace that wrapped around his apartment on the eighteenth floor and overlooked Central Park. He’d told his guests that the outdoors was off-limits, which made perfect sense. The last thing anyone needed was a drunk teenager plunging eighteen floors to her death. When he opened the door, I understood the rule was just an excuse to keep the balcony empty. He’d saved the space just for us.
I remember standing at the railing with Daniel, looking out over Central Park. The windows and glass doors must have been soundproofed. I couldn’t hear the party raging inside. When Daniel leaned down to kiss me, I felt my legs wobble. I thought maybe I was just overwhelmed. Then my knees buckled, and Daniel caught me before I fell. It seemed sweet for a moment—until I tried to thank him and realized I could barely talk.
There were fifty people on the other side of the windows, but it was dark outside and they were all having fun. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass and saw myself hanging limply over Daniel’s shoulder. A group of girls were posing on the other side. There were multiple cameras aimed right at me. Someone must have seen something.
Daniel carried me to the far end of the terrace, away from the party and back into the apartment through one of the rooms that had been declared off-limits. I was dumped down on a bed in what I now know was his parents’ bedroom. I’d had my little Chanel purse strapped across my chest. I remember feeling one of the chains pop as he yanked it off. Then he pulled down my underwear and pushed up my dress. He probably assumed I’d chugged the whole drink. If I had, I would have been catatonic. My head was swimming, but I was still capable of thought. And I was thinking about fucking killing him.
I’d spent years swallowing rage. When it rose to the surface, I’d gulp it back down. A molten lake had been growing inside me. The pressure was building. Cracks and fissures were forming. That night it broke through and I finally erupted.
I lurched upward and shoved Daniel off me. He flew backward and landed with a crash, hitting his head on the edge of a bureau. The element of surprise had made it possible, but when I rose to my feet, I felt power coursing through me. I walked over to where he lay with his head in his hands, and I kicked him. It felt so good that I did it again. And again. And again.
There are plenty of pictures of me emerging from the bedroom, looking like a crazed junkie. I froze when I saw everyone. I’d forgotten where I was. There are big parts of that evening that are still a blur. I can’t remember what happened next, but there’s video of the entire incident. Daniel limped out of the bedroom with my purse in his hand. Both sides of his face were badly bruised. I stood there, panting like a rabid beast and swaying drunkenly in my heels as Daniel handed me my purse and planted a sad little kiss on my cheek. Then he asked two of the guys there to escort me downstairs and told the rest of the crowd that he needed an ambulance.
I don’t recall getting home, but somehow I managed to take off my dress and crawl into my bed. The next thing I knew, my mother was shaking me awake. The police were there to see me. Inside my bag they found a bottle of pills with his dad’s name on the label.
Daniel had told the police that I’d left him on the balcony to use the restroom. When I’d taken too long, he’d gone to look for me. He’d found me in his parents’ room rifling through their things. It was clear I was high, and I’d raided the medicine cabinet. When he tried to help me, I attacked him.
By the time the cops arrived at my apartment, the story had already made the rounds. There were twenty texts from my new friends on my phone, offering their support in my time of need. Addiction is a disease, one of them said. There was one from Daniel as well. We’re all here to help you get better.
No one had to get hurt. That’s what Daniel was telling me. Play nice, and everything can go right back to the way it was. I threw the phone at the wall. When it didn’t break, I took the heel of a shoe and smashed the screen. Then I put on some clothes and went to the police station to answer questions.
Wi
th my mother at my side, I told the officers the truth. Daniel had slipped something into my drink and then attempted to rape me. I heard my mother gasp when she heard the word “rape.” “Bram!” she snapped, as if I’d uttered the most ridiculous lie. I guess everyone knows that good-looking boys from rich families don’t “need” to rape anyone. Especially not friendless junkies like me.
One cop took notes. The other asked all the questions. They showed the video someone had taken of when I’d come out of the bedroom. My mother was shocked. She said out loud that I barely looked human.
“You told us that your daughter has had substance abuse issues in the past,” a cop said to my mother. “Did she ever steal medications to support her habit?”
And that was it. There was never a trial, but I was found guilty.
I wasn’t going to let him get away with it. The following Monday, I went to school. People I barely knew stopped me to offer their best wishes. My friends acted like I was fighting cancer. They were just so supportive. Until lunch. With everyone in the school watching, I made my big announcement. I told them all exactly what I’d told the cops. The looks of pity quickly turned cold. Knowing he’d won, Daniel approached me, his arms open wide as if to show them that all the crazy girl needed was a hug. I punched him in the face, and when he dropped to his knees, I kicked him. By the end of the day, I’d been expelled from school and the entire world had turned against me.
No one gave a damn about the pills I’d supposedly stolen. I was being punished for the worst sin of all. I’d refused to keep my mouth shut.
That’s how I got kicked out of Manhattan. I was an embarrassment to my mother and a liability for her fundraising. Daniel’s parents could have made sure that her beloved charity never received another dime. Heaven forbid the pets of America were made to suffer on my behalf.
While I was under house arrest and my mom was researching boarding schools for troubled girls, I caught up on my reading. My mother had briefly mentioned the fire at the manor. Somehow she’d failed to mention that James’s wife had died. And imagine my surprise when I discovered that there was another mad girl in the family. This one had started a fire that destroyed her house and killed her own mother. At least that was what everyone had been told.
The story had everything people crave—scandal, death, and damsels in distress. In terms of made-for-TV awesomeness, it was right up there with “woman seduces brother-in-law and dies in his arms.” Or “fatherless girl turns to drugs and crime.” Or how about “abandoned at the altar, girl drowns herself in the Hudson.”
After Daniel, I knew better than to believe everything I was told. I knew that everyone lies. There wasn’t much I could do to salvage my own reputation, but Lark Bellinger didn’t seem like such a lost cause. So I decided to help her. I needed to prove that the truth still mattered. Because—if it didn’t—there wouldn’t be any reason to go on.
* * *
—
I’d been sitting in the cold by Grace Louth’s grave for so long that my entire body had gone numb. I needed to get somewhere warm, but I had a call to make first. I pulled out my phone and looked up the number for Hastings—the mental hospital where Lark had been taken after the fire. I knew the chances were slim that I’d be able to speak to her, but I was desperate enough to give it a shot. By that point, there were a million questions I wanted to ask.
I dialed and waited as it rang.
“Hastings Psychiatric,” said a chipper voice at the other end of the line.
I sat up straight. I hadn’t expected anyone to answer so quickly. “Hello,” I said. “I need to speak to one of the patients at your hospital. Would it be possible to see if she has phone access?”
“Give me the name and I’ll check,” the woman said.
“Lark Bellinger.”
“I’m sorry,” she said without a pause. She didn’t need to check her computer. I suspected I wasn’t the first person to call. “We’ve been instructed to direct all inquiries to her father, Ruben Bellinger.”
“Have there been other inquiries?” I asked.
“Sorry,” the receptionist answered. “I’m afraid that counts as an inquiry as well.”
“Do you have visiting hours at Hastings?” I asked, reaching, I knew.
“Yes, we do, but if you would like to visit Lark Bellinger, you must speak with her father. I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“You are welcome.” She sounded so relieved to get off the phone. “Have a wonderful day.”
The only route home from the graveyard took me back through Louth. I would have preferred to avoid town altogether. After listening to Maisie’s conversation with Gavin Turner, I didn’t trust anyone. Everyone knew everyone in Louth, and I knew nothing. I was an outsider and I always would be.
I was halfway down Grace Street when I felt someone watching. Back in the city, I’d gotten so used to being the object of unwanted attention that sometimes I could actually sense the eyes on me. I looked behind me. There was no one else on the street. The person had to be watching me from inside one of the shops, but the glare from the snow on the ground was blinding, and I couldn’t see through the windows. I felt like I was back in the interrogation room, staring into the one-way mirror, wondering who was studying me on the other side.
Then I heard a door open and the crunch of heavy boots on snow.
“Hey there!” a guy called out. His voice was deep but young. There was nothing sinister in what he said. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought he sounded friendly. “Hold up for a second. We want to say hi.”
I tried not to turn around. I knew I shouldn’t give them the satisfaction. But I couldn’t resist stealing a quick peek over my shoulder. There were two of them about half a block behind me on the opposite side of the road. Both of the guys were my age, and they were wearing the Louth uniform—down coats and wool hats. One coat was navy. The other a deep burgundy. In the dark, the coats might have been mistaken for black.
It was broad daylight, of course. There were other people out on the sidewalks. I’d been in far more dangerous situations. But the pair scared me. There was something urgent in the way they scaled the snowbank on their side of the street and hurried across the salt-covered road. I hadn’t brought my bear repellent or my box cutter into town. All I had to defend myself was a plastic bag filled with carbon monoxide detectors.
I kept going. The hardware store sat at the end of the block. I pictured the kind man I’d met earlier that morning, and figured I’d be safe with him if I could just reach his shop. But the path was icy, and there was only so fast I could go. My stalkers caught up with me before I could get my hand on the door handle.
I spun around to face the two of them. “What do you want?” I demanded.
“Whoa,” one said, putting his hand out as if to fend off a beast that might charge. “Calm down. I know you have to act tough in the city, but do we look like bad guys to you?”
I had no idea what bad guys were supposed to look like. Before Daniel, I suppose I’d had a picture in my head. It wouldn’t have resembled either of the people who were standing before me. The silent one was cute and dopey. The one talking had a face from the 1950s, complete with a smattering of freckles across his nose.
“I asked you what you wanted.”
Freckles glanced over at his friend. “We saw you down by the river earlier, and we just wanted to say hi. That’s Brian. I’m Mike. And you are?”
I didn’t want to give them any of my names—real or fake.
“It’s all right.” This time there was an edge to Mike’s voice, but he kept his smile. The people in Louth were good at that. Back in Manhattan, no one tried quite as hard. “You don’t have to answer. We know who you are, Bram Howland. Your uncle owns the manor.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“You should be careful,” Brian blurted out, sounding about as dumb as he looked.
“Why?” I shot back. “Are you going to break all my windows next?”
I heard the delicate tinkle of the bell over the hardware store door.
“Hey.” It was Sam’s voice. “Everything okay?”
I felt light-headed with relief. “These two were just welcoming me to town,” I informed him. But when I looked back at Sam, I could see he hadn’t been talking to me. There were three bags in his hands—two from the hardware store and a third filled, oddly, with lemons. His eyes were locked on Mike’s. I don’t know what kind of telepathy those two were using, but there was no doubt that information was being exchanged.
“We were just—” Brian started.
“It’s okay.” Sam cut him off. “You guys should go.”
I didn’t say anything. I just let my eyes pass over them. Three tall, strapping guys in down coats. One navy. One burgundy. One black. In the dark, on a surveillance camera, their coats would have seemed the same color.
The standoff lasted for a few seconds. Then Brian gave Sam a curt nod. “All right, then. See you around,” he said. I couldn’t tell if he was talking to me.
I stood next to Sam and watched them go. Brian took the lead. The snowblowers hadn’t cleared enough sidewalk for two broad-shouldered boys to walk side by side.
“Your uncle’s been looking for you all morning. You headed up to the manor?” Sam asked as soon as they were out of earshot.
I nodded.
“I’m on my way back, too. I’ll walk with you. There’s another storm coming. We should get you home before it hits.”
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