Evermore Academy (Evermore Academy #3) - Audrey Grey Page 0,108

for Summer Solstice,” a nervous female voice whispers, as if she’s trying to hide the call from someone. “You called our clinic about your sister, Haley Richardson? She was here for a brief time. Would you be available to come in next Wednesday? We . . . um, we tried to find her family last year, but she didn’t list any contacts. I—I—”

The voicemail ends abruptly.

Hot adrenaline spikes my veins and clears away my fatigue. I jackknife to a sitting position, heart racing. Did I hear that right?

I replay the message two more times and then, once I’m sure I’m not making things up, I hug the phone to my chest, childishly afraid the message will somehow disappear.

After we returned from Whitehall, Mack and I called every clinic on our list. It took us nearly a full day. Most didn’t answer, so we left voicemails asking about Hellebore’s shadow.

It had been a long shot, and honestly, with everything else going on, I had forgotten about it.

For the first time in a while, I can actually picture a life with Valerian. That picture might be at the end of a very long, dangerous tunnel, but I can see it waving in the air, promising a happiness I never thought I could have.

46

The clinic is nestled deep in Cobble Hill, Brooklyn, just past a wall of red rowhouses. The brick building looms on the other side of the park, a gated estate lined with cypress trees. The Uber drops Mack and me off in the gravel circle drive. A frigid gust of wind stings my cheeks, and I’m thankful I remembered my coat.

It’s so easy to forget that in the mortal lands, it’s almost Christmas.

“This place is decidedly creepy,” Mack declares, tightening the plush red cashmere scarf at her neck. The bells on her ugly Christmas sweater ring with her every movement.

“Creepier than that?” I point at her sweater.

The brightly colored scene features three cats dancing. Someone thought it was a good idea to attach real bells to their collars so now Mack literally jingles when she walks.

She tweaks one of the bells. “This is high fashion, according to Nordstrom.”

We’re supposed to take the subway to see her dads after this. They throw a holiday party nearly every day of December and from the pictures I’ve seen, Mack’s sweater is tame.

A beautiful poinsettia-mixed pine wreath with red berries adorns the large green door. We’re ushered inside by a woman with bobbed salt-and-pepper hair. I’d almost forgotten what wrinkles looked like, and I try not to stare as she practically drags us to a visitor desk, walking quickly.

While I sign in, she explains that Mack will have to wait on the visitor side.

The woman runs a badge over a sensor next to iron double doors. As they creak open, I wave to Mack.

“I’m glad you’re here,” the woman, whose name tag reads Donna, says. “We’re busy with the holidays and events, but I can take you to your sister’s belongings.”

Belongings? I rush to keep up. Antiseptic-scented hallways lined with lighted spruce garlands lead to a large storage closet.

“Normally we don’t let anyone visit,” Donna explains, “but I felt so bad when we couldn’t reach anyone, and it’s only the storage room. Seems the least I could do.”

Donna rummages past boxes and cleaning supplies before plucking a white trash bag from the floor. “I apologize, but she didn’t come to us with much. I believe there are a few clothes in there and possibly a note. She was very sad, your sister. Depressed.”

I stare at the bag in her hand. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Where is she?”

“Oh, dear.” The woman flicks an impatient look toward the door and then sighs. “I really do wish you had come after the holidays. I simply don’t have the time to do this properly but . . . Hayley passed away last year.”

“Passed away?” I repeat, desperate that I misheard her.

Her eyes soften as she mistakes my disappointment for grief. “Yes, dear. Your sister died from complications of her . . . her unusual pregnancy. It’s not uncommon, I’m afraid, but we do what we can. Our beneficiary ensures we have the very best doctors who specialize in this kind of thing.”

Just like that, my hopes of finding a witness against Hellebore, someone who could tie him to the Darken, shatter.

“Who was the father?” I whisper.

I’m desperate for something. A name. A description. A court.

Anything to tie this pregnancy to Hellebore. Of course it was him. It’s