since my return to Blackwood Keep—or, more accurately, the outskirts since my father’s salary wasn’t high enough—holed up in my room. I wasn’t sure how much more of this I could take before cabin fever got the best of me. For some reason, I’d already cleaned and rearranged my bedroom from top to bottom three times and was fighting the urge to do it again. I needed it perfect and could only assume it was out of boredom as I slowly tore my hair out.
It was barely dawn when I gingerly walked into the kitchen and found my father staring into his coffee cup for the third morning in a row. Brynwood Academy was still closed for winter break, so it had been just the two of us. Our reunion had gone about how I expected only a thousand times worse. My father hadn’t been able to look at me, so I wasn’t surprised when he didn’t acknowledge my presence. He didn’t stir when I tossed his cold coffee in the sink and poured him a fresh cup. I wasn’t sure what stage of grief he was in for his little girl right now, but I had a feeling we were a long way from acceptance.
Not even I had gotten that far, and I’d known for months.
With the school’s approval, I’d stayed on campus for Thanksgiving, and now my father, who was disappointed at the time, knew why. He’d screamed as much at me during the long drive home.
I’d stayed silent the entire way, letting him have his anger because I understood it and refraining from offering excuses when he demanded answers. I had none. And when the tears came, and I heard my father cry for the very first time, I broke, too. Suddenly, I was back inside my dorm bathroom, confused, terrified, and holding a little white stick again.
What had I done?
“Tyra.”
My head shot up, and my heart started pounding, seeing my father’s red-rimmed eyes watching me. His gaze didn’t waver, and neither did mine even when I recognized his disappointment.
“Yes, Daddy?”
“We need to talk about this,” he decided, waving toward my oversized Harvard sweatshirt and what was hidden underneath.
My next breath shuddered out of me, and then I felt a cramp preventing me from taking another. It was all the same. Talking was the last thing I wanted, but I nodded anyway. I wasn’t naïve enough to think I had a choice in the matter. Besides, I couldn’t find it in me to be defiant when I’d ruined everything. I’d spat on my dreams and crushed my father’s hope. I’d never been so cruel or careless.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“I want to know who did this to you.”
I immediately turned away from him, ignoring the dull ache in my lower back that had kept me up half the night to pull the milk, butter, and eggs from the fridge. I couldn’t remember the last time I had the luxury of an appetite but making pancakes sounded like a good distraction. Pulling the mixing bowl from one of the cabinets, I faced my father again. “I can’t tell you that, Daddy.”
“Why the hell not?” he roared, making me flinch.
I wanted to tell him that if anyone got to kill Vaughn, it had damn well better be me. I cracked an egg on the rim of the bowl and pretended that it was his skull. I wasn’t sure when the majority of my fantasies became so morbid, but I found that I didn’t mind them so much. They kept me warm at night during the rare and shameful times I actually longed for Vaughn. “Because it doesn’t matter.”
“The hell it doesn’t, young lady. He needs to be held accountable!”
“I don’t want him to be.” It seemed remorse had taken a back seat as some of my defiance returned. “I don’t want him anywhere near me.”
“Well, here’s some news for you,” my father scolded as he stabbed the countertop with his finger, “you don’t just have yourself to consider anymore.”
Guilt made me look away, but then I gripped the countertop and winced as another sharp pain, this one lasting longer, ripped through my stomach. What the hell?
“Yes, I do,” I pushed through gritted teeth. My father was too wrapped in his despair to notice mine. The pain shooting through my abdomen didn’t seem to be going away. In fact, it was happening more frequently and lasting longer. Just then, my phone chimed on the countertop, notifying me of