Overture - Skye Warren Page 0,44
going to marry his high school sweetheart, until she was kidnapped on her senior trip. It’s been years now, but I think some part of him thinks she’s still alive somewhere. That poor girl that the pimp made an example of, she could have been the girl he loved.
Hell, I probably would have done the same thing. If Elijah wasn’t successful in exterminating the pimp, I’d help him do it. The girl would have reminded me too much of Samantha, at the mercy of terrible men.
Of what could have happened to her if I hadn’t gotten custody.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I love power. But it is as an artist that I love it. I love it as a musician loves his violin, to draw out its sounds and chords and harmonies.” – Napoleon Bonaparte
LIAM
“A damned embarrassing business,” a man says.
I recognize him from the St. Agnes Board of Directors, of which I’m also a member. It’s a fancy name for parents who’ve paid enough money to ensure their children get special treatment at the elite private school. Or in my case, my ward.
We’re standing in a room with three hundred chairs and a makeshift stage while we wait for the students to emerge in their caps and gowns. The room is abuzz with proud parents, with boasts of honors and Ivy League colleges.
“The business about the coach from the public school,” he explains. “It’s a shame what happens for the regular kids in this country.”
“A shame,” I echo, keeping my tone bland. “If only there were people in a position to give their time and money to improve them.”
He gives me an uncertain look. “It falls to their parents, of course.”
“Of course.” The working parents of the kids at Kingston High are barely keeping food on the table, much less personally vetting every new hire at the school. And most of them don’t have the money or clout to expose a predator like that, even if they suspect something.
No, I’m well aware that it falls to men like us to protect the children in our communities. My shame comes from how long it took me to understand that.
I needed Samantha to convince me.
My phone buzzes. “Excuse me,” I tell him, stepping away.
Found him, it says from an undisclosed number.
I type in the reply quickly. Alive?
Unfortunately.
Relief fills me. That would be Josh’s sense of humor. He wouldn’t be making jokes if our brother Elijah were seriously injured.
Josh thinks he’s being clever and incisive—and damn him for being right. What he said about the baby bird at the wedding? I’m still thinking about that, when I had almost forgotten. If not forgotten, at least buried deep enough to slowly poison me from the inside. Close enough.
My stomach clenches hard.
On the first day we’d been locked inside, I had run my fingers through the pile on the carpet, into the seams of my pockets, searching for crumbs to feed her.
On the second day I had wrapped the baby bird in an old sweater so it would stay in the corner, safe and unharmed, while I rammed my shoulder into the door again and again, until the wood splintered—but did not break—and my shoulder throbbed.
On the third day I’d simply held her, whispering things about blue skies and a ground full of delicious worms. I told her how soft she was, what a good baby bird, as she grew more and more quiet. Until she finally stilled, falling asleep for the last time.
I have tickets for a box at Samantha’s opening show. At the next one and the next one. Maybe it’s fucked up that I could have followed her whole goddamn tour, but I realize now that I can’t. It would be like trapping her in the closet with me.
She would never survive, and I would have to watch her slowly die.
SAMANTHA
The graduation ceremony at St. Agnes takes twice as long as the one at Kingston High, even though we have a fraction of the number of students. There are speeches by the principal and the counselor. Laney gives a moving speech as the valedictorian, one about loss and the intractability of hope—all the more meaningful because her mother isn’t home for this.
The commencement speech comes from a former senator, who speaks to the small room as if we were gathered on the lawn of Princeton.
The senator’s pale eyes flicker with recognition when my name is called. Samantha Alistair Brooks. Despite the smattering of fan mail I get every week, I’m not really famous outside the