Jude pressed the doorbell. A few seconds later, a woman wearing a hot-pink sports top and leopard-print leggings answered the door. A towel was over her shoulders, and her bleached blonde hair cascaded down in soft waves.
“Yes?”
“Hi, Mrs. Branstone,” said Jude, “you might remember me. I’m—”
“Of course I remember you, detective,” said the woman, cutting her off. “I remember him too.” She gestured to Nathan.
He tried recalling the last time he’d seen Lyla’s mother. Previously she was brunette, and he also noticed some changes in her lips and nose. Cosmetic surgery, maybe?
“Great,” continued Jude. “We got a call about a break and enter.”
The woman’s face changed from wary to relieved. “Oh, right!” She gave them a broad smile. “Great timing. I’ve just finished my workout.”
Nathan doubted that, based on her flawless full-faced makeup.
“Come on in.”
He waited for Jude to go first.
“Oh, wait!” Mrs. Branstone held her hand up to prevent Jude going any farther.
“Stars above,” Jude muttered under her breath before taking a step back.
“I’ve just had the floors waxed,” continued Mrs. Branstone, “so take your shoes and socks off before entering.”
Nathan looked down and noticed the wooden floorboards under the woman’s red-nailed feet. Jude breathed out an “Okay” before stepping back to remove her shoes and socks, and Nathan suppressed a sigh and an adolescent eye roll before taking off his own. Mrs. Branstone tapped her red fingernails on the door while she waited.
Once they were both barefoot, the woman gave them a winning smile and beckoned them inside.
The entry expanded into a grand foyer with high ceilings, lit by an enormous crystal chandelier dangling down the center of the room. A staircase to the right swooped up and to the left, the railings made of intricately carved wood. Family photos adorned the stark white walls along the stairs. A few closed doors led off the landing, and Nathan couldn’t help wondering which one might have been Lyla’s room.
“Give me a second to change. I’ll also bring out some refreshments,” said Mrs. Branstone, leading them through a doorway at the foot of the stairs and into a sizable lounge. “Please take a seat.” She gestured to one of the sofas before leaving through another doorway.
Nathan and Jude sat down across from a stone fireplace. When he guessed Mrs. Branstone was out of earshot, Nathan leaned closer to Jude. “I don’t remember Lyla’s mom being so blonde.”
“Yeah,” said Jude, matching his low voice, “or so full in the lips.”
He snorted a low laugh and inspected the room, scanning the extravagant furnishings. He was trying to recall the name of the family’s decor homewares franchise when he spotted something that made his gut churn. Crystal vases and lampstands on a mantel over the fireplace glistened in sunlight streaming through the windows. He checked the rest of the room, noting more glass and crystal-like trinkets.
He hadn’t heard Mrs. Branstone return, so the appearance of a glass of water in front of his face made him startle.
“Here you go,” she said in a sing-song voice.
Light glimmered off the necklace around her neck. Three large colorless gems were draped center stage across her collarbones, with smaller stones framing the larger ones. To the untrained eye, they looked like diamonds or possibly cubic zirconium, but Nathan could detect a difference in the way the sun’s rays reflected off the facets. A distinct whirled pattern. And the scent—
Nathan fixed his eyes on the glass of water still in Mrs. Branstone’s hand. The churning in his gut turned to nausea, and he forced himself to concentrate on the glass—not to turn his gaze anywhere else. He focused on his breathing in an attempt to stave off his oncoming gag reflex.
Jude elbowed him, her own glass of water in her hand. She frowned, a question evident in her expression. He forced what he hoped was a smile, then took the glass of water.
When Mrs. Branstone sat down on an adjacent sofa, Jude said, “Sorry, it’s like he’s never seen a cup before.”
“Do you like them? My husband got them for me last week. Antique crystalware from Japan.”
Nathan closed his eyes, trying to drown out the woman’s rattling on about all the other “crystalware” her husband had acquired. Jude even commented on her necklace.
He tried to force his mind to other things, anything to get himself under control. But his thoughts slipped back to the crystal chandelier in the foyer.
A cold sweat erupted all over his body, and saliva flooded his mouth as his nausea intensified twofold.
Diamantium. But how many?
That necklace alone would be at least one.
But that chandelier—
He was about to vomit all over the floor.
He bolted up. Jude and Mrs. Branstone stared at him, obviously startled.
“So sorry,” he blurted out, “must have been the Chinese food last night. Where’s your bathroom?”
7
What Do You Want, Blondie?
Violet inhaled the familiar scents. The bitter roasting coffee was, of course, the most pungent, but something else added an edge of caramel-syrupy sweetness. A waft of melted butter and cheese mingled with the other aromas: a grilled croissant sandwich for someone’s breakfast-to-go.
It had been only a week since her first day, and so far her adjustment to college life hadn’t been too bad. Once she’d received her schedule, the routine of classes and studying—with occasional meals and sleep slotted in—had swept her up and never put her down. She hadn’t felt so exhausted in her life.
The busyness was a welcome change from the mundanity she’d left in Brookhaven. Still, with each new class came a new list of assignments, each one more overwhelming than the last. In one particularly dark moment, she’d considered quitting college altogether. She’d had to remind herself that this was what she wanted, this was what she’d worked for.
And this was what Lyla would have wanted.
Violet clung to all her memories of Lyla. The day they first met six years ago was still as clear as crystal.
The door shut, leaving Violet alone in the bedroom while the muffled voices on the other side gradually moved back downstairs. Miranda was likely filling in the new foster parents about Violet’s history.
She winced. She’d already seen through the sugar-sweet facade these foster breeds put on whenever someone from the department visited. She’d inwardly shuddered and tasted bile when the new foster dad had given her a sleazy grin and a wink when Miranda wasn’t looking. Violet had glanced at the guy’s wife and quickly gathered she was the turn-a-blind-eye type.
Violet had heard stories of other foster kids finding loving and caring foster families, even eventually being adopted. But in her thirteen years in the system, she had yet to be lucky enough to find that mythical home.
She threw the trash bag containing her few belongings onto the floor and collapsed onto the bed, not bothering to acquaint herself with the new room. Instead, she stared at the ceiling and planned her exit strategy. She’d probably be able to get out of here in a few weeks, two being the best-case scenario, three months being the worst.
A noise outside the window interrupted her train of thought.
Violet bolted up off the bed when the window slid open. A socked foot and then a leg poked inside, soon followed by the whole body of a young girl about Violet’s age. The intruder dusted off her tan trench coat and black leggings, brushed a few leaves out of her long blonde locks, turned to Violet, and smiled. A tartan scarf of pale cream, black, and red was draped loosely around her neck, and . . . was she seriously wearing a beret? And where were her shoes? Was she another foster child? If she was, she’d clearly been out knocking over a high-end fashion store.
“Hello.” The girl extended her hand. “I’m Lyla-Rose. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Violet didn’t move. She scanned the girl’s
stance and expression, trying to guess her intentions. Hmm, she’s probably not in the system. She was too smiley and . . . polite. Violet had never met any other teenagers who used the phrase “pleased to make your acquaintance.”
When Violet didn’t respond, the girl dropped her hand and shrugged a shoulder. “All right, how about I start with the basics?” She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a notepad and pen before taking a seat on the edge of the bed. She flipped the pad open, hovered the pen over the page, and looked up at Violet. “What’s your full name and date of birth?”
Violet stared at her. What on earth was going on? She’d seen a lot of things over the years, from crazy to nightmarish, but nothing like this had ever happened before. She clenched her fist, refusing to drop her guard, just in case.
Lyla-Rose frowned at her. “Um, do you speak English?”
Violet frowned. “What? Yes, of course I do.”
The girl beamed in relief. “Oh, good. For a minute there I thought you were either a foreigner or possibly mute.”
Violet’s eyebrows shot up. She half wondered if this girl had escaped from a nearby mental asylum, then mugged a model before climbing the tree to Violet’s second-story window.
“So, name and date of birth?” repeated the girl.
Violet crossed her arms, not entirely sure how to handle this odd encounter. “Um, why are you here? Are you another foster kid?”
The girl’s eyes bugged. “What?” She laid a hand on her chest. “Me? No way! No, no, no.” She waved her arms as if Violet had suggested she sprout wings.
“Then what do you want, blondie?”
Lyla-Rose tilted her head. “Isn’t it obvious?”
Violet frowned.
Lyla-Rose sighed and dropped the notepad and pen on the bed beside her. “Okay, look.” She took a deep breath. “The thing is, Miss Graham told me I need a very compelling human-interest piece to compete for the editor position for the school magazine. However, Cynthia Clearwater”—she wrinkled her nose as she said the name—“has already completed her interview on the mayor, which is totally cliché and totally unfair, because her father is the mayor.” Lyla-Rose stood up and started pacing from the window to the bed. “So of course she was going to get an ‘unfiltered’ and ‘emotional’ angle compared to every other person who has ever interviewed him.” She threw her arms up to gesture the air quotes. “But when I explained to Miss Graham that nothing ever happened in Brookhaven and anything worth doing a human-interest piece on has been done a million times before, all she said was”—she put her hands on her hips and put on a high-pitched British accent—“‘You’re a clever girl, Lyla. If the editor position is truly important to you, then surely you of all people can find a compelling topic to write about.’”
She paused mid-pace and beamed. “So, here I am.”
Violet squinted at her. “Umm, sorry, I still don’t understand what’s going on.”
Lyla rolled her eyes. She ran over to the bed to retrieve her notepad and pen and held them up for emphasis. “I’m here to interview you. Duh.”
“What? You’ve got to be joking.” Yep, Violet was now totally convinced this girl had escaped from a mental asylum.
Lyla giggled. Her green eyes sparkled, and her face glowed with triumph. “Of course not. Don’t you see? This is perfect.” She threw her arms wide. “Not only are you the newest person in town, but you’re also in the system. Here is an opportunity for me to write a fascinating human-interest piece that the school magazine has yet to see. You could give me all the gory details of an insider’s perspective on what it’s really like to be one of our country’s ‘forgotten orphans’ who is ‘overlooked by the Man.’ I’ll list the pros versus the cons, the myth versus the truth.”
Violet’s jaw dropped. This girl must also be on crack. Never in her life had anyone summed up her foster career as “fascinating.” And exactly what “pros” was this bimbo expecting?
Violet started to shake her head. “I don’t think—”
“Please let me interview you. I just know this will be my best article yet. And it will be exactly what I need to win the editor position for the school magazine. Please say yes.” Lyla rushed over with a desperate look on her face and grabbed hold of Violet’s arms.
Violet instantly screeched in pain, jerking out of Lyla’s hold.
Lyla stumbled backward, eyes wide with shock, her gaze glued to Violet’s arms.
At some point, Violet realized, she must have pushed her sleeves up, revealing the ugly blue-and-purple bruises on her forearms. Her cheeks grew warm. She hastily tugged her sleeves to her wrists and re-crossed her arms before daring a glance back at Lyla. Curiosity gleamed in the girl’s eyes, but another emotion flickered behind it—something Violet couldn’t really decipher. Whatever it was, it was too much for Violet to handle.
“Get out,” she said in a low voice.
Lyla’s mouth dropped open. “What? But—”
Violet pointed to the window and growled, “I said get out.”
A moment passed, and Violet considered grabbing the girl by her expensive scarf and hammer-throwing her out of the window.
Lyla pursed her lips and raised her chin. “Fine.” With that, she climbed out the window and back down the tree. When she reached the ground, she put on a pair of rollerblades that had been left beside the tree trunk. She glanced back up at Violet and, with a defiant huff, stomped her rollerblades through the grass, then glided away when she reached the concrete sidewalk.
A few days later when Violet started at her new school, she wasn’t impressed to find that Lyla was in her grade. The school was small compared to a few of her previous ones in the city, and with the smaller student population, it would be next to impossible to avoid Lyla completely. But to her relief, Lyla seemed to be ignoring her as well.
Violet also didn’t take long to discover who the Cynthia girl was whom Lyla had spoken about with such vehemence. It did, however, take a little longer to discover the reason why. From what Violet could decipher, the girls were neighbors and had been best friends since kindergarten. But apparently a few months before Violet had arrived, they’d had a falling out. Depending on who was telling the story, the reason ranged from boyfriend stealing to family rivalry. Whatever the reason, the result was Cynthia came out on top as the school’s social queen, and Lyla became the target for gossip.
However, Lyla had two things going for her: her family’s reputation and her brother, Sagan. He was two years older, and the story was he was being groomed to take over the family business, which included frequent absences from school to join his father’s business trips. Other than that, Violet didn’t know a lot about Sagan, except he was highly respected and the majority of the female body had a crush on him. Cynthia especially.
Even so, Sagan couldn’t shield Lyla from all the vicious text messages, social media humiliations, or sniggers and sneers in the school hallways and girls’ bathroom. And things were worse whenever he was away.
One day, a few insidious creeps sat behind Lyla during a documentary video in history class and took turns snipping off locks of her hair until Lyla finally noticed. Later, Violet found her in the girls’ bathroom, sobbing while she looked at herself in the mirror and clawing at the ends of her freshly cut hair, as if to force it to grow.
The raw emotion and desperation were painfully familiar to Violet, along with the relentless wishing that someone, anyone, would stop and pay attention.
But this time someone was paying attention.
It was Violet who had noticed, and it was Violet who was there when Lyla needed someone the most.
She should . . . what? Comfort her? But . . . what does one do to comfort another? This seemed out of her league, better suited to a teacher, a counselor, or a . . . a friend.
Violet’s mind raced and her heart thumped. She stepped forward until Lyla could see her in the mirror’s reflection.
“Okay, I’ll do it,” declared Violet.
Lyla’
s sobbing paused. A few emotions flickered over her face before her expression landed on confusion. “What?”
Violet ducked into a stall, then emerged with a handful of tissue, holding it out. “I’ll do your interview.”
Lyla turned to face her but made no move to take the tissue. Instead, she fixed Violet with an intense stare.
Violet fought the urge to squirm, recognizing the same look she herself had given Lyla when the girl had broken into her room. Even though Violet hadn’t been involved in any of the cruel treatment toward Lyla, she also hadn’t made any attempt to intervene, which was just as bad as those creeps cutting her hair. She knew Lyla was searching for falsehood—questioning Violet’s true intentions.
After a slight hesitation, Violet took another step forward, bringing herself toe-to-toe with Lyla. “Look, name the time and place, and I’ll answer any questions you got.” She placed the tissue in Lyla’s hand. “I swear there’s no hidden agenda and no strings attached.”
Lyla’s gaze never wavered. Instead, it seemed to intensify. After a few moments, Violet was starting to think the girl was never going to respond.
“My place, after school,” Lyla finally said, all hints of recent sobbing gone from her voice.
“Great. See you then.”
Lyla patted down her cheeks with the tissue, and Violet turned to leave.
“Before you go . . .” said Lyla.
Violet looked back to see Lyla holding up a pair of scissors.
“You don’t happen to have any hairdressing experience, do you?”
Violet gave a small smile. She took the scissors and began trimming away the jagged pieces of Lyla’s golden hair.
Shards of Venus Page 6
