by Lucy Auburn
My eyes tear up at the fact that the password worked. He really did make this folder for me. As a message to me.
I have to wipe away the tears to focus on the screen and see what's inside. All I find are two files: a word document, and a video clip with a thumbnail of my brother's face.
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes, breath out, and close the laptop. Swallowing, I look at Lukas and tell him, "I'll watch it later tonight. When I'm alone."
"Of course." Reaching over, he briefly covers my hand with his—then winces, as if remembering something, and pulls back from me. "If you need anything, just let me know. But I have the feeling that the passwords are all going to be things only you can figure out. And whatever information is inside, it's up to you to decide what to take to the police."
"Thank you," I tell him. "For everything."
I mean it.
It takes me hours to get up the courage to open the files.
My room is empty, Holly galavanting across Paris, her social media feed full of photos of her with her family. I envy her the life that she has, not for the money and privilege—though that's part of it—but because of how easy and simple her family life seems to be.
She's not getting messages from her murdered brother, all the way from beyond the grave.
The word document is a letter. I read each word over and over, wishing it was longer, wiping tears out of my eyes periodically.
Brenna, if you're reading this, then the worst has happened. Well, two possible terrible things have happened: either I'm gone, in which case you better not eat all my chocolate oranges, or you've somehow become a hacker. That second thing seems unlikely, knowing you, but stranger things have happened.
I'm sorry you have to find out this way, but there are things you need to know. The first of which is: I haven't told you the whole truth. I wanted to, but I was afraid you'd look at me differently. I always told you that I'd take you out of Wayborne. What I didn't tell you is that I was willing to do anything to make sure it happened. Even break the law.
I fell in with a bad crowd. How it happens doesn't really matter, but I should admit: that summer camp I went to was a lie, and so were a good half of the times I told you and Mom and our shithead of a dad that I was going to a game out of town with Wally. The truth is that I was meeting with my new bosses. I was getting assignments. And making money. More than you can imagine. Almost enough to go to New York and send you to NYU. Almost.
I thought I could look the other way long enough to dig us all out together. That changed, though. I saw things. Things I couldn't just ignore. More than just drugs or fraud. People were hurt. Lives were taken. I realized that I had to do something, and I knew it was dangerous. So I started gathering evidence. And then one day, I realized that what I was doing had become so dangerous that the only way out might be the end of me. I've been planning on writing this letter for a long time. Today is the day I do it.
I'm sorry, Brenna. Sorry I wasn't a better brother. Sorry that I left you (because we both know you didn't hack this computer.) Most of all, I'm sorry that I didn't get to see you do all the things I know you're going to do: figure yourself out, graduate and go places, get married to someone who'll have no idea what they're in for. Brothers are supposed to be there for their sister.
If you want to, you can pick up where I left off and take down the people who I'm sure are behind my sudden "disappearance." But I understand if you want nothing to do with any of it. God knows I would go back and have nothing to do with it too if I could.
I love you. Goodbye.
Tearing up, I read the letter two more times, then click the video and press play. It's very short, maybe fifteen seconds at the most. In it Silas sits in front of his computer—this computer—and speaks directly into the camera.
"This is the last living will and testament of Silas Edwin Wilder. I leave all I have, what little there is of it, to my sister Brenna Caroline Wilder. That includes my bank account and all its content, ending in the numerals 1534. That is all."
Blinking, I stare at the video. All around me the campus of Coleridge is quiet, a late spring chill settled into the air, the trees spending all their effort on making new leaves. A cloud passes over the sun, and I can see the laptop screen more clearly without the glare of light overhead.
My brother had a bank account.
One with money in it.
Money that got him killed.
Feeling sick, I close the laptop, and vow that I won't touch a single cent unless necessary. I can't even imagine what I'd do with it, but I know that I would give all the money in the world up just to have one more second with him.
Without even knowing it, I got tangled in the same forces he faced off with, the ones that ultimately killed him. I just hope I don't wind up in the same place as him.
I will take up his mission, and use the evidence he risked his life collecting.
Even though I wish he had told me what he was doing when he was still alive, so we could've faced the Syndicate together—or gone down together, like the mirror images of each other we were.
Chapter 23
The knock on the door rouses me from a late afternoon nap. I'm not expecting anyone, especially because spring break isn't quite over yet, so I call out, "Holly isn't here right now. Her flight doesn't land for another hour."
"It's me, and I'm here for you." Lukas's accent slips through the doorway, and I find myself getting out of bed quickly, squinting at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and trying to make the most of what I see. "I can come back later, if you're busy or... something. I just thought since it's the last day of spring break it'd be nice to do something fun. Even though we can't really leave campus. But maybe it was a silly idea."
"Just a second!" He sounds like he's considering turning around and leaving, so I add, "I'll go with you. I just need to get dressed."
A low chuckle from the other side of the door. "Having a lay in, are we? I'll wait. Just don't forget to take your jacket—it might be cold where we're going."
That gets my attention. The only places we can go are on campus, after all, and I've been to and from Carthage Library and the dining hall plenty of times. So much so, in fact, that I'm getting pretty sick of the old books that stretch floor to ceiling like something out of a fairytale.
Okay, so no one could get completely sick of all those books, not unless they're a monster. But it does start to become a little repetitive. I video chatted with my mom, Wally, and Jade back home, but it isn't the same as being there. Pacing the confines of the buildings I'm allowed to be in makes me feel like an animal in a cage.
What chafes the most is that I’m not even sure Cole is right about the danger to me. After all, Georgia is testifying, and he claims that the Syndicate doesn’t go after their own. Surely there’s no point in taking out me, the second witness, as long as Georgia’s bruises and moneyied family speak for themselves.
Doing my best to look presentable, I grab my jacket, put a scarf around my neck, and greet Lukas at the door. "So, you're springing me. But I can't imagine anywhere on campus is possibly cold enough to justify dressing for cold weather. It is officially spring, you know."
"You'll see. It's a surprise." Reaching out, he takes my hand, and my stomach does strange, flip-flopping things. "I figured you'd be getting cabin fever by now, so I thought a little vacation was in order. And since you can't leave campus... well, you'll see. I've got it all planned out. Just come with me."
He leads me through the halls of Rosalind, seeming not to care at all that boys aren't supposed to be allowed in here. Warm spring air hits us as we walk down the front steps towards the campus paths, as all around us the world blooms to life, heat and sunlight returning to Great Falls like a flower's petals unfurling.
"You know, it's a little unseasonably warm," I comment, as I feel a trickle of sweat go down my back, right between my shoulder blades. "I'm starting to regret my outfit."
"Let's hurry, then." Pulling me along in
his wake, he starts half-jogging down the path. I grumble, but he just aims a grin back at me and goes faster. "You can do it, Brenna!"
Laughing, I follow along with him as he kicks the pace up to a full-out run. The spring sun seems to beat down on me, turning my scarf into a nightmare around my neck. Soon enough, though, Lukas is slowing down, then stopping, leading me right to the athletics building.
"I've never been in here," I confess, staring at the lettering that reads Coleridge Athletics Facility. "It doesn't have a cool name like Carthage Library."
"But there's cool stuff inside."
I look at him curiously, and he raises his brows at me as he scans his ID to open the doors and let us inside.
"You haven't figured it out yet?" Motioning for me to go first, he gives me a bright, childish grin. "C'mon, Brenna. Surely you know by now what we're about to do."
I'm about to shoot back an annoyed response when a blast of cold air from the center washes over me, carrying a particular scent with it, and I realize all at once. "The indoor skate rink."
"Yep. That's exactly it." He walks in behind me as I drink in the chill air, the smell of winter somehow still lingering despite the warmth breaking over the world outside. "I thought maybe you could use the distraction. Plus they're melting it tomorrow to make way for spring and summer sports, so."
"I didn't even know the school had an ice rink. It seems so..."
"Upper class of us?" Lukas runs a hand through his hair. "The school also has a water polo team and an off-campus equestrian barn."
To think, they could've created more than a handful of scholarships a year, instead of devoting so much money to useless sports. No one at Coleridge is going to become a horse trainer or Olympic figure skater—not when they have trust funds at their disposal and companies to co-found on their eighteenth birthdays.
Still, as I walk over towards the lockers and spot a whole collection of extra skates, just sitting there and pristine for use, I find that I want more than just to hate Coleridge and all it represents. I want to forget my worries. To indulge in a little silliness with a boy who has kind eyes and cares about me enough to bring me to all this, just at the moment when I was feeling the worst.
"Thank you," I tell him, "but I can't skate."
"That's what I'm here for."
Lukas shows me how to tightly lace the skates up to my ankles, enough so that my feet will be supported, not so tight that my blood flow is cut off. He has his own pair of skates in one of the lockers, because apparently the ice rink is open to students who reserve it on the weekends, and he's one of those students.
Softly, he says, "I always loved ice skating. My mother used to bring me down to the frozen pond near our house in the winter, back when we lived in Brussels the second time around. She taught me and my stepsister how to believe that the ice would hold us up, no matter what."
"You sound like you miss her. I'm surprised you didn't go home for the break."
He grimaces, shaking his head. "Which home? My father spends all his time at the embassy in DC, or with my stepmother at her home in Rhode Island. My mother is always flying from London, to Paris, to Rome, checking on all of our warehouses and marketing campaigns. Harrington Foods is more her child than me. Now that I'm old enough to take care of myself, she expects me to do just that."
"I'm sorry," I tell him, surprising myself by really feeling it. "That must be hard."
Lukas considers my words. "It is, but it isn't. I know they love me. They show it in other ways, by making sure I'm always well-fed, educated, and traveled. My mother would cross the whole world in an instant for me if she thought it was what I needed. My father would probably bring down the whole US government to protect me. But neither one of them will ever hold me while I cry. It's a different kind of love."
The kind of love the blue bloods have. A love where you send your child away to a strange and unfamiliar place, so they can have the best education in the world—even if they cry themselves to sleep at night. I can't imagine what it's like to go to a boarding school as a child. Even now, at the age of seventeen, I miss my mother in a way so unfamiliar to me that it aches deep inside. I wouldn't have been able to do this at twelve, or worse, even earlier.
Lukas helps me out onto the ice, laughing a little—not mockingly—as I walk around the rink with my ankles buckled like a newborn deer and grasp onto the railings at all times. He shows me how to balance the blade beneath me, and tells me stories of his childhood in Belgium as he takes my hands and guides me out onto the ice.
I fall. More than once. Each time the pain is a little less, although I don't know if that's because I'm learning how to fall better, or just because my ass cheeks are going numb. Lukas never laughs at my clumsy movements, and slowly, with his hand taking mine, I start to feel more confident. I venture further out onto the ice.
After about an hour or so, when we're both feeling the cold and the effort of propelling the human body on top of frozen water with just blades beneath us, we head off the ice and shed out jackets. Lukas walks along the campus with me, pointing out the places where birds are building their nests and squirrels frolicking in high branches.
"I always love spring here in Connecticut," he says, tilting his head up towards the sun, which is peeking out from behind a brief cloud cover. "It's lovely."
"It is." Looking around at the trees, I'm struck by the fact that the landscape of Coleridge has changed so much in the past two months, but I've barely noticed. I've been so consumed by revenge and retribution that I didn't look up from my homework and my worries long enough to see the world around me. "I wish I could stay for longer than just a semester and a half. Everything around here is beautiful."
"I wish that too." His voice has a low quality, something somber in his tone. "You're so beautiful."
It takes me a moment to realize that he's not talking about the landscape anymore. When I dare to meet his eyes, it's me he's looking at, unafraid to show his desire on his face. The sight of it makes a warm blush travel from my neck up to my cheekbones, which flush with embarrassment—and a desire all my own.
"I thought you'd never forgive me," I tell him, stopping beside him on the path, the two of us surrounded by an empty canvas. "What I did to you... I should've trusted you. I should've gone to you before I posted those things about you on Legacies."
"I've made my fair share of mistakes. And I understand now where you were coming from." He reaches out with one hand and brushes my hair back over my shoulder with his fingertips, his touch briefly skimming across my neck and sending fire wherever our skin meets. "That desire for destruction, for revenge, it lives in all of us. And it can destroy what it touches if we're not careful."
"You've never struck me as someone reckless." Looking up into his eyes, I feel my heart do reckless things as the space between us closes, a murmur turning into a whisper, a whisper into a breath. "Everything you do is careful. Planned. I doubt you've left any destruction in your wake ever."
"Yes, Cole does mock me for being a stick in the mud." A ghost of a smile flits across his lips, the mouth I've seen photographed and splashed across a thousand media pages now quirked in the tiniest bit of lopsided bitterness. "But I think I can't be careful anymore. There's something I want too much to care about the consequence. Someone I want, even if it destroys... well, everything."
I don't part my lips to ask who he means. It's clear he's talking about me. There are so many types of destruction he could be talking about. I've kissed all three of his closest friends. I nearly slept with one of them before I realized I was making a mistake. We both know that I'll be gone soon, somewhere a privileged son like him can't follow, all the way to the backwoods of Virginia that birthed me, far from his duties to his family.
The destruction doesn't seem to matter as our mouths come close enough for our lips to brush. I instinctively go up on my tip toes, leaning forward, and he catches me before I can fall too far, his hands bracing my arms and cupping my shoulders. Keeping my
eyes open, I watch him from inches away, seeing the color that darkens his cheeks, the way his brows slant together as if what's about to happen weighs on him already.
In a low voice, he says, "We shouldn't."
"We will," I tell him, like I carry a disastrous future in my palms. "The match is lit, the spark is set."
"Let it burn."
He kisses me like a man, and not a boy just seventeen years old. His mouth is gentle but all-consuming. The first part of his kiss is slow and deliberate, his lips moving up and down on mine, his mouth just close enough to ignite desire deep within me, without a hint of tongue or anything deeper.
This is no rash, fast, sloppy kiss. Lukas takes his time with me, just like always. He keeps his hands on me to support my weight even as I lean towards him, put my palms against his broad chest, and drink of the subtle, water-like scent on his skin. First he gently takes my upper lip between his. Then, when I make a low gasping sound, wanting more, he takes my bottom lip and catches every nerve in it on fire with the deliberate caress of his mouth.
Slanting his lips, he deepens the kiss. Soon his mouth is exploring mine, the touch of his lips and his tongue skilled and gentle instead of probing or insistent. He doesn't pull our bodies together, doesn't press his arousal against me or put his hands beneath my skirt or my shirt. Instead he takes his time, and when he pulls away from me I'm left wanting more.
So much more.
Hands on his chest, I look up into his eyes and feel something wobble inside me. "Do that again."
His mouth quirks up in a smile. "We should probably get inside."
"Again," I repeat.
Eyes darting around to make sure we're alone, he leans in close and begins a shallow, perfunctory kiss that he clearly means to end quickly. But I'm not having it. Putting my hand on the back of his neck, I draw him in for a repeat performance. My toes curl as he lets out a little groan, halfway between arousal and frustration, and I know that he feels so much more desire for me than he lets himself show with his body on mine.
