“You said that already.” Mara crosses her arms over her chest, her voice gone cold. “Berkley, you’re not making sense.”
“I would make sense if only . . .” A sob bubbles up my throat. Normal, I’m still thinking, desperate. I just wanted normal. Not epic. Not amazing, just normal.
How the fuck did it go so wrong?
Gasping, I try again. “I’m trying to make sense. I just need you to trust me . . .”
“Calm down, it’s okay.” Harper is suddenly in front of me. She runs the backs of her fingers along my arm, like she’s calming a spooked dog. “Look, it’s, like, five o’clock in the morning. There’s no way there are any flights right now. Why don’t you go take a shower and get changed and we’ll sit down with some tea and talk this all over, okay? It’ll give you a little time to sort things out in your head.”
Sort things out in your head.
I feel a jolt slam through me. That means I don’t trust you, clear as if she’d actually spoken the words out loud. It means we think you imagined everything.
It means you’re still crazy, bitch.
Of course they would think that. I spent all night getting tortured, but of course they would assume I imagined it all. They have no idea what things have been like for me, not just for the past few days, but for the past year—for my whole life.
Life isn’t fair. Nothing is fair.
I back the rest of the way down the hall, feeling for the door to my room behind my back. Harper’s face closes off. She matches Mara’s folded arms.
“You need help, Berkley,” she says in a different tone of voice, the last of her drunkenness softening the edges of her words. “We both think so.”
I release a hiss of breath through my teeth, like I’ve been hit. “I need to go home.”
A wry laugh from Mara. “Yeah, I think we can all agree on that.”
“Then help me!”
Harper says, “That’s what we’re trying to do.”
“You aren’t telling us what’s going on,” Mara adds.
“No, help me go. We should be packing. We should be—” Banging shudders through the apartment, cutting me off. I flinch and jerk my head around to stare at the door. My nerves flare. Someone’s at the door.
Francesca.
CHAPTER 27
Razor-edged silence stretches between the three of us. For a long moment, nobody speaks.
Then—
Bang. Bang. Bang. The door vibrates in its frame.
Dazed, Harper starts across the living room.
“Don’t answer!” My voice sounds scraped raw. I tighten my fingers around the door to my room, and only then do I realize they’re trembling. “Please, Harper.”
Harper says, eyebrows shooting up, “Why wouldn’t I answer?”
“Just trust me, okay? You have to—“
But she’s already shaking her head. She pulls the door open and says, to someone I can’t see, “Come posso aiutarla?”
Muffled Italian answers back. Harper starts to respond, then makes a sound of surprise and takes a quick step back as a man in a stiff uniform shoves into the apartment. His belly strains against his polo, but his arms are thick and muscular. A shiny silver gun hangs from his waist.
My breath catches. Poliziotto.
I don’t know whether to be relieved or terrified, so I shrink into the door to my bedroom, wishing I could disappear.
The poliziotto is sputtering in Italian, his words quick and hard to follow.
“I don’t understand,” Harper says, finally, in English. “A boy was . . . ucciso? Is that . . . killed?”
Killed. The word drops through me like a stone.
I don’t realize I’m sinking until I feel the floor beneath my legs. My throat closes up, and every one of my muscles pulls tight, like they’re attached to slowly winding screws.
Giovanni is dead.
The poliziotto drags a hand back through his dark hair, narrow eyes moving jerkily around the living room before landing on me. He taps his gun with his thumb and nods to someone I can’t see. “This is her, no?”
There’s a shift in the hall outside the door. A shadow stretches long across the floor, and then Francesca steps into the room.
Blood drips from a gash on her head, streaking her face with red and matting her green-and-black hair to her cheeks. Her dark, flat stare bores into me.
Mara subtly shifts her body in front of mine, one hand reaching for me. Protecting me. I wind my fingers through hers.
Whatever else has happened, Mara and Harper won’t let anything hurt me. Right?
“I remember you. You work at the trattoria down the street, right?” Mara says. “What does she have to do with this?”
“This is my sister,” the poliziotto answers. “She is the only witness to a crime she says your friend is involved in.” To Francesca, softer, “Is this the girl who hurt you?”
At the sound of her brother’s voice, Francesca changes. Her shoulders curve inward, fingers tangling in the hem of her bloody dress. She says, chin wobbling, “Si, fratello. Yes. This is her.”
“What does that mean?” Mara’s voice cracks. She squeezes my fingers so tightly the bones crunch together. “Berkley didn’t kill anyone.”
I hear a raw, choking sound from Harper.
“She’s lying,” I say. “She kidnapped me from the festival—her and these two other girls. Elyse and—”
“Angelica.” The poliziotto nods solemnly. “And Elyse. The other two victims, yes.”
“Oh God.” Harper presses a fist to her mouth and keels over, hair swinging forward to block her face. Mara drops my hand. My fingers feel suddenly cold.
“Three people?” she murmurs.
I feel a prickle move through the air. This is worse than knives and torture. Worse than drowning in an icy lake. Worse than losing Giovanni. This is prison. A small concrete cell with no windows and no chance of escape. My freedom—everything I’ve worked so hard for—gone.
Francesca tilts her head up, catching my eye. Her lip curls.
“She’s lying!” I say again. No one seems to hear me. I reach for Mara’s arm. “Mara, please—”
Mara shakes me off with a violent jerk. “I knew your story didn’t make any sense.” Her whole body is trembling now. “You’ve been getting worse every day. Oh God.”
“You have to believe me!” I shoot Harper a ferocious stare. The air in the apartment feels bruised. “Harper, come on, you believe me, right?”
But Harper is shaking her head. She straightens, pushing her hair back, and I see that her cheeks are streaked with tears. “Didn’t you hear what he said, Berkley? Three people are dead. How are we supposed to believe anything you say?”
“You will have to let me take her in now,” the poliziotto says. Francesca’s mouth curves into a small, private smile.
“You bitch!” I lunge for her, but Mara’s in front of me again, one arm holding me back. “She’s smiling! Can’t you see that? She’s enjoying this.”
“Berkley,” Mara hisses through clenched teeth. “Stop, okay? Just stop.”
And then she shifts to the side, no longer blocking the officer’s path down the hall, and nods to him.
I freeze. “You’re letting him take me?”
“You’re still sick.” Tears streak down Harper’s cheeks. She sniffles and runs the back of her hand beneath her nose. “They never should have let you out of the institute.”
“We’re worried about you,” Mara adds in a quiet voice.
“You think this happened because I’m sick?” I push my hair back over my shoulders so that everyone can get a clear view of my face. The burns climbing up my chin and over my eyebrows. The deep purple bruise blossoming over my forehead. “What do you think happened to me tonight?”
Harper and Mara glance at the poliziott
o, saying nothing. As though on cue, he moves to the center of the room, putting his body between me and my friends. He’s actually protecting them from me.
“You’re making a mistake,” I say. Rage moves through me like an animal. Cowards. “You have no idea how bad things are about to get.”
“Berkley—”
Fury radiates through my words, making them tremble. “But you will.”
CHAPTER 28
Before
“Did you try the gray stuff?” Sofia asks.
I scuff the toe of my shoe over the concrete floor, sending a squeaking sound echoing down the hallway. From what I remember of the lunch we just ate, everything was kind of gray. “Which gray stuff?”
“I don’t know what it was, but it was kind of . . . wobbly. Oatmeal, maybe?”
I purse my lips. I remember what she’s talking about. It did sort of look like oatmeal, all gray and lumpy. Dad used to make me oatmeal every morning in the fall, only he’d add apples and cinnamon, brown sugar and walnuts. It tasted like pie when he was finished.
“Why would they serve oatmeal for lunch?” I ask, pushing the memory away. Just thinking about it makes my heart hurt.
Sofia shrugs. “Leftovers, probably.”
We’re making the way back to our dorm room. We only have an hour and a half to kill, and then it’s back to the activity room for art therapy. I used to skip that sort of shit, back when I thought this was all a joke, but Sofia tells me it’s good to be social. It shows the nurses that I’m “committed to my recovery.” She says it’ll help me get out of here faster.
We turn the corner to the hallway that leads to our room. My eyes pass unseeingly over the dark, narrow space before snagging on something unfamiliar—a person.
I stop short. Dr. Andrews is standing outside our door.
She looks up as Sofia and I shuffle toward her, shifting her ever-present clipboard so that it’s in front of her chest. “Berkley! Good, I’m glad I caught you.”
She pauses for a moment, like she’s waiting for me to contribute something. I glance at Sofia, who shrugs.
“What are you doing here?” I blurt.
If my bluntness bugs Dr. Andrews, she doesn’t show it. She smiles serenely, and her eyes shift from me to Sofia. “I was hoping we might speak in private?”
“Anything you have to say to me you can say in front of Sofia.”
Dr. Andrews taps the edge of her clipboard with her pen. When she doesn’t say anything for what feels like a full minute, I sigh, giving in.
“Do you mind?” I ask Sofia.
Sofia shakes her head, waiting in the hallway as I push open our door and step into the room. Dr. Andrews follows and carefully closes the door behind us.
“You two seem to be getting quite close.” There’s a carefulness to her voice that makes me wonder whether she thinks this is a good idea.
“Sofia was there for me when I needed her,” I say.
Dr. Andrews taps her closed lips with the tip of her pen.
“You said you had something to talk to me about?” I ask.
“Oh, right. I just wanted to stop by to let you know that I feel like we made real progress yesterday. That was the first time you opened up to me about the problems you’ve been dealing with over the last year. I’m proud of you.”
I frown, remembering the closed look on Dr. Andrews’s face when she ended our last session. “I thought you were freaked out.”
“Freaked out?” Her face breaks into a smile. “Berkley, no, of course not. It sounds like you’ve been dealing with a lot of pain, carrying the burden of your friend’s suicide. I’m really proud of your breakthrough. I’ve suggested that you continue with outpatient therapy twice a week, but otherwise I see no reason to keep you here.”
The rest of her words turn to white noise. I look at her face and I see her lips moving, but her voice sounds mumbling and nonsensical.
“Stop,” I choke out. “I’m sorry, are you saying that I can go home?”
A thin smile crosses her lips. “That’s correct. Congratulations.”
I can feel myself nodding, even as everything inside my head turns to static and buzzing. No more gray walls and faded blue T-shirts and Wite-Out manicures. No more lumpy mystery food and art therapy in the activity room. I’m going home.
I picture my bedroom, with its big bay windows and photo collage on the door. Movie nights with my parents every Friday. I used to think it was lame how they made us do weekly “family time,” but now I find myself smiling just thinking about it. And my bed—oh God, how I’ve missed my bed! I have this amazing four-poster bed at home with a mattress so thick and fluffy you just sink into it, like a cloud. I have a closet filled with clothes and shoes. I have friends. Boyfriends. A whole life.
And I’m getting it all back.
I must do a pretty shitty job of holding in my excitement, because Dr. Andrews actually laughs. The sound makes me flinch. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her laugh before.
“I can see that you’re looking forward to being rid of this place.” She drops a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Go on and live your life.”
* * *
• • •
I hear the door open and close behind me just a few seconds after Dr. Andrews leaves the room. There’s a shuffling sound of footsteps.
“What’s up with her?” Sofia asks.
“I’m going home.” My voice is barely a whisper, not quite ready to believe what I’m saying.
“What?”
A smile cuts across my face. It stretches my lips so wide they actually hurt. I squeal and whirl around, throwing my arms around Sofia’s neck. She’s so surprised that she stumbles back a few steps, her arms hanging at her sides.
“I’m getting out!” I squeeze her shoulders. “They’re finally letting me go!”
I pull away, breathless. The corners of Sofia’s mouth twitch. Her eyes travel over my face, narrowing. “You told them the truth?”
“Of course,” I say. “That’s why they’re letting me go. Dr. Andrews said I made ‘progress,’ can you believe it?”
Something dark flashes through Sofia’s eyes. “You told the whole truth? You didn’t leave anything out this time?”
“That’s right.” I open our closet and pull my suitcase off the top shelf, where it’s started to gather dust. It’s still mostly packed from last week. I only bothered taking out a few hair elastics and the stuffed hippo my mom made me bring.
I heave the suitcase onto my bed, knocking the hippo to the floor and making the mattress springs creak noisily.
I move to pick up the hippo, but Sofia stops me, one hand pressed to my shoulder. “Let me get this straight,” she says softly. “You told Dr. Andrews that you killed someone, and she’s still letting you out of here?”
Time slows down. I pick up the hippo without realizing what I’m doing and straighten back up, blinking. “What are you talking about?”
A muscle near Sofia’s eye twitches. “The video, silly. Don’t tell me you don’t remember.”
Something thick and heavy rises in my throat. She can’t know about that.
I close my eyes, and it starts playing in my head, like it was cued.
It’s jerky, the image dark. Someone took it from the hall—you can see the edge of the door. At first it’s hard to tell what you’re looking at—just two shapes fumbling in the darkness—and then the noises start.
A belt buckle clicks. Metal teeth scrape as jeans unzip. And then, a second later, moaning. Whoever’s holding the phone giggles.
“Get closer,” someone whispers off camera. The image zooms in shakily.
The guy stays in shadow, but the light from the hall catches Tayla’s parted lips, her sweaty hair. She sits up, flashing her boobs at the camera. That’s where the video clicks off abruptly, like whoever was filming lost
her nerve.
By the next day, every single person in our school had seen it.
I try to keep my voice steady, but a tremor creeps in. “How do you know about that?”
Sofia tilts her head at a dangerous angle. “It’s lucky I found you, you know? I thought I might be stuck in here forever.”
I set the stuffed hippo back onto my bed, backing away from her. “What’re you talking about? You’re freaking me out.”
Sofia moves toward me slowly, her toes curling into the dirty concrete. “Don’t freak out. You’re going to help me. Well, we’re going to help each other. But first you have to admit your sin.”
My back hits the wall. “What the fuck?”
“Tell the truth, Berkley. What happened to Tayla?”
My jaw tightens. “She committed suicide.”
“Why?”
Sweat gathers in my palms. “She . . . she was upset because someone took a video of her cheating on her boyfriend,” I stutter. “It was an accident.”
“It didn’t look like an accident to me.”
“How the fuck would you know?” I snap. Angry tears gather in the corners of my eyes. I blink them away.
“I know a lot of things about you,” Sofia says.
I grab her by the shoulders and shove her away from me. She starts laughing. Actually laughing. Like this is all some big joke.
It’s the laughter that does it. Something inside of me loosens, the final thread pulling free. My knees feel watery. I sink to the floor, my hands falling limp at my sides.
She knows, I think. I try to inhale, but my breath catches and an ugly sob rips up my throat. The tears keep coming. They fall over my cheeks, dripping from my chin. Oh God, I think. Oh God . . .
Through her laughter, Sofia chokes out, “Tell the truth, and this will all be over.”
I’m shaking my head back and forth, back and forth. I can’t tell the truth. I can’t.
Sofia says, “You’ll finally be free. We’ll both be free.”
“What do you—”
“Tell me!” Sofia screams.
“Fine!” My voice sounds too high, a hiss of breath between clenched teeth. I lower my head to my hands, digging my fingers into my hair, struggling to inhale. “I . . . I took the video, okay? I shot it on my camera phone, but only because Harper and Mara made me. They were there with me, and they told me that I had to record it or I wouldn’t be able to sit with them at lunch anymore. They said Tayla deserved it, because she was always acting all perfect even though she clearly wasn’t. It was, like, a joke. Nobody was supposed to see it!”
Last Rites Page 18
