I didn’t tell anyone other than Fiona that I’d even been with him last night, and as far as we knew, no one but the girl at the dry cleaners spotted him while we were out.
Though, I can’t imagine she’d do something like this.
With tears stinging my eyes, I look up at Boyd. “I didn’t do it.”
He frowns. “What?”
Gesturing toward my cracked phone, I raise my brows, exasperation racing through me. “I didn’t… I didn’t contact anyone. The press, social media. I didn’t tell anyone this. That he hurt me.”
But it’s exactly what you get, little girl.
My mother’s voice rings louder than my anxiety, fueling the fire burning inside of me.
“So, it’s not true?”
“That he assau—” The word sticks in my throat like old syrup, and I choke over it. “No, god. Don’t you think I would’ve called you if he had?”
Relief seems to surge through him, and his shoulders slump as he releases a breath.
Fiona squeezes his arm. “I told you.”
“Needed to hear it directly from the source.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking off into space as he thinks. “Well, regardless, this is very, very bad. They don’t have a name yet, but the reception you got at the airport is proof that people recognize you. I doubt we have very long before your identity is revealed.”
“I don’t understand why anyone would lie about this.” I feel faint, my heart stuttering. “What are we going to do? Release a statement?”
His fingers tap at the table, and he looks at Fiona. “Princess, do you mind giving me a moment?”
Nodding, Fiona pushes to her feet and heads up the stairs, giving me an apologetic smile. I don’t respond, my grip tightening on the chair until my nails start to splinter.
“Two years ago, when you were attacked… do you remember anything about that night?”
Blood. Agony ripping up my spine, sinking its claws in my soul and refusing to let go.
A male’s voice, assuring me. Wet lips on my ear, cheap cologne in my nostrils.
I shrug. “Bits and pieces.”
“The men our mother associated with were heavily involved in certain… illegal trades. Worse than the normal drug running that everyone knows goes on around here.”
True. The Mafia has a monopoly on drugs in King’s Trace—the kids at school get their designer fixes through them, even.
“And while the man who attacked you is dead…” Boyd trails off, his face hardening, fist curling on the table. “I live in constant fear of his associates realizing you’re alive, and the reason he’s not. The things they would do if they found you…”
Again, his sentence goes unfinished, hanging in the air like a deadweight between us.
I can’t even bring myself to imagine it.
“If we draw attention to this scandal… to you… it could be very bad, Riley.”
My stomach sinks, a rock breaching the surface of a pond, and I don’t want to ask what this means for me. What he’s saying, even though I’m pretty sure I already know.
“You’re not gonna let me make a statement, are you?” I ask, eyes brimming with tears.
His are red-rimmed, and his nostrils flare like he’s as at war with the reality as I am. When he shakes his head, confirming the lack of response, a sharp, stabbing pain flares in my chest.
A knife that penetrates with little effort, twisting as it comes out the other side. Rending as much misery as possible.
“We’re going to ruin his life,” I whisper, a tear slipping over. Reaching up, I swipe at the liquid, the scar on my cheek rough beneath the pad of my thumb.
“I’m sorry, Riley. Really. I won’t stop trying to find another way, but for now… this has to be it. I have to keep you safe.”
His voice is strained. Desperate. I can see in his eyes that he feels solely responsible for my well-being, and after a lifetime of him letting me down, I’m not sure if I can stomach disappointing him right now.
I’m being ripped in half, my soul split in two, and I have no idea how to reconcile either decision.
Maybe this will blow over if they don’t have anything to connect the allegations with.
Resigned to my fate, I sit with Boyd and recount the entirety of the last twenty-four hours, creating a timeline and allowing my brother to offer me the only thing he’s ever been consistent with: security.
Because as much as I want to prove a strange man innocent… I can’t take that chance. Not when there are other people who might want to finish what my mother and her boyfriend started.
The fear inside won’t let me, even if I could get Boyd on board.
When I go to bed that night, even after he’s scrubbed the Internet of my picture and done his best to keep my name out of things, I go to bed knowing I’m the most hated girl in America.
If not by the whole country, then at least by one volatile gray-eyed man.
14
I used to think that outside hatred couldn’t touch you when your self-deprecation screamed louder.
Thought I was protected because I’d spent an entire lifetime despising myself.
Thought the opinions of others didn’t matter, because no one would ever be harder on me than me.
Then, I became an overnight Internet sensation—in the worst possible way—and learned that when you don’t have a buffer for yourself, negativity from other people acts like kerosene, fanning the flames you’ve spent all your time cultivating.
Eventually, you get to a point where all you want is to be doused in the fire.
Relieved of your sentence on earth.
In the days after the catastrophe that followed my class trip to New York City, I did my best to stay off-line. I swear I did, but the temptation to look and see if there were people on my hypothetical side always seemed to win out.
Every night before bed, I’d prop myself up against the headboard and scroll through social media on my laptop, scouring news articles who updated frequently, even though there was never anything new to report. Aiden went on an indefinite hiatus, suspending the rest of his tour and refunding concert tickets, until the investigation brought some sort of closure.