“Probably. But Harvey will take care of us.”
Ash’s brow softens. As far as he’s concerned, Harvey’s some kind of superhero.
Miss Klonsky beckons to Tabitha and Ash. “Come on now. Time to sit down for snacks. Asher, leave your bag and coat on the floor—we’ll put them away after recess, okay?”
“O—okay.” With a final, shaky breath, Asher tears his gaze from mine and lets Tabitha tug him into the silent, awed pack of kids.
I don’t wait. I don’t watch. He shouldn’t notice me go. Instead, I follow Principal Nadir back through to reception, past the artwork and Japanese gardens and out into the lobby where the paparazzi are still poised outside. I already prank-called Harvey, who’ll shortly arrive at the door to escort me, and now all that’s left to do is visit the desk and write a check.
“Thank you, Mr. Lore.” The Principal hands the check to the receptionist, and walks with me toward the double doors. “Asher will be absolutely fine. The first day’s always a little strange, but he’s a clever boy and I have no concerns about him. He’ll fit right in.”
I throw her a small smile. “Yes. He will.”
Then I stride out into the autumn sunshine, whistling Blue Suede Shoes to myself as the cameras spring to life.
“Mr. Lore!”
Flash, snap, flash. I paid half these idiots to be here. The other half spotted the others and figured it was worth a shot.
“This way, Mr. Lore!”
I ignore them. Keep whistling.
Blue Suede Shoes was what my father played on the piano the morning I started school.
CHAPTER NINE
Aeron
Truth (noun): common strain of infection. Symptoms may vary.
I wake myself in the midst of a choking cough.
Something warm and wet coats my thighs, turning the fabric of my shorts coarse. I’m sitting against a hard and uneven surface; it sends jagged pain through the muscles in my back and belly. Dust coats my lips, irritating my nose. My mouth tastes like shit.
I can’t move.
I can’t fucking move.
For long seconds, I shake about, still trying to bring the room into focus. That grating, creaking sound? It’s the legs of the chair I’m bound to scratching across the floor, and the clattering…the clatter belongs to the chains. I am chained to the fucking chair, and my arms…I think they’re taped. Tight.
Jesus Christ, my head hurts. My temples throb but I can’t reach to touch them, or touch anything. Something drips from the chair, slow and uneven. Fuck. Fuck.
I smell the room just before I see it: another water villa, but a wreck, reeking of damp and stale piss. The piss is me…must’ve happened when I was knocked out. This place is bigger than the villa we were in; look like it might’ve been a lobby once, or a restaurant. Most of the windows are blacked out with garbage bags but here and there, a little sunlight seeps through, draping pale gold shadows through the cobwebs stretching from the eaves. There’s a battered old table beside a tap, a couple chairs…and on one chair, sits a shape that looks like Harvey.
He’s hunched over in a hooded sweater, the muscles in his back twitching visibly.
“Harvey. What the hell?” My voice is fucked. In fact my tongue is fucked—sore and cracked and rigid—and every word stings like a bitch.
He turns slowly, his expression oddly blank, and then steps through the shadows to offer me a bottle of water with a straw in it.
“Drink,” he says quietly.
“What. The. Fuck?”
“Drink.”
“What the fuck am I doing in here?” My voice is blotted, tongue clotted. I sound like a complete moron.
“Drink,” he says through gritted teeth, and prods the straw to my lips.