But Sabine failed.
A whisper hisses around me, from the corners, from the ceiling, from the sky. He did this. HeDidThisHeDidThisHeDidThis.
The whisper turns to a roar and it overwhelms me, and I squeeze my eyes closed to block it out.
When I open them again, the room is dark.
Someone is sitting in the chair across the room, half hidden in the shadows.
“What are you doing in here?” Dare asks me, unmoving. His hands are on his thighs and he looks like he’s waiting.
Waiting for me to wake up.
I blink the sleep away, trying to determine how long I’ve been here.
I scramble to my feet and fly into Dare’s arms, surprising him with all my weight.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper to him over and over and he stares down at me like I’m the crazy person I am.
I’m dizzy, but I don’t care.
All that matters is that Dare isn’t little anymore, and he’s in my arms and I’ll never let anyone hurt him like that again.
“I’m so sorry he did that to you,” I tell him, and his eyes widen before he looks away.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
His words are stilted, closed.
“My uncle hurt you,” I say firmly. “I know he did. And God, I’m so sorry, Dare.”
He’s so leonine, even in the dark, graceful and strong. I stare at him helplessly as he tries to pretend that it’s not a big issue, that he wasn’t beaten as a child.
“You shouldn’t have come in here,” he says quietly. “There’s nothing in here to see.”
There was one thing.
A blood-stained belt.
And a whisper: He did this.
I pause, studying Dare’s shadowed face. He’s impassive, hiding his thoughts, but I’ve got to ask.
“My uncle was a horrible person,” I tell him desperately, trying to make a dent in in his impassive face, the face that is so good at hiding things. “And Eleanor is terrible. You never knew my mother, so maybe you think all Savages are that way… you think they’re terrible, and so you think I’m a hateful person now.”
He’s taken aback by this, but he stops trying to push me away.
“I don’t think you’re a hateful person,” he argues, and his hands are limp at his sides. “I never thought that.”
“Are you sure?” I ask him bluntly. “Because now that we’re here at Whitley, you’ve changed.”
“That’s not true,” he denies somewhat hotly, then tempers his tone. “You told me you wanted space, I’m giving it to you. Be careful what you wish for, Calla.”
“You’ve been hurt here,” I tell him. It’s a statement, not a question, and I’m doing my best not to let his words hurt me. “In this room. At the hands of people related to me. I’m really sorry about that. God, I’m sorry.”
Dare’s handsome face shutters closed, and any trace of softness is gone.
“Don’t feel sorry for me,” he says icily. “People generally deserve what they get.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I ask in confusion. “That’s ridiculous.”
He shakes his head. “It’s just the truth. But not with you. You don’t deserve any of it.” He pauses. “Are you coming?”
He obviously doesn’t want to leave me in here alone, so I trail behind, closing the door behind me.
I start to walk in the opposite direction, toward my room, but Dare stops me with a hand on my arm.
“Wait. I want to show you something.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. You need to see it.”
Confused, intrigued, and a bit scared, I follow him through the halls of the East wing, along back corridors and up old stairs to the attic. As we walk, I swear I can hear whispers… all around, coming from the floors and the nooks and the crannies.
Secrets.
Secrets.
Secretsssssssssss.
But of course there are no voices.
I’m imagining it all.
The problem is, as each day goes by, I’m not sure what I’m imagining anymore and what’s real.