Page 118 of Liars and Liaisons

“Right, and I’m not particularly interested in rehashing the same story five thousand more times.” Steepling my fingers together, I point them in her direction. “I understand why you did it. You were pregnant, my father didn’t want the baby, and you didn’t know what else to do. People have faked their deaths for less than what my father was capable of, to be honest. I’m not angry with you because of your circumstances. I’m not even angry with my mother or Priya for helping. I’m…”

Trailing off, I spend a few seconds searching for an adequate word to describe what I’m feeling, and come up empty. The truth is, I lost a lot more than a couple of family members at the height of the Sydney fiasco.

There were months I spent unsure if I would ever play an instrument again. Unsure if I could still make music—the one thing that had beenmysolace when my father was making my life miserable.

People died because of Sydney. Not just her sister, but her peers. People I thought I was enacting a fiery vengeance on, and it turned out that there was none to even be had. Not on them, at least. Their crimes were proxy, and I became their unfaltering judge and executioner.

Meanwhile, she was in the house the entire time and just watched.

“Disappointed,” she finishes for me, after a long pause.

I don’t say anything, internally grunting as I try the word on for size.

I suppose I am.

Clearing my throat, I check my Rolex and realize that if I don’t leave in the next three minutes, I’ll undoubtedly be late. And as much as I enjoy ruffling the feathers of my girlfriend on a normal day, I need Violet in a good mood for later.

“This was fun,” I say, pushing to my feet with a single rap of my knuckles on the desk. “But I’m afraid I have a very important matter to attend to.”

She follows me out of the office, hovering still as I lock the door behind me. When I start off in the direction of the parking lot, she remains at my side.

I cut her a sharp glance. “If you’d been this loyal to me years ago, perhaps you’d be playing in the New York Philharmonic instead of nipping at my ankles like some sort of dog.”

A short scoff. “So, youareangry.”

“I amdisappointedin your wasted potential.”

The Massachusetts sun is incandescent as I push open the university’s doors, lifting a hand to shield myself. Arsen sits behind the wheel of a sleek, black Town Car, its engine purring lightly as it idles at the curb.

Sudden pressure at my elbow keeps me from heading down the stairs. I look over my shoulder as Sydney grips my cashmere sweater in her bony fingers.

“I tried, you know.” She swallows, looking up at me with half-lidded eyes. Blue eyes that haunt me, still, the way I’m sure they haunt her. “To get your attention. Your mother wouldn’t let me out of the room, because she said the more people that found out, the less likely I was to stay a secret. She knew your father and brother hadn’t bought the death story, so she was super strict about that stuff.”

Astute observations from a woman who didn’t seem to notice that her son was being beaten bloody as a child.

“Priya only knew because Penelope couldn’t be there as often without arousing suspicion, and since you gave Priya unfettered access to the estate, it was easy for her to slip in and bring me stuff like food, toiletries, books. Especially when you were throwing the parties.” She pauses, her eyes growing distant for a moment. “But Ididtry. I knew how my death affected you. I watched, every time you’d go to the room and just stand around, silently seething. I could see you deteriorating, so I picked up that god-awful, out of tune flute in the room and would sit by the air vents, playing. The sound was atrocious, but for me, it was… better than nothing.”

The melody.

The one that seemed incessant, ricocheting off the interior walls of my skull. A constant reminder of what I’d thought I lost.

How desperate I was for it to end.

“I know what I did was wrong,” she adds, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ears. “And I can’t take it back. I can’t revive my sister, who died because I brought her into this world.”

Her voice is laden with heavy, insurmountable guilt.

I know the feeling.

“I’m not asking for your forgiveness. I never have.” She lifts a shoulder, then pulls an envelope from her inside jacket pocket. I see the university’s insignia and her name in the addressee section, and know before she’s even spoken what it is. “But seeing as how we’ll be back under the same roof in the fall, I figure a ceasefire might be a simpler request.”

My throat tightens. “You’re finishing your degree?”

She nods. “Your mother pulled a few strings.”

“Of course, she did.” I stare at the girl for a few beats, scanning the youthful face that seems to have aged decades in her time away.

Is it possible that being in hiding was harder on her than me?

---