Page 172 of Swallow Your Sorries

Bae shoots me a worried look.

“I’m fine,” I swallow. “Just keep going.

But the more we go, the more everything becomes overwhelming.

The rush of the wind.

The moving scenery.

The sound of the engine accelerating.

It all begins to blur and warp.

We make it over the last set of gnarled roots, but when the street comes into view, and I take in the black tar of the winding road, I panic.

Zedd, still watching me, slows down and unlocks the doors without me asking because he already knows.

I hop out without saying anything and neither do they.

In fact, I barely slam the door shut before Zedd’s zooming off. They know not to approach me or comfort me.

They know that we won’t speak of it at all.

I collapse against the nearest tree trunk, reach into my pocket pull out my phone and stare at the screensaver of Elle and me. She’s sleeping in my arms, her red hair wild and tossed across my grinning face.

That night, when she’d slept in my arms, I didn’t have another nightmare. Another memory.

I wish I had my doll now, right at my side, to squeeze and keep the vivid images at bay. Because when I’m with Elle, it’s just her and I.

And no one else can enter our little bubble.

Not my father.

Not hers.

Not the corpse.

Just us.

Elle

This is what it must’ve felt like to walk the plank. To know that death by drowning is only seconds away.

My plastic slides flap against the non-slip tiles as I follow the senior girls from the locker room to the edge of the Olympic-sized swimming pool. It’s still covered with its massive blue cloth that shields the lulling water. Still, I don’t look at it. I glance at the tall domed ceiling that’s letting sunlight into the enclosed space. Then I skim the empty bleachers, the beautiful pattern on the graphic tiles that looks downright Victorian. It’s stunning. Then I glance at Stassi’s ass that’s devouring her swimsuit and drawing the attention of all the senior boys who are already lined up opposite us. Then I glance at the boys themselves.

I hate the way I immediately search for Gant.

At first, it’s hard to find him as his signature undercut is shielded by the dark blue and green swim caps everyone’s wearing. But soon my eyes are drawn to his as if on a tether because, as always, he’s staring right back at me. I can’t read his expression and for once I’m dying to know what his conniving mind is thinking and I hate myself even more for it. Because I’m doing what I said I wouldn’t. I’m doing nothing.

I’m subconsciously waiting for someone else to do something.

To rescue me.

Just like I did with Mum at the pool.

Just like I did with Gant at the lake.

Just like I did in every private lesson, hanging onto every one of Gant’s instructions like a lifeline because they were if I wanted to stay at Beaulieu.

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