Page 91 of The Bleak Beginning

“Wow, and you wonder why our parents favor me over you?”

Sutton lets out an angry gasp. “They do not! Take that back.”

“It’s true. Ask anyone.”

“It isnottrue—”

“Will you two give it a rest already? I had to listen to you argue the entire way over. My ears are tired,” Camden complains, before coming to a halt beside me. “So why did you feel the need to drag us out here, Bishop?” he asks, being direct.

One of the traits I appreciated about Cam was his ability to cut through the clutter and get straight to the point. There was no dancing around the issue with him, no sugar-coating or beating around the bush. He was blunt and efficient in his communication, never wasting words or time. It was a quality that I found both irritating and appreciated in equal measure.

“Yes,” Sutton agrees, her mouth twisting as she takes in the surroundings. “I have better things I could be doing than gallivanting in the woods and nearly losing a perfectly good set of shoes with how far you dragged us out here.”

“What? Like one of your little art projects?” Sly asks, sighing dramatically.

“Yes, exactly,” she hisses.

“You do one summer internship at an art museum and suddenly it’s all you can eat, sleep, and breathe about,” her brother fires back, his disapproval clear. The same criticism he had every other time it came up in conversation. Which was a lot.

And although Sly was correct in saying that Sutton had changed after her summer internship at the museum, it didn’t mean it was for the worse. And depending on how the future played out in the next few weeks or so, with Prescott it could finally prove useful. The whole dress situation was a completedisappointment in comparison. One I was still refusing to process.

I clear my throat, silencing the bickering siblings and drawing everyone’s attention. “I brought you here because I wanted to give you an update on what I found.”

“Come on, that’s not the real reason.” Sly says, unconvinced.

Cam swats a dismissive arm in Sly’s direction to quiet him. I’m not at all surprised that he’s the first to show interest, raising an eyebrow and encouraging me on. He wants her gone as much as I do. It’s the twins that were starting to show small, irritating cracks when it came to Prescott. Sympathy, a pointless emotion.

“You know that letter I found in Prescott’s mailbox? Well, I was able to hunt down the information inside it.”

“And?” Sly asks, his tone almost disinterested. For some reason, this unsettles me. We’re supposed to be in this together.

I take a deep breath, trying to quell the unease Sly’s tone has stirred within me. “And it’s good. Really good…well, for us anyway.”

I pause for dramatic effect, because I like being an ass and for absolutely no other reason. Cam’s eyes are locked on mine, intense and unwavering. Sutton’s brow is furrowed, a mix of curiosity and concern etched across her features. Sly, however, remains frustratingly impassive.

“I did some digging and was able to figure out Prescott’s mother’s name. Turns out she hasn’t had the same address as the rest of her family for the last few years.”

“Interesting. Go on,” Cam muses, fully invested.

I lick my lips, struggling to contain my excitement. “The address for her current residence is a behavioral health hospital.”

“So basically, Alex’s mom resides at a nuthouse?” Sly asks confused.

“They call it a place for wellness and revival,” I repeat the slogan I found from an old brochure. “But yeah, basically,” I confirm to everyone.

Turns out Prescott’s mom is nuttier than a fruitcake. Or at least that’s what her file reflected once I got ahold of her medical records.

Sutton’s eyes widen, a mixture of shock and intrigue flickering across her face. “Wait, so you’re saying Alex’s mom is in some kind of mental institution?”

I nod, feeling a surge of satisfaction at their reactions. “Exactly. And not just any institution. This place specializes in severe cases—we’re talking paranoid delusions, violent outbursts, the works.”

Cam leans in, his voice dropping. “How long has she been there?”

“From what I could gather, about three years now,” I reply, savoring each word. “Right around the time Prescott would’ve graduated high school.”

Sly, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, finally speaks up. “And how exactly does this help us get rid of her?”

I turn to him, a slow, menacing grin spreading across my face. “Think about it. Mental illness can be hereditary,” I say, watching as understanding dawns on their faces. “If we can prove Prescott’s got the same issues as her mom, it’s game over for her at Altair.”

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